Chapter 7

Sunday, September 2, 1838
New York City

WHEN Frederic and Michael stepped off the ship with John, they were awed by the bustle on the docks and the throngs in the street. They hailed a carriage and headed for John’s row house near Washington Square. Manhattan made Richmond look like a country village.

“This is where the future of shipping is, Father,” John said as the conveyance rolled through the streets.

They settled into the vacant row house on Sixth Avenue, opening windows and lighting the lamps. The next day, they set up house with supplies and foodstuffs, and began planning how they would track down Robert Blackford.

The bank where he’d deposited his small fortune proved to be a dead end. The account had been closed as soon as the Richmond banknote cleared. The financier yielded little information. Robert was shrewd. The money had not been transferred; he’d taken his funds in cash. There was nothing to do but start scouring the city, hoping for a clue or a lead.

They agreed Michael would accompany Frederic, and John would go out on his own because he knew New York better.

“I’m sure he’s taken an assumed name,” John said.

Frederic concurred. “But how do we begin to guess what that might be?”

“Start with the obvious ones,” Michael suggested, “Smith, Jones, Brown … ”

“He won’t go from Blackford to Brown,” John quipped derisively. “Is there anything darker than black? That’s what he is.”

“No, John,” Michael replied grimly. “Black is as dark as it gets. Try then the names Black and Ford.”

They grew quiet, discouraged by the daunting mission ahead of them.

“I want to know why he did it,” John muttered. “It wasn’t for the money, I know it wasn’t. There was something else.”

Frederic looked up, not surprised that his son had come to the same conclusion.

Their eyes locked, and John addressed the other problem they would have to face. “What do you intend to do with Agatha when we get back?”

“I don’t know, John. From what Paul told me, she is in her own private hell already.”

That night, John had his recurrent dream of Pierre, lost in the streets of New York. But this time, after Pierre disappeared in the crowd, John found himself in a dark factory, where veiled black figures shoveled coal into large ovens. The flames flared up and burned brightly, greedily devouring the coal.

Friday, September 7, 1838 Charmantes

They had fallen into a routine. Paul and George made a point of being home before dinner, and the table was laid for seven each night: Paul and Charmaine, the twins and Rose, Mercedes and George. Charmaine marveled at how the girls were maturing. They showed an interest in nearly any topic and participated in each conversation; Yvette in particular often questioned Paul about his workday. She continued to be an asset to the mill operation, the only bookkeeping about which he didn’t have to worry. Her knowledge of the family business astounded him, and as his respect grew, so, too, did the camaraderie that had sprung up between them.

Tonight was the same, and when the dishes were cleared away, everyone stood to retire to the front parlor. Yvette and Paul were involved in a heated discussion concerning the benefits of building a sugar refinery on Charmantes. “It can’t be done!” Paul argued. “Purification must be accomplished abroad.”

“But the ships could carry far more condensed extract than raw, and you could charge a higher price for a nearly finished product.”

“Fresh water is limited here, Yvette, and there’s the wood supply to consider. We’d be burning a great deal each day just to fire the plant.”

“Then what about cocoa?” And so it went.

Charmaine exchanged a chuckle with Rose and, seeing one last plate on the table, turned to the kitchen to deliver it to Fatima. Pots and pans were piled high in the middle of the wooden table, and the cook was shuttling dishes and cutlery to the new girl, Rachel, who was scrubbing them in the adjacent scullery.

“Oh, Miss Charmaine,” Fatima scolded lightly, “let me have that plate.”

“Cookie, where are Felicia and Anna?”

The woman grunted. “Seeing to Master Paul, I suspect.”

Charmaine felt her ire rising. Evidently, this was not the first time the duty of washing the dishes had fallen to Fatima. “But this is their job, isn’t it?”

“With Missus Faraday minding Master Paul’s house and Mistress Agatha gone, they’ve been getting out of a lot of work they ought to be doing.”

“Have they?” Charmaine mused before marching from the room.

She’d suspected the two lazy maids had been slacking off, but that wasn’t the only reason she was furious when she entered the front parlor. Two days earlier, she had overheard their whispers behind the doors of John’s old room.

“. . . and now he’s away, you see how she fawns over Paul?”

“Even with John’s baby growin’ inside of her.”

“Well, maybe it ain’t John’s at all!”

The room echoed with vicious giggles.

Charmaine had turned away, not allowing them the victory they would certainly savor if they knew they had hurt her. But not tonight! Tonight she was armed for battle.

Sure enough, she found the two at the liquor cabinet, Anna pretending to wipe up, while Felicia strolled across the room with hips swaying, presenting a glass of port to Paul, who looked up and smiled.

“Felicia, Anna,” Charmaine called from the doorway, her arms crossed.

The two women turned to face her.

“Have you finished with the dinner dishes already?”

“Fatima said she’d see to it,” Felicia lied.

Charmaine responded sternly. “I told Mrs. Henderson she is not to do dishes, pots, pans, knives, forks, spoons, or utensils of any sort. She is our cook, not the cleanup help. However, if I do find her cleaning up after a meal, I will give her a day off, and the chore of cooking will fall to you. Understood?”

Both maids appeared shocked, but when Anna opened her mouth to speak, Charmaine rushed on. “Now, if I were you, I’d run to that kitchen and make myself busy. You’re not being paid to pour drinks.”

Felicia’s eyes flew to Paul, as if to say she’d only take orders from him, perhaps hoping he’d come to her rescue, and Charmaine held her breath. But one look at his face told her he was of no mind to interfere. Felicia must have recognized it, too, for she stomped from the room in an insulted huff. As she passed through the door, Charmaine added, “In future, we won’t be requiring your services after dinner. This is family time.”

When they were alone, Yvette and Jeannette began to laugh, and George quickly joined in. “What was that all about?” Paul asked.

“If I am mistress of this manor, it is time I start acting the part.”

Paul raised his glass in a toast and winked. For the first time in two long weeks, Charmaine felt happy.

Three days later, Felicia was sent packing. Charmaine hadn’t a clue why.

Paul fired the trollop on the spot and didn’t give her a backward glance as she scurried from the house. Returning to the study where he’d been working, he thought back on the morning. Anna and Felicia had been making his bed, thinking him gone for the day. They were also talking about Charmaine.

“My blood boils every time I think how that hussy sauntered into this house,” Felicia was saying, “wormin’ her way into the family by playin’ the virgin.”

“You’d best get over it,” Anna advised in a whisper.

But Felicia could not curb her temper. “I’d rather have Agatha back.”

“Charmaine’s not that bad. You’re jealous, is all.”

“Jealous of what? Her big belly? I think that baby was growin’ inside of her long before she snared John.”

“Felicia, you saw the bed linen, same as I did!” Anna stated.

“She probably cut herself and bled on them sheets just to trick everyone, John included. You see the way she’s sprouting? It won’t be long before Paul is disgusted by the sight of her, and then he’ll be looking my way again.”

Paul had heard enough and barged in, slamming the door behind him.

“Master Paul!” Anna shrieked.

His scowl was directed at Felicia, and she recoiled. “Pack your things,” he growled. “You’ll not spend another night in this house.”

“But where will I go?”

“Your parents live in town, don’t they? Maybe they’ll take you in. If not, there’s always Dulcie’s. You’re more suited for that type of work, anyway.”

Felicia blushed and fled the room.

Paul turned on Anna, and she unconsciously took two steps backward. “Sir,” she implored. “I didn’t like listening to her.”

“You had best make me believe that,” he warned, his jaw still clenched. “I don’t want to hear that Charmaine has had to speak to you again. And she had better not be the subject of any of your conversations. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured meekly and, with a swift curtsy, flew out the door.

Tuesday, September 11, 1838

Paul was in town when the shout went up that a ship was docking. He stood on the wharf as Matt Williams navigated the Destiny to the pier. Once the ship was moored, he jumped aboard. “What brings you to us, Matt?” he queried. “I thought you’d be running shipments for John out of Virginia.”

“That was the original plan, but according to Stuart Simons, John and your father changed all that. They’ve taken the Raven on to New York and sent me to deliver these.” He handed Paul two letters, the envelopes addressed in John’s scrawl. “I’m carrying only a half-cargo of tobacco. John thought the trip could be salvaged if I filled the remainder of the hold with sugar.”

“Rest for now,” Paul said. “We should be able to get her loaded tomorrow, and you can set sail in two days’ time.”

Matt nodded, then informed his crew. With a whoop of appreciation, they quickly finished securing the vessel, motivated by thoughts of Dulcie’s and an afternoon of leisure.

Paul went down into the captain’s cabin and tore open his letter. When he’d finished reading it, he looked at the envelope addressed to Charmaine and abruptly decided to postpone the work he had planned for the afternoon.

Charmaine was sitting on the swing listening to the girls as they took turns reading to her. The weather was mild and the day too beautiful, so she had suggested they finish the novel in the shade of the oak tree. She was surprised to see Paul ride through the gates and rein Alabaster in their direction.

He dismounted quickly, tucked both hands behind his back, and suggested she pick one. Bewildered, she chose the right, but when it came up empty, he quickly presented his left. “A little present,” he said with a debonair smile.

Charmaine recognized John’s handwriting and gasped in relief. She turned the envelope over, carefully broke the seal, and sat absent-mindedly on the swing.

“Is it from Johnny?” Jeannette asked.

“What does it say?” Yvette demanded.

Paul put a finger to his lips and motioned the girls to follow him to the stable. Without an argument, they fell in step beside him, Alabaster in tow. When they were a distance away, he said, “Give Charmaine some time alone. She needs a few moments of happiness.”

They smiled up at him.

“Besides,” he continued, “John wrote to you in my letter.”

“Truly?” they queried in tandem. “What did he say?”

“He wrote he misses you and will be home as soon as possible.”

“That’s all?” Yvette asked. “Did he say if he killed Dr. Blackford yet?”

“No, Yvette—” Paul frowned “—he didn’t write about that. According to his letter, he’s still searching for him.”

“Well, he’s sure taking his time, isn’t he?”

“What about Papa?” Jeannette asked. “Did Johnny write if he’s all right?”

“I don’t know,” Paul admitted, “but I’m certain Father is fine.”

“I just hope they’re not fighting,” Yvette proclaimed. “That will surely slow things down.”

Paul shook his head with his sister’s words of wisdom. “Let it be, Yvette.”

Charmaine feasted on John’s letter from the tender opening: My dearest Charm, to the poignant closing: Tell our beautiful baby I love him as much as I love his mother. She learned his pursuit of Blackford was taking him and his father to New York and he’d unexpectedly met Joshua Harrington. Then came his love words, words that melted Charmaine’s heart.

I apologize for the way I left you that day. Please understand I am compelled to seek justice. I could never live with myself knowing the murderer of my son was still at large and I did nothing. And, yes, I am also doing this for Colette. I would be a liar if I didn’t admit that to you or myself. But it is not because I harbor a fierce love for her. She was a good and kind person who didn’t deserve to die so young—to be murdered. If she were alive today, I would still choose you. You are more woman than I could ever hope to love me. I learned something incredible today—something that made me smile amidst all this gloom, but that news will have to wait. This revelation made me realize how much you mean to me, my Charm, and how very much I love you. It’s so lonely here tonight. I long to hold you in my arms and make love to you. I promise when I return, we will make up for all the time these weeks have stolen from us.

Blinded by tears, Charmaine pressed the signature to her lips and savored the contact, as if she could drink in John’s presence through the kiss. She closed her eyes to bittersweet happiness and breathed deeply. When she had composed herself, she looked up and realized she was alone.

Later that evening when Yvette and Jeannette were asleep, Charmaine wrote her first love letter. She poured out all her emotions and found herself crying before she had finished. Like John, she, too, apologized for the things she’d said before he left and told him how much she longed for the day he’d return home to her. When she was finished, she kissed the missive. Paul promised to put the post on the first vessel bound for New York. Thanks to George, they knew John’s address there.

Thursday, September 13, 1838

Robert Blackford stood behind a middle-aged woman who spoke softly to the clerk at the apothecary counter. He smiled to himself when she asked for a small vial of arsenic, and he wondered whose demise she was planning, most likely her husband’s or perhaps a lover’s. The clerk produced a ledger he asked her to sign. She paid him, and he handed over the poison.

Simple, Robert thought, so very simple. If Colette had lived on the mainland, Agatha wouldn’t have needed his services. But the mercantile on Charmantes stocked few medicinal items, and she had had to rely on him to procure the arsenic from Europe, which he did after she’d given Colette that first, nearly fatal dose in the early spring of 1836.

Robert stepped out into the bright sunshine moments later. He breathed deeply of the unusually brisk autumn air—crisp, but not clean. The booming factories soiled the afternoon breezes with thick smoke. Ah well, he couldn’t have everything.

As he walked along the bustling streets, his mind returned to Charmantes, that faraway place where he’d passed the better part of his life. Agatha had neatly sewn up the future for him, situating him here. He remembered his joy when she had arrived on Charmantes to stay. He thought it was the beginning for them; in reality, it was the beginning of the end.

Her husband had died, and even now, Robert wondered if Thomas Ward was the first of her victims. She had left Britain with enough arsenic to kill Colette overnight. But her rush for revenge was thwarted. Perhaps Colette was stronger than she realized, perhaps the entire draught was not consumed. Whatever the reason, Colette recovered, and Agatha had little poison left. When she confided in Robert, he upbraided her.

“You fool! What if Frederic were to find out? He’d have your head!”

She threw herself into his arms and cried on his shoulder. He basked in her embrace. When her tears subsided, she cajoled him, and promised she loved him as well. “I must rid Charmantes of any memory of Elizabeth. Please help me, Robert!” she implored.

She was determined to do away with Colette, marry Frederic, and effect John’s disinheritance, ensuring Paul the security that had been robbed from him on the day of his birth. Only then could they be together and enjoy the wonderful life Frederic’s money could buy.

He believed her. And because he loved her fiercely, he took command of the murder plot. He procured the arsenic and administered it in minute doses. “So it will be a slow, unexplainable death,” he reasoned. In truth, he dragged his feet for a full year before he killed Colette, hoping Agatha would change her mind and return to him.

“Yes,” her eyes glittered. “Let it be painful.”

When Colette began to complain about her “illness,” her mistrust of Robert apparent, it was easy to allow Agatha to take over. A strict schedule was developed, doses carefully calculated. A dash of poison was sprinkled on Colette’s food three days prior to Robert’s appointment, a tad more the following day, and a full measure the day after that. Colette was so ill by the time Robert arrived she welcomed his visits. Agatha withheld the poison on the days he came, and Colette would feel better after he left, as the severe side effects of the arsenic were wearing off. After three days, Agatha began the dosing all over again.

For months, she took enormous pleasure in watching Colette suffer, gleefully describing the grisly details: the headaches and dizziness, the vomiting and soiled undergarments, the ghastly face and hair loss. But in time, Agatha grew anxious to be done with the act, accelerating their routine to two appointments per week.

Colette should have died sooner, but pneumonia made poisoning difficult. Though arsenic was undetectable in food and liquids, Colette consumed very little of either, and when she did, there was always someone hovering over her: Gladys, Millie, Rose, and on occasion, Frederic. Toward the very end, Robert grew apprehensive; both Paul and Frederic were asking too many questions, and he prayed the pneumonia would kill her. When Colette pulled through, he seized the moment and liberally laced her broth and coffee with a lethal dose. But he wasn’t allowed in her room, and the tray he carried from the kitchen was left with Frederic. He feared the worst: what if Frederic sampled the poisonous fare?

Robert was lucky. Colette swallowed every drop and, within the hour, was violently ill. He was surprised she lasted the day, more amazed no one ever contemplated her many symptoms. But then, they had been gradual and endured over a long period of time.

His cunning had worked in their favor; their treachery met with only one hitch: Benito St. Giovanni. The island priest had been just as clever and ruthless. It could not be helped, but Robert let Agatha handle that. Benito’s extortion did not deter her. She was certain she’d find a way to shake him off. Besides, there was more to do: Pierre was next.

“He is in the will,” she complained. “Pierre may inherit it all, and Paul won’t get a red penny of his birthright. We must set this injustice right, Robert! Help me, my dearest, please! I promise we shall be together as soon as we’ve taken care of this one last detail.”

“John is first in line,” he’d reasoned. “I thought he was the problem.”

“Of course he is! But I want him to suffer as I did. It’s only a matter of time with John, anyway. I guarantee this event will be his undoing. I’ll make it so.”

Her hollow pledge haunted him still. Unconsciously, he’d embraced the truth: she was only using him. He didn’t want to believe it, and so he agreed to the diabolical deed, praying that in the ensuing turmoil, Frederic would suffer a fatal stroke and Agatha would finally realize how much he loved her. But just in case she didn’t, just in case he needed to flee Charmantes, he set a high price for the part he would play.

The fateful night arrived. Agatha swept into his abode, a hungry gleam in her eyes. The perfect opportunity had unexpectedly presented itself. Pierre had set the stage at dinner. “We must strike while the iron is hot,” she eagerly declared, her mind racing, “now, while Frederic is furious with John—before John returns to Richmond. We must stoke the rage into an inferno!”

Robert shuddered at her maniacal euphoria. “How much are you willing to pay?” he inquired coolly.

She was momentarily deflated, but quickly recovered, signing a promissory note that turned Thomas Ward’s entire estate over to him.

The next morning, she slipped a minute dose of arsenic into the boy’s milk. He became ill within the hour, complaining of stomach cramps and a headache, and as Agatha had predicted, John was asked to mind him while the family attended Mass.

In the meantime, Robert visited the stables. Few were about; most of the hands were also at Sunday service. His greatest fear that morning had been the great black stallion, but even that was easy. Phantom greedily devoured the mango he had pitted and filled with lye. Within seconds, the horse was writhing in agony. Robert unlatched the stall door, and the stallion bolted, knocking him over as he galloped out of the stable. He jumped to his feet and fled through the rear door, charting the shouts and high-pitched neighing that rose from the front lawns.

Within minutes, he reached the second floor of the manor, taking the back stairway that originated behind the ballroom and opened on to Agatha and Frederic’s chambers above. He watched John run from the nursery, and before the front door slammed shut, he was at Pierre’s bedside, scooping him up. The boy’s eyes were closed, and Robert looked away, racing back the way he had come, out across the rear lawns, and into the safety of the tree line. Capsizing the boat and the actual drowning took longer than anticipated. He was distracted by shouts in the distance. “The lake—my father said the lake!”

He fled and watched from the boathouse, petrified when he realized the boy was not dead. What if he awoke? What if he talked? For three agonizing days, Robert could only pace. There were no ships in port—no means of escape. He waited to be called upon; he’d waste no time finishing what he’d begun. But Pierre died all on his own.

Even today, the memories remained vivid. Robert breathed a sigh of relief. Fate had smiled down on him eleven months ago. It was just as well he had left Charmantes. Here, he was far from Benito, even Agatha, and he was safe. No one, neither Frederic nor John, could ever track him down. Smiling smugly, he ambled down the busy road with a lighthearted gait.

Saturday, September 15, 1838

Maddy Thompson shook out the last lovely dress. The wardrobe John had ordered for Charmaine had arrived from Europe. But the new garments held no joy for Charmaine. The dresses didn’t fit, and even if they did, John wasn’t there to see her in them.

“What’s the matter?” Jeannette asked. “Don’t you like them?”

Even Yvette was disturbed by Charmaine’s apparent dissatisfaction. “They’re all beautiful,” she said.

“Beautiful, yes,” Charmaine murmured, “but I’ll not be wearing them for quite some time.”

Maddy returned the garment to its box. “Your condition won’t last forever,” she said. “By springtime you’ll have your figure back. For the moment, however, I think I could sew something a bit more comfortable than that.” The widow’s eyes rested on Charmaine’s protruding belly and tight bodice. Every dress Charmaine owned had been altered, each pleat, each seam, let out, and soon, not a one would fit. “If you stop by my house in an hour’s time, I will take some measurements and have a few dresses ready for you by next week. How would that be?”

“It would be wonderful,” Charmaine replied gratefully.

The bell sounded above the mercantile doorway and Wade Remmen stepped in with a beautiful young woman at his side—the girl George had been dancing with the night of the ball. “Good afternoon, Yvette,” he greeted. “I left this week’s invoices at the warehouse a few minutes ago.”

She nodded, but like her sister, her eyes rested on the woman.

“This is my sister, Rebecca,” he offered, seeing their interest. “Rebecca, this is Yvette and Jeannette Duvoisin, and this is Charmaine Duvoisin, John’s wife.”

Charmaine extended her hand, but received only a hostile glare.

Later, outside the general store, Wade berated his sister. “What was that all about?”

“What?”

“You know what, Rebecca! Charmaine was being friendly, and you were downright rude to her.”

Rebecca raised her nose. “I don’t like her, that’s all.”

Friday, September 21, 1838

Paul was determined to accomplish some work. Riding out at dawn, he headed to Charmantes’ tobacco fields.

He’d spent a week on Espoir. One man in particular had proven an asset. With Peter Wuerst in charge, Paul was confident he could reside on Charmantes and venture to Espoir once a week. Her sugar crop was hardy, and his laborers had been through the production routine a number of times.

Tobacco, on the other hand, was a time-consuming and tricky business: transplanting early in the season, pests and mold to manage, and painstaking fire curing over a three-to-twelve-week period. The curing barns had been constructed. But now, with another harvest upon them, each field required a half-dozen pickings, starting from the bottom of the stalk up. After curing, the tobacco needed to age for a year before being sent to market. The leaves were bundled into “hands” and warehoused in town near the wharf, where they were regularly inspected for insect infestation. Charmantes’ tobacco hadn’t turned a profit yet, making Paul wonder why he’d ever gotten involved with it. At the time, he’d reasoned if John had been successful, it had to be easy. Easy?

He arrived at the southern fields not a half-hour later and cursed as he looked out over the sloping terrain. The paid help and indentured servants were milling around. Paul urged his horse forward. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“We’re waitin’ for Mr. Richards,” one man answered. “He said he’d come out first thing this mornin’ to show us what needed doin’.”

“What about Mr. Browning?”

“He took some men with him into town. They’re stackin’ the kegs from yesterday’s cane pressin’ in the warehouse.”

“So because he’s not here, and Mr. Richards hasn’t arrived yet, the lot of you don’t know what to do?” Paul growled, jumping down from the saddle.

He strode through the nearest row of tobacco plants, plucking off several dark green leaves, bending each one over, noting they were brittle. Returning to Alabaster, he pulled up and into the saddle and shouted out to all the men. “I want the remaining leaves of this entire tract gathered and bundled. Tomorrow, I want them hung in the curing barns.”

The workers began to grumble, “We went through this field a day ago.”

Though irritated, Paul knew losing his temper wouldn’t get the work done, especially if George remained absent. “I know John has shown you what to do. These leaves are ready. If they are reaped by sunset, I will grant a day off for every man here—after the harvest. For those of you who’ve paid your time, an extra day’s wages!”

A whoop of approval went up, and the men threw themselves into the toil.

Paul turned Alabaster around, intent upon locating George. He checked the mill next and found the same situation there. Unsupervised, the men were taking advantage. “Have any of you seen George Richards?” he queried in rising agitation.

“No, sir, he don’t usually drop round ’til noon.”

“Where the hell is Wade Remmen?”

“He’s normally here by now, sir, but he was feelin’ poorly yesterday.”

Paul swore under his breath. “Very well, Tom, how would you like to be in charge for the day?” When the man frowned, he added, “Double wages if you mill as much lumber as Wade usually does.”

“Yes, sir!”

Paul spoke to the other men who had gathered around. “Tom’s in charge. Follow his orders, get the work done, and there will be a bonus at sunset.”

Before Paul had mounted up, Tom was barking orders.

What to do? He had been lax lately, and the word had gotten out: Frederic and John were gone, and he was rarely around. Had everyone gone on holiday because he wasn’t breaking his back? He had no idea where to look for George, but Wade Remmen was going to find out he couldn’t take a day off on a whim. The man was paid well to be reliable.

Twenty minutes later, he was riding along the waterfront road on the outskirts of town, where the cottages were humble. Near the end, he reined in Alabaster, dismounted, and tied the horse to the whitewashed fence that enclosed the bungalow’s small front yard. Of all the abodes along the lane, this one was the most charming, with flower boxes under the windows and a fresh coat of paint on the front door. Paul smiled despite his foul mood.

He knocked and waited. The door opened. There stood the young woman who had approached him in Fatima’s kitchen on the night of the ball. Of course! She is Wade’s sister. Even in her plain dress, she was stunning. “Is your brother here?” Paul inquired curtly, attempting to camouflage his surprise.

“Yes,” she said softly.

“May I speak to him?”

“He’s not well.”

“I would still like to speak with him,” Paul persisted. It would be nice if she invited me in.

“He’s sick with fever,” she argued. “I don’t want him disturbed.”

Paul snorted in derision. Obviously, she was lying. Her manner alone branded her guilty, for she refused to budge.

“May I come in?” he bit out, quickly losing patience.

When she protested again, he placed palm to door and pushed it aside. As he strode into the plain but tidy room—a kitchen and parlor of sorts—the young girl tracked him, spitting fire over his audacity.

“How dare you? This is our home and if you think you can barge in here because you’re the high and mighty Paul Duvoisin, you’ve got—”

Paul headed toward one of the bedroom doors.

Just as swiftly, Rebecca scooted past him and flattened herself against it. “I told you—Wade is ill! You can’t disturb him!”

“Miss Remmen—step aside, or I will move you.”

“You just try it!” she sneered through bared teeth and narrowed eyes.

She was a little vixen, but he wasn’t about to be deterred, or worse, ordered around by a sassy snip of a girl, lovely or not. In one fluid motion, he swept her up in his arms and deposited her unceremoniously in the nearest chair.

Astounded, she scrambled to her feet, but he’d already entered the bedroom.

The curtains were drawn and someone was abed. Wade’s breathing bordered on a snore. As Paul’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he could see beads of perspiration on the young man’s brow. He placed a palm to his forehead. Wade’s eyes fluttered open, and he murmured something in delirium. “He’s burning up,” Paul stated irately. “Why didn’t you summon the doctor?”

“Doctors cost money,” she defiantly whispered. “Now, please, he’s resting. You will awaken him, and then I’ll have him arguing with me as well.”

“Arguing with you?” Paul declared incredulously. “He’s delirious! I pay your brother decent wages. He can afford a doctor when he’s this ill.”

“Wade insists on saving his money.”

Paul glowered at her, and she added, “So we don’t ever go hungry again.”

The last remark brought her shame, and she turned away, glad when another knock fell on the outer door.

Paul followed her out of the bedroom, somewhat contrite. He, too, was grateful for the distraction. George was standing on the threshold.

“Where have you been?” Paul demanded.

“Looking for you,” George replied. “When Wade sent word he wouldn’t be going to the mill, I figured one of us would have to oversee his work. You left the house before me. I missed you at the tobacco fields, then I went to the mill—”

“All right, George, I understand,” Paul ceded. He rubbed the back of his neck, the day’s work less pressing than Wade.

George volunteered to fetch Dr. Hastings, and before Paul knew it, he was once again alone with Rebecca. Her face remained stern.

“You were far more fetching at the ball,” he commented with a lazy smile. “Remember—in the kitchen—when you were in love with me?”

“Mr. Duvoisin,” she responded flatly, feigning disinterest in his flirtatious compliment, “I told you my brother won’t waste his money on a doctor. Thanks to you, he has a fever. With a bit of rest, he will heal all on his own.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Yes. You see, Wade kept on working in the pouring rain last week—to make things easier for you. He caught a chill, and now he’s paying for it.”

Paul ignored her statement. “Why didn’t you tell me you had sent word?”

“I thought that was the reason you were here.” When he seemed confused, she continued, “I thought you were going to force him to work, anyway.” She bowed her head. “I love my brother. He’s all I have.”

“And that is why George is fetching Dr. Hastings,” Paul interjected. “You needn’t worry about his fee. I’ll take care of it.”

“Wade wouldn’t like that,” she argued, her head jerking up, eyes flashing again. “It would be like taking charity.”

“Miss Remmen,” Paul countered, “if your brother remains ill for days on end, I will lose a great deal more money than the cost of a doctor. Right now, I’m shorthanded. I need Wade up and about. He’s invaluable.”

She looked at him quizzically, and it occurred to him she didn’t understand. “I can’t do without him,” he explained, distracted by the sparkling green eyes that changed on a dime, speaking volumes.

Apparently, his reasoning met with her approval, for she was smiling now, the orbs even more captivating with this new expression. She was lovely.

“Would you like a cup of coffee or perhaps tea?” she offered, grabbing the kettle and swinging it over the embers in the hearth.

“That would be nice. I’d like to hear what the doctor has to say.”

Rebecca grew dismayed. “You don’t think it is serious, do you?”

“No, you are probably right. Wade will mend all on his own.”

She sighed, her smile returning. Then, as if suddenly shy, she began to stoke the fire. Paul sat back and watched her.

Dr. Hastings’s diagnosis was similar to Rebecca’s: overwork and a chilling rain had brought on the fever, bed-rest and nourishment, the cure. Paul told her to keep Wade home until Monday and he wanted to know if there wasn’t an improvement. Then he and George were saying their farewells.

As they turned their horses onto the main road, George spoke. “Rebecca is smitten with you.”

Paul snorted.

“It’s true! You should have seen her at the ball. I danced with her once, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off you the entire evening. If you hadn’t been so damn busy, I would have introduced you.”

Again Paul snorted. He didn’t tell George Rebecca had introduced herself.

George pressed on. “Whenever I go to the cottage, she always brings the conversation around to you.”

Paul’s brow arched, and though he tried not to, he smiled. “She wasn’t too happy with me this morning.”

“She can be a regular spitfire,” George confirmed. “She bullies Wade like no man’s business. But she is quite lovely.”

“And young—she can’t be more than sixteen.”

“Just seventeen, I believe.” He paused for a moment. “You know, Paul, a bit of a diversion is what you need—take your mind off things.”

Paul scoffed at the idea. “The last time I had a ‘bit of a diversion’ I lost the one thing that meant the most to me.”

“Maybe Charmaine wasn’t yours to find,” George replied evenly. He let the remark sink in before saying, “John will be home before long. And when that happens, you’ll be nursing a broken heart— again.”

Paul looked away. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, it is.”

Paul shook his head. “When did things become so complicated, George? I remember when we were young. Everything was so very simple. We enjoyed life, and the women were free for the picking.”

“I guess we grew up,” George supplied.

“I guess we have.”

Another knock resounded on the Remmen door. Rebecca collected herself and walked slowly to the door. Perhaps it was Paul again. She lamented his departure, treasuring the private moments she’d had with him. But when she opened it, she frowned in disappointment. Felicia Flemmings stood in the doorway. “What was Paul Duvoisin doing here?”

“My brother is not well,” Rebecca answered. “Paul was checking on him.”

“Paul is it?” Felicia asked as she pushed into the cottage.

Rebecca eyed her speculatively. She didn’t think she liked the older girl, though Felicia had tried to ingratiate herself with Rebecca from the moment she’d moved back into her parents’ home next door. Rebecca suspected it was because Wade was so good-looking. But she had allowed Felicia her visits over the past few days because the older girl was willing to divulge a plethora of information concerning the goings-on in the Duvoisin mansion, details about Paul the most interesting of all. Felicia had told her she’d quit her domestic job at the manor because she couldn’t tolerate John’s new wife, Charmaine, an opportunistic trollop, who was intent on ensnaring Paul in her husband’s absence. “I couldn’t watch it any longer,” she had complained. “Poor John!”

Poor Paul, Rebecca had thought.

Presently, Felicia was assessing her, chuckling perspicaciously. “You have your sights set for Paul, don’t you?”

“I’m going to marry him.”

Felicia guffawed until she realized Rebecca was serious, the girl’s tight expression giving her pause. When Wade didn’t appear, she wished her luck with another flippant chuckle and promptly left.

Rebecca tucked the woman’s ridicule in the back of her mind and indulged in memories of Paul: his rough hands on her, strong arms lifting her up, carrying her … She was alone; her brother slept soundly. Intoxicated, she entered her bedroom and, with heart accelerating, closed the door.

Friday, September 28, 1838

Yvette and Jeannette’s tenth birthday dawned bright and warm. But the brilliant day did not lift Charmaine’s spirits. She left her bedchamber with a heavy heart, dwelling on cherished memories of last year. She wondered where John was and what he was doing. Did he remember what day it was? Was he thinking about their wonderful picnic one short year ago?

The girls were sad, too, making no inquiries about gifts when they reached the dining room.

Mercedes and George were there. “Why the glum faces?” George asked. “I thought everyone was happy on their birthday.”

“We don’t feel like celebrating,” Yvette grumbled. “Not without Johnny.”

“Is that so?” he queried. “Mercedes and I thought the two of you would like to try out the new saddles and tack Paul purchased for your ponies.” He was smiling now, noting their faltering sadness. “That’s right. Mercedes placed the order. And I’ve taken the day off so we can go riding.”

Sparks of happiness lit the girls’ eyes. Soon they were departing. Charmaine couldn’t join them in her condition. Instead, she sat with Rose on the portico and thought about John. Tomorrow, he’d be spending his birthday with his father …

Monday, October 1, 1838

The days melted into weeks. Frederic and Michael spent them visiting the city post office and the shipping offices, combing address listings and immigrant registers for Blackfords. Though common sense suggested the man had changed his name, they couldn’t be certain, and with nothing to go on, they were compelled to track down every Blackford, Black, Ford, and eventually Smith, Jones, and Brown they came across. Frederic exerted his influence on the owners of other shipping lines to gain access to passenger manifests. Not one listed a Blackford leaving New York recently, but they found a number of Blacks and Fords in the post office registry. Though it did not provide a street address, the public roll did help narrow down the neighborhoods where these men lived. Frederic and Michael passed hours scouring the streets and visiting places of business in the hopes of turning up the fugitive doctor. Even with the most remote of leads, they often waited an entire day for the resident to return, only to head home disappointed.

John wore street clothes like the immigrant factory workers, making the trip every day to the shipping wharfs downtown, the mercantile exchanges on South Street, or the textile factories on the lower East Side, talking to dockworkers, visiting taverns, and casing houses of ill-repute. He asked passersby if they’d seen anyone meeting Blackford’s description, or if they knew anyone who went by that name. He’d inquire of local doctors and mention the names Black and Ford, Smith and Brown. He’d walk the residential avenues of redbrick row houses and meander through the slums south of Wall Street, hoping to get lucky and spot his uncle.

He liked this face of the city: the immigrants pouring off the merchant ships, longshoremen heading home for dinner after twelve hours of grueling labor. He watched children playing in the streets and mothers doing laundry in wooden tubs and hanging the clothes out to dry. New York was where they all wanted to be, and he enjoyed being in their midst, even though his own privileged life was so different from theirs. As hard as the labor was, they all tarried with such purpose, leaving hopeless existences in Europe for the chance at something better. John was sure the city would one day be the jewel in the crown of the nation, for the Erie Canal had made the city the gateway to the West, a merchant’s magnet.

Tonight, he sat at the desk writing a letter to Charmaine. In his rush to press on to New York, he hadn’t given her the address where he could be reached. George knew it, but John wanted to send it along, just to be sure. How ironic that tonight his father was in this house with him. He’d scrupulously kept the residence a secret in the hopes that one day he, Colette, and the children could start a new life here. If they fled to New York, nobody, especially Frederic, would ever find them. Last year, it had taken George weeks to track him down, resorting to staking out the Duvoisin shipping offices until, one day, John stopped by.

A month had already passed since he’d last written to Charmaine. Tomorrow, he’d put this letter in the mail to Richmond, and Stuart would place it on the next Duvoisin vessel bound for Charmantes. He had held off writing, hoping he’d have encouraging news. But at least he could write they were ruling out each Blackford one by one. He was anxious for news from Charmantes.

The parlor was chilly. He left the desk to stoke the fire with fresh logs, pushing them back with the iron poker. The logs hissed, throwing out angry embers that lit the hearth like tiny fireworks. Frederic and Michael reclined in the armchairs on either side of it.

Frederic considered John in the tranquil room. He had been pensive, distant all day. A year ago this week, Pierre had died. Obviously, the bleak anniversary was on his son’s mind.

He looked above the mantel. John had tacked a small drawing there. I gave Mama and Pierre the hug and kiss you sent Jeannette had written below a picture of five figures standing on a beach. Frederic remembered Yvette’s sketch in John’s Richmond town house, and he bowed his head regretfully.

“All these empty houses, John … in Richmond—here. All these empty, lonely houses.”

Michael looked up from his bible, as did John from the fireplace. “I’m in Richmond and New York frequently, Father. Houses are more comfortable than hotels,” he replied placidly, wondering over Frederic’s thoughts.

“You wanted to bring them here—always hoped that someday you’d bring them here, didn’t you?” Frederic mused more than asked.

Michael stood up to leave.

“You can stay, Michael,” John said, his eyes fixed on his father, astonished by his parent’s acuity. He looked away and stared into the hearth, propping an arm against the mantel. Perhaps for the first time, he really understood Frederic, the deep regrets the man harbored. If his father could turn back time to that fateful day five years ago—the day of their vicious row and Frederic’s debilitating seizure—he would let Colette go, just so she could be alive today. Suddenly, everything was very clear. Frederic hadn’t coveted Colette to smite him, or to exact revenge. His father had done so because he loved her and couldn’t bear to let her go. Now remorse plagued him, and he desperately needed to be forgiven. But there was no one to offer comfort, no one to comprehend his pain. The room had fallen silent, and the minutes gathered.

“When I came back here after Pierre died,” John murmured, “I asked myself a million times: Why didn’t I protect him? How could I have left him alone that morning? I should have realized he’d wake up, find me gone, and go looking for me. He’d told me at dinner what he was going to do. I should have seen it coming.”

John sighed against the crushing pain in his chest. “I wasn’t in the room the night he died, either. Charmaine found me and told me. She was as devastated as I was. She could have blamed me, but she didn’t. Instead, she was compassionate. I held on to her words for months afterward, remembered them when I didn’t want to go on anymore … ”

John stopped to collect his rampant emotions. “No, Pierre didn’t go looking for me,” he rasped, “but if I’d taken him seriously, I would never have left that room, and Blackford wouldn’t have been able to snatch him away. Sometimes it can be right under your nose—so damn obvious—and still, you don’t see it.” John looked back at Frederic, struggling for words. “Colette’s death wasn’t your fault, Father. I was furious when I found out what happened, but I shouldn’t have blamed you. Agatha and Blackford are to blame— not you.”

John went back to the desk, sat down, and picked up the pen.

Michael was astounded. He looked at Frederic. The man’s face was awash with relief and hopefulness, and Michael’s heart swelled with pride for Charmaine. Her influence was at work here with these wounded, but healing souls. His own soul rejoiced with a gladness he hadn’t experienced in three long years. Marie was gone, but her kindness and empathy lived on. This was why he’d become a priest, remained a priest even through his apathy and self-doubt. Michael closed his eyes and offered a prayer of thanks.

Tuesday, October 2, 1838

When Jeannette heard a carriage approaching, she scampered to the balcony, and her sister quickly followed. Charmaine’s heart caught in her throat and the baby gave a violent kick. She, too, rushed out the French doors. John! He’s injured and they’re bringing him home in the carriage because he can’t … She refused to entertain the horrific conclusion.

An unfamiliar coach had passed through the front gates. She watched a moment longer, then composed herself and followed the girls downstairs. They stepped onto the front portico as the carriage door swung open and Joshua Harrington stepped down, turning to assist his wife.

“Mrs. Harrington!” Charmaine gasped, consumed with relief, disappointment, surprise, and joy. “Mr. Harrington! What are you doing here?” She rushed down the portico steps and fell into Loretta’s embrace.

“My dear!” Loretta exclaimed, tears brimming in her eyes as she held Charmaine at arm’s length and assessed her from head to toe. “So it is true?” she said, her gaze resting momentarily on Charmaine’s middle.

Charmaine blushed. “Yes, it’s true. Didn’t you receive my letter?”

Loretta shook her head, but seeing the happiness in Charmaine’s eyes, felt reassured things were not as bad as she and her husband had feared.

Yvette and Jeannette stepped forward and were reintroduced.

Charmaine clicked her tongue. “Where are my manners, having you stand out here in the blazing sun? Let’s go inside where it’s cool.”

Joshua turned to retrieve their luggage, but Charmaine scolded him. “Leave that, Mr. Harrington. I’ll have Travis get your bags.” She led the company up the porch steps, instructing the butler to see to the Harrington’s belongings. “Take them up to John’s old room. Our company should be comfortable there.”

“Very good, Miss Charmaine,” the manservant nodded with a smile.

Loretta and Joshua exchanged astonished glances. Charmaine had regally assumed the title of Mrs. John Duvoisin. But was Frederic’s wife, Agatha, happy with the young woman’s air of authority?

They settled in the drawing room, and Charmaine rang for lemonade. She joined Loretta on the settee, her eyes sparkling, still astounded Loretta was truly there. “What has brought you to Charmantes?”

“We were concerned for you,” Loretta began, glancing at the twins.

Charmaine understood and addressed the girls. “Since we have visitors, why don’t we postpone your lessons for the day?”

They eagerly agreed. “May we visit the stables and curry our ponies?” Jeannette asked. With Charmaine’s assent, they said goodbye and hastened happily from the room.

“They love you very much,” Loretta commented when they were gone.

“And I love them,” Charmaine whispered, and then, “Oh my, I still can’t believe this! I’m so glad you’re here! Where is Gwendolyn? Did she accompany you? Is she visiting with her mother and father?”

“No, she remained in Richmond with Cal, insisting that our housekeeper would grow lonely with no one in the house. In truth, Mr. Elliot is the reason for her disinterest in Charmantes. He has been paying her court.”

Charmaine giggled, envisioning the budding romance.

“Are you well?” Loretta pressed, brushing the topic of Gwendolyn and Geoffrey Elliot aside and leaning forward to clasp Charmaine’s hand.

Charmaine noted the worry in Loretta’s voice and replied, “When I first found I was expecting, I was ill most mornings. But that passed, and I’ve been feeling much better.”

Loretta and Joshua exchanged looks of relief.

“Joshua met John in Richmond,” Loretta offered.

“Yes, I know. John wrote that you’d spoken at the Richmond bank.” She looked up at the older man with a smile, then back to his wife, reading her misgivings. “Mrs. Harrington, I’m fine. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but truly, I’m fine.”

“But are you happy?” Joshua asked.

Charmaine tilted her head, trying to read him. “Yes, I’m happy … ”

“But?” Loretta probed.

“But,” Charmaine breathed, “I miss my husband.”

“And the only reason you’re not with him in Richmond is because of your morning sickness?”

“That is not the reason,” Charmaine admitted. “And John is no longer in Richmond. He’s traveled to New York.”

“Charmaine,” Loretta began slowly, not wishing to alarm the young woman, but determined to make sense out of all she had heard. “There is idle talk in Richmond, and it concerns your hasty and most surprising marriage to Mr. Duvoisin.”

Charmaine grew dismayed. “What are they saying?”

“It is not what they are saying, it is what they are insinuating. And as much as I hate to admit it, some lies often stem from truths.” When Charmaine didn’t respond, Loretta pressed on. “Were you forced to marry this man?”

“No!” Charmaine denied, aghast with the canards that had obviously prompted the Harringtons’ trip. “John was my choice. I love him.”

Loretta was happy with the vehement answer, but Joshua wasn’t convinced. “Then why has he left you alone at a time like this?”

Charmaine studied the hands in her lap. “Something terrible happened here a month ago.” Slowly, painfully, she told them about the murders.

“But why is your husband tracking down this doctor?” Joshua asked. “I thought he and his father didn’t get along.”

Charmaine grappled with an excuse, for the truth could never be revealed, and Loretta realized there was a great deal more to the story.

“There, there, Charmaine,” she soothed, “we don’t mean to upset you.” She eyed her husband and added, “After all, it’s not good for the baby. I would like to freshen up and rest a bit. The voyage was extremely unsettling. Could you show us to our room?”

“Certainly,” Charmaine said, grateful Loretta understood. “How long will you be staying?”

“For as long as you would like,” Loretta offered with abundant love.

“At least until the baby is born,” Charmaine hoped aloud.

“I’m certain we could manage that, now couldn’t we, Joshua?”

Monday, October 15, 1838

John’s second letter to Charmaine was delivered to the Duvoisin warehouse in Richmond. One of the employees paid the mail dispatcher the postage fee. Seeing the post was sent care of stuart simons, he tossed the envelope atop a pile of mail for the man. Stuart wasn’t due in Richmond for another fortnight.

Friday, October 26, 1838

The jeweler handed John the ring for his inspection. He’d fashioned it precisely to his customer’s specifications. It had taken weeks to locate the diamond, a difficult task, since Mr. Duvoisin wanted a flawless stone weighing at least three carats. The jeweler watched John as he examined it. Even in this dim room, the stone flashed with fire and light. It was set on a thick, unadorned band, engraved inside with the simple sentiment, for my charm, with my love, j.d.

The jeweler could see his client was satisfied, so he placed the ring back in its box. John paid for it in cash, tucked the box into the pocket of his overcoat, and stepped out of the shop into the overcast day.

Nearly two months had passed since they’d arrived in New York and their efforts had proven fruitless, all their leads dead ends. His father had begun suggesting they take their search to London or Liverpool. After all, Blackford’s roots were in England. But John was adamant they stay in New York, certain Blackford had not gone any farther than the anonymity and the work the large city had to offer, especially with the burgeoning immigrant population. He had only his intuition to support this hunch, but he could not shake the certainty of it, nor ignore the recurrent dreams of Colette and Pierre that reinforced those assumptions every night.

He walked to the post office. He’d received a letter from Charmaine earlier that week and had been relieved to hear news from home, the most important: Agatha was dead. It was one less thing to plague him, to have to face. He was happy to know the twins were well, Mercedes expecting, and Charmaine had forgiven him his hasty departure. She’d written she could feel the baby moving. He longed to put this crusade behind him so he could return home; he was missing so much. The letter he’d send off today admitted they hadn’t uncovered anything new concerning his uncle’s whereabouts, but reassured her it was only a matter of time until he was holding her again.

Like his last letter, he’d placed it within another envelope addressed to Stuart in Richmond with instructions for its immediate delivery to Charmantes. With Paul’s packets running supplies to Charmantes at least once a month, John was certain Charmaine would receive the correspondence by early December.

That night, John showed Michael the ring. “Beautiful,” the priest admired.

“I know what you’re thinking,” John said. “I should have given the money to the poor.”

“No, John. Charmaine deserves to be happy.” Michael looked at the ring again, turning it over in his hand. “This should make her very happy.”

John smiled, watching as his friend read the inscription.

“My Charm?” he asked.

John’s grin widened, his eyes lighting up as well. “My pet name for her,” he explained. “She used to hate it when I called her that, but I’d say it again and again just to see her eyes flash.”

Michael could tell John relished the memory.

“Like Marie’s eyes … ” John mused.

Michael nodded. “Yes,” he breathed. “I remember that look … ”

He handed the diamond back to John, who replaced it in its box, then locked it away in his desk. “If anything should happen, Michael, please make certain Charmaine gets it.”

Michael’s heart lurched with the tenebrous request.

November 1838

Charmantes didn’t have a jail, so Benito Giovanni had spent the last two months incarcerated in the storeroom beneath the town’s meetinghouse. The cellar had been used for petty infractions in the past, and, so, Paul had transferred the priest from the bondsmen’s keep three days after his arrest to keep a better eye on him.

The edifice was built into the side of a hillock, and those attending Sunday Mass climbed eight steps up to a small wooden platform that opened into one large room. Inside, a staircase led down to a dark, cool basement, where perishable items were stored. The chamber was six feet deep with an earthen floor, its front wall constructed of rock and clay mortar, the rear wall, little more than heavy stones embedded in the hillside. Three rows of shelves lined the back of the cellar. They were stacked with preserves, wine, vegetables, and exotic fruits. The priest was pleased to discover the farthest shelf was set about two feet away from the stone and dirt wall. It was tight, but there was room to move behind it.

Giovanni had spent the first two weeks of his imprisonment cursing his rotten luck, his scheme to leave Charmantes at the end of the year, foiled. He’d prepared for the possibility of betrayal from the start, but when Blackford departed and Agatha was banished, that ceased to be a concern. Certainly, he never expected this! Before he could escape from the island, he had to escape his cell. As long as he had time, there was a chance. Within two weeks, he had formulated a plan.

Twice a week, either Paul or George would check in on him. Sometimes the door would open, other times he’d hear their voices on the other side and knew a sentry stood guard. He wondered why John or Frederic had not come to confront him again, concluding they had left Charmantes in search of Blackford. He wondered what had happened to Agatha and puzzled as to how the truth had been unraveled and their treachery revealed.

Twice a day, he was brought food: breakfast early in the morning, and around five, supper. At that time, his chamber pot was removed and returned clean. Buck Mathers had been taken from the docks and charged with delivering these meals and any other needs. The priest knew better than to attempt an escape when Buck came through the door. Giovanni used the time to strike up several conversations with the man, however, gradually putting him at ease. Buck religiously attended the Sunday noon Mass with his wife and five children. Like everyone else on the island, he was astonished a man of the cloth could be guilty of blackmail, blackmail over two murders.

“I don’t know how this happened,” Benito murmured humbly one evening.

Buck looked up from the chair he had posted near the door.

“Surely Frederic realizes I’m bound by the Holy Father’s precepts to hold confessions secret.” Giovanni stole a glance at Buck and was pleased with the Negro’s look of consternation. He softly added, “It pained me to hear Agatha Duvoisin’s confession, but I was not allowed to divulge her terrible sin.”

“The way I hear it,” Buck bristled, “there wasn’t a confession. You were blackmailin’ her.”

“I am sad to say she was very sly,” the priest admitted, head bobbing forward. “She attempted to bestow gifts upon me, perhaps to ease her guilt. If only I had known she was tricking me into sharing the blame … ”

He said no more for a week, allowing Buck to mull over his remarks.

One day, he managed to steal a spoon off his food tray and was pleased it went undetected. That evening he calculated where he would dig and how he would conceal the hole. Using the utensil, he pried the first stone of the rudimentary foundation free, and like unraveling a knitting stitch, the rocks next to it dislodged easily. When the hole was big enough, he lifted the rocks back into place. He wasn’t quite ready to begin digging. The shelves would help to conceal the breach, but a rearrangement of goods was necessary first. He moved a sack of fruit one day, a few jars the next, a bucket or a crate after that, until slowly and imperceptibly, the excavation site was concealed. Then he began to dig, spending hours in the dim room, timing his work on the light that came through the narrow, barred window, stopping a half hour before meals were delivered. He’d fill an empty bucket to the top and sprinkle the loose dirt evenly on the ground, trampling it under foot until it compacted with the earthen floor. He prayed he’d break through to the other side before time ran out.

His contrition had garnered Buck’s sympathy, and Giovanni read pity in the black man’s eyes every time he delivered meals. The Negro was speaking freely to him now, and the priest learned John and Frederic had indeed left the island in pursuit of the evil Robert Blackford. Paul was in charge while they were away, and Agatha had committed suicide, or so everyone assumed.

It could take months, possibly years, to track down Blackford. Benito had plenty of time to tunnel his way out of his prison, recover his stash of jewels, and flee Charmantes on the skiff he’d hidden near his cabin. Of course, Paul might discover he was gone before he was off the island, but the man would search the ships in the harbor first. Giovanni had practiced an escape. His maps were stowed with the rowboat. The nearest uninhabited landmass was tiny Esprit, half a day’s trek in the skiff. No one would think to look for him there, but with the jars of fresh water and foodstuffs he’d stored on the isle, he could survive for two weeks, if necessary. From Esprit, six hours rowing and a good wind would take him to any of three inhabited Bahamian islands. He would melt into the populace and leave for civilization when it suited him. All he needed was calm seas, grit, and some luck. Thanks to Agatha, he could kiss the priesthood goodbye.

Thursday, November 15, 1838

John was dreaming. He was at home—on Charmantes—in his room. Colette was beckoning to him from the French doors. This time he followed her: out onto the balcony, across the side lawns, behind the manor and to the edge of the woods and the small, unbeaten footpath to the lake.

He was on the shore when he noticed Colette was gone, her only trace the faint scent of lily. A dark, faceless figure loomed beyond his reach at the water’s edge. Even though the sun shone high in the sky, everything was shrouded in darkness. Shards of light flashed on the rippling water.

Then he saw the boat and the boy in it, bobbing perilously on the churning lake. Predictably, it capsized, toppling its passenger out. He started forward to save Pierre, but he could not lift his feet. It was as if they had sprouted hearty roots, holding him fast. There was no time to lose, yet he watched, horrified and helpless. His eyes went desperately to the morbid specter, standing an easy distance from the tumult, but it only backed away, dissolving into the tree line.

John awoke with a start, a cry shattering his nightmare. He jumped up, rushed into the dimly lit hallway, and crossed to his father’s room. As he reached for the knob, the door opened.

Frederic was standing there, bleary-eyed. “What is it?” he asked.

“I heard you cry out.”

“I heard you cry out,” Frederic rejoined, baffled.

“It wasn’t me,” John replied. “Maybe it was Michael.” He walked down the corridor and opened the door to a third bedroom, but the priest was snoring loudly. “Perhaps that’s what we heard,” he quipped lightly, quietly closing the door. “The windows are rattling.” He walked back to his room.

Frederic followed. “I had a dream about Pierre,” he offered in a low voice. John stopped dead in his tracks. “First he was at the lake,” Frederic continued, “in the boat. It was very dark. The dinghy capsized—” Frederic’s voice cracked.

“And?” John pressed.

“I was powerless to get to him, just like the morning Blackford—”

“You’ve had this dream before?”

“No,” Frederic muttered. “I was awake the morning Blackford abducted Pierre, wide-awake when Colette came to me. She led me out onto the balcony, then evaporated. I thought I was going mad, until I saw a movement in the tree line. I was gripped with dread. That’s why I sent Paul to the lake.”

John stared at him in mute consternation. He’d never learned why his brother had gone to the lake, assuming Charmaine had returned to the nursery, found Pierre missing, and had sent Paul in search of him. Vexed, John exhaled. He turned toward his room, but Frederic halted his step. “There’s more.”

John frowned, facing his father slowly.

“The dream changed. Suddenly, I was here, in New York. I saw Pierre. He was lost in a busy street, but when I tried to reach him, he was swallowed up by the crowd.”

John gaped at him in utter disbelief. “What happened next?”

“There were furnaces and flames—burning coal. I thought I was going to fall into them. Maybe that’s when I cried out in my sleep.”

“Does burning coal mean anything to you?” John asked, gooseflesh raised on his arms and up the back of his neck.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve had the same dream.”

Frederic’s eyes widened. “I don’t know,” he said. But as he lay in bed, an oblique memory hit him: Elizabeth’s mother’s maiden name had been Coleburn.

Friday, November 16, 1838

Stuart Simons swore under his breath when he found not one, but two letters from John addressed to him at the warehouse. Sickness at Freedom and Wisteria Hill had kept him away from the Richmond harbor for over a month now, but he had left explicit instructions that any correspondence from John should be opened and forwarded to Charmantes as appropriate. He was relieved when he read John’s notes to him and realized there was no news to tell. John just wanted to make certain the accompanying letters reached his wife. She wouldn’t have to wait much longer. The ship dedicated to Charmantes was due in port any day now.

Stuart smiled. Although John’s search had proved futile thus far, Stuart’s had not. John Ryan had surfaced nearly two months ago.

Saturday, December 1, 1838

Charmaine’s birthday was a short two weeks away and the twins wanted to get her a present, something special, they told Paul. He agreed to take them into town. Charmaine declined to accompany them, reluctant to appear in public in her condition. “I’ll rest,” she said. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

When Loretta showed concern, Charmaine reassured her, saying, “I had dream after dream. My mother was there—” she laughed hollowly “—talking about John, of all people!”

After Paul and the girls left, Charmaine remained contemplative, wondering whether her dreams meant more. She had not received word from John since his letter ten weeks ago and, as the days accumulated, she grew more and more worried, a gnawing dread plaguing her late into the night. Loretta sent Joshua off with George, and stayed with Charmaine all afternoon. It was then Loretta learned about John and most of what had happened on Charmantes.

Leaving the livery, Paul draped his arms across Jeannette’s and Yvette’s shoulders and they strolled down the thoroughfare, drinking in the sunshine despite the brisk breeze.

“Aren’t Sundays pleasant now that we don’t have to attend Mass anymore?” Yvette mused.

Paul raised a dubious brow. “Charmaine had better not hear you say that or she’ll be sending for a new priest.” His mild warning ended in laughter. “I have to admit, I don’t miss Father Benito’s sermons, either.”

“But what will happen if someone wants to marry?” Jeannette asked.

“I suppose the couple will have to travel to America or Europe,” Paul speculated, guiding them toward the mercantile, “or do as father’s sister did and exchange vows before a ship’s captain.”

They met Wade and Rebecca Remmen inside the store. Paul and Wade conversed for a few minutes, but Rebecca pretended disinterest, turning her head aside. Paul noticed her coy reaction and found it appealing. He spoke to her directly. “You see, Miss Remmen, your brother is no worse for the fever he suffered a few months ago.”

“It’s as I told you, Mr. Duvoisin,” she replied levelly, though her legs were like liquid and butterflies fluttered in her belly, “all he needed was bed rest.”

“And a tender touch,” Paul added with a dashing smile, his eyes holding her captive. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some shopping to do.”

“Paul is helping us pick out a gift for Mademoiselle Charmaine,” Jeannette explained. “It will be her birthday soon.”

Wade nodded, not interested in the least, but Rebecca was miffed.

Less than a half hour later, Paul and his sisters left the mercantile carrying a box of sweets and a new book of poetry. He had ordered a rocking horse months ago, and although it had arrived, it would be delivered to the house later that day.

The girls teased him. “The baby won’t be able to ride it until next year!”

“Nevertheless, it will be in the nursery when he’s ready,” Paul rejoined, “and I’m sure the two of you will be eager to teach him how to rock on it.”

“You’re as bad as Johnny!” Yvette chided.

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“It was.”

Paul laughed as they crossed the busy street, turning around when shouts resounded from the wharf, heralding the arrival of a ship.

As always, the pedestrians pressed toward the landing stage, and soon, the pier was a sea of people. Paul hastened to the boardwalk, guiding his sisters through the throng that obligingly parted for them. They passed unimpeded until they were standing abreast of the huge ship. Paul cautioned the girls to wait for him on the wharf. He saw no sign of John or his father, but was anxious for news. The ship had most likely come from Richmond. Before the last mooring lines were secured, he was boarding the vessel.

The captain rushed over, clearly relieved to see him.

“What is the matter, Gregory?” Paul queried anxiously. “You haven’t brought us bad news from my father or John?”

“No, sir, no,” he reassured. “But I do have some important documents Stuart Simons instructed me to hand over to you as soon as we made port.” He produced the shipping invoices. They confirmed what Paul had already guessed: John Ryan was on board.

“Excuse me, gentlemen!” Paul shouted, waiting for the crew to quiet down. “I’m looking for a Mr. Ryan.”

John Ryan was not surprised to hear his name called. According to Stuart Simons, Paul Duvoisin was looking for efficient, reliable laborers. Having learned of John Ryan’s exemplary work in Richmond, Paul wanted to meet him as soon as he reached Charmantes. Ryan snickered to himself. How dim-witted could the man be? Snickering again, he confidently stepped forward.

“Mr. Ryan?” Paul queried through narrowed eyes. “Mr. John Ryan?”

“That’s me,” Ryan nodded, his chest puffed out like a bantam cock.

“You’re just the man for whom I’ve been looking,” Paul said, hiding his revulsion behind a smile. “These documents tell me you’ve been an invaluable help to my brother. I believe I can use you up at our meetinghouse.”

“Oh, I’m valuable all right,” Ryan boasted. “I just hope this job pays what I’m worth.”

“It does better than that,” Paul confided, placing an arm around the man’s shoulder in fraudulent camaraderie. “It includes free meals, room and board.”

Astounded, John Ryan happily allowed Paul to lead him down the gangplank, eager to learn about this unprecedented windfall. His ship had finally come in!

Yvette and Jeannette suspiciously eyed their brother’s motley companion as the two men approached. “Girls,” Paul called, “let us lunch at Dulcie’s. I’ll be there in ten minutes time.”

“Who is he?” Yvette asked, when Paul offered no introduction.

“The name’s Ryan,” the man blurted out. “John Ryan.”

Paul swore under his breath. Recognition had dawned on his sisters’ faces.

Yvette overcame her surprise and studied her brother. A fleeting scowl had crossed Paul’s face, accompanied by a barely perceptible shake of his head. Reading his signal, she grasped Jeannette’s arm and began to nudge her down the pier. “Very well, Paul, we’ll meet you at Dulcie’s.”

Paul thanked God she was maturing and turned back to John Ryan. “My sisters,” he explained nonchalantly, noting the man’s interest. He indicated the boardwalk. “Shall we?”

Ryan nodded, and Paul struck up some small talk as he escorted the older man to the meetinghouse. They climbed the steps, and Paul allowed John Ryan to step in first, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it.

“Well,” Ryan began when it seemed as if Paul would not speak, his eyes darting around the empty room. “What work do you want me to do here?”

“Prayer work,” Paul said softly.

“Prayer work?” the elder asked, laughing outright at the inane suggestion.

“Yes, Mr. Ryan,” Paul pronounced rigidly, his brow suddenly furrowed. “You’d best start praying, because I believe you’re a wanted man.” Seeing John Ryan’s stupefaction, Paul continued, arms folded across his chest. “I have it on the most reliable authority you murdered your wife.”

The older man did not like this conversation and grew belligerent. “I mighta hit her on occasion, but she had it comin’.”

“Had it coming?” Paul asked incredulously, his jaw clenched.

“She was a mouthin’ off hen-pecker who needed to be put in her place. And that’s what I did—put her in her place.”

Paul’s hand shot out, grabbed a fistful of shirtfront, lifted Ryan clear off the ground, and sent him sailing. He hit the floor with a loud oomph, his legs and arms splayed in four directions. “Why’d ya do that?” he demanded from where he lay, astonished. “Why’d ya bring me here?”

“So you can pay for your crime.”

John Ryan jumped to his feet, but Paul rushed him, grabbing his forearm and yanking him around. He squealed in pain as Paul guided him down the stairwell, wrenching his arm ever higher behind his back. The guard unlocked the door and swung it open, and Paul shoved him inside. Again, he stumbled to the floor.

Paul eyed Benito, who had scrambled to the center of the room. “The two of you should be great company for each other,” he commented wryly, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Tell your new inmate to whom my brother is married. Mr. Ryan should be very interested to know.”

When the door was bolted, Paul cautioned the burly guard to remain alert.

By the time he reached Dulcie’s, his sisters were already eating. After he’d ordered his own meal, Yvette bluntly asked, “Was that Charmaine’s father?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Paul admitted. “But you mustn’t tell her he’s here.”

“Why is he here?” Jeannette asked, her eyes clouded with worry.

“John wants to deal with him. He’s responsible for his wife’s murder.”

“What will Johnny do to him?” Yvette asked.

“I don’t know, Yvette.”

“What would you do?” Jeannette queried.

Paul raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know that, either. I’d have to think long and hard on it. Will the two of you keep quiet about this?”

“If that is what you want Paul, that’s what we’ll do,” Yvette promised.

“Thank you,” Paul said with a warm smile. “And thank you for heeding my warning on the quay. I wanted to make certain John Ryan was locked up with our good Father Benito before he learned why he was here.”

Yvette smiled wickedly. “I’ll wager he had the surprise of his life.”

“That he did,” Paul affirmed. “That he did.”

New York

After a long day walking the streets of lower Manhattan, Frederic had grown weary and Michael, hungry. They hailed a ride near the harbor and headed back to Washington Square. Frederic had had enough of New York City. After weeks of scouring her streets, their paltry leads had turned up nothing. Even their breakthrough with the name Coleburn had led nowhere. He stared out the window of the quiet cab, contemplating their futile search, frustrated, angry, and homesick. It was growing dark, and people were spilling onto the streets, stopping along the way to buy bread or a slab of meat for dinner.

He closed his eyes and dozed to the lull of the rocking carriage. It rolled over a hole as it negotiated a turn, jolting him awake. He shifted and looked out the window, the silhouette of a man about a block ahead snaring his attention. Tall, dark, and slender, he was just now reaching the street corner. His black overcoat billowed against a stiff breeze. One hand was planted on his top hat; the other toted a black bag.

Frederic’s heart leapt into his throat. Their carriage was turning away! He pushed the door open with his cane, shouting up to the driver to stop. He scrambled out of the conveyance, nearly falling as the cabman yelled at him to wait. “Get back here, man! You ain’t paid the fare!”

Bumping shoulders with pedestrians, Frederic ignored the indignant voice that followed him and leaned hard on his cane, dodging the hogs and goats that wandered the road, scavenging street refuse for food scraps. When he reached the next corner, heaving and breathless, the man was nowhere in sight. Had he continued straight ahead, turned left or right? Frederic wheeled in all directions, straining to see beyond the press of people, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark figure again. It was useless; he was gone. Downhearted, Frederic turned back to the cab in mute resignation.

Even though Michael was convinced he’d imagined it, Frederic thought about the incident for days. Every evening afterward, he left Michael at the town house and headed downtown, strolling the streets in the same neighborhood. When night fell, he would step into a local tavern for dinner, sitting near a window with a tankard of ale as he watched people walk by.

Tonight, the waiter had just set a plate of hot food before him when a commotion erupted two tables away. A barmaid was screaming at two men, who had shot to their feet. “You told me you loved me, you lyin’ bastard!” she spat at him, her face red, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I ain’t doin’ this, I seen other girls bleed to death!”

When one of them shrugged sheepishly, she hurled a crumpled piece of paper into his face and flew at him. The patrons nearby scrambled from their tables, and two waiters rushed over to break up the fracas. Frederic came to his feet as well. The barmaid was hissing and spitting fire at the longshoreman, even as the waiters pulled her away. The dockworkers threw a few coins on the table and fled the tavern. The proprietress put an arm around the sobbing girl and, with comforting words, led her into the kitchen.

Frederic sank back into his seat and lifted his fork, noticing his napkin had fallen to the floor. As he reached down for it, he saw the crumpled paper under his chair. He picked it up and smoothed it open, his heart nearly stopping when he read: COLEBURN CLINIC. 27 WATER STREET.

According to John, the address was in a seedy section a few blocks from the wharfs. He would check it out the next day. Frederic insisted on going with him, but John objected. “We’ll be too conspicuous together.”

Frederic capitulated reluctantly. “If it is Blackford, promise me you won’t take action on your own. We must decide together how to proceed.”

John nodded placidly, but Frederic was unnerved.

The next day, John went to the address. It was a row house with a continuous stream of people going in and out. He approached a woman with two young girls as they left. “Is this the doctor’s office?” he asked.

The woman looked at him quizzically. At first, he didn’t think she spoke English. “Yes,” she finally replied in a thick Irish brogue, “it’s Dr. Coleburn. Why do you ask?”

“I wasn’t sure if I had the right address. Thank you.”

She nodded and nudged her children along.

John waited in the street until long after dark. As dusk fell, the clientele changed. Mostly young women and tarts entered the building, hesitating before their hands alighted upon the knob, their eyes darting surreptitiously to and fro to be certain nobody saw them enter. Eventually, the last patient left, and the lights in the first floor windows went dark. A few minutes later, a tall dark figure appeared in the doorway and descended the steps, setting a brisk pace up the street. John followed, keeping a safe distance behind, walking gingerly so his footfalls would not call attention to his presence. The man turned a corner and walked a few blocks farther, turned again and ascended the steps of another row house. John marked the address.

Before dawn the next day, he was seated on the steps of the row house across from 13 Stone Street, his collar drawn high around his neck, his cap cocked low over his forehead. At exactly eight o’clock in the morning, Robert Blackford stepped out of the door and headed toward his clinic.

“We can have a ship ready. Now that we know his address, all we have to do is corner him. He’ll be no match for the three of us, and we can take him to the ship straightaway.”

“I agree with your father, John,” Michael offered, stirring his tea. “This is the least dangerous way to handle it.” Though John did not argue, his dissatisfied frown bolstered Michael’s dismay. Clearly, the man was keeping his own counsel. “Once he’s on Charmantes,” Michael continued, “your father will have free rein to punish him however he sees fit.”

With hands clasped behind his head, John leaned back in his chair and looked from his father to Michael, deliberating. Michael could read a hundred thoughts flashing in his eyes. “All right,” he replied, his face suddenly stolid. “When do we start?”

“We’ll make arrangements for the ship tomorrow,” Frederic replied. “The next Duvoisin vessel in port will be rerouted to take us back to Charmantes.”

“I plan on keeping an eye on Blackford while we wait,” John interjected. “He’s not going to get away again.”

“Fair enough,” Frederic agreed.

John pushed from the table and turned to retire. Michael stared after him, very uneasy. He couldn’t shake the feeling John had plans of his own. “John, while your father arranges for the ship tomorrow, I want you to show me where Blackford lives.”

John faced him. “It’s too risky. He might spot us.”

“We can go after he opens his clinic. It’s just a precau—”

“Fine,” John interrupted sharply. “I’m going to bed.”

Wednesday, December 5, 1838

The evening air was raw, and it was going to rain. Lily Clayton made her way up Washington Square past the elegant row houses of Greenwich Village and turned toward Sixth Avenue. Even though it was Wednesday, her employer had allowed her to go home early, an extremely rare act of generosity, and for that, Lily was grateful. Now she had two hours to spare before her sister, Rose, who was minding her children, expected her home. That free time brought her here.

She stopped on the walk outside of John’s row house and noticed the lamps were burning inside. She smiled. The lights meant John Duvoisin was back in New York. She missed him, for she hadn’t seen him since February. Over the past months, she had worried about him, because he never stayed away from New York this long. Now she wondered when he’d gotten back and why she hadn’t heard from him. He always came by to check on her as soon as he arrived in town.

Lily and her sister, Rose, had been house servants at the Duvoisin plantation in Virginia. They were quadroons and became the property of John Duvoisin when he purchased Wisteria Hill, the plantation adjacent to his father’s, in late 1834. They were thrilled when they heard John was interested in buying the property, because they knew all the slaves at Freedom had been set free. On his first visit to Wisteria Hill, she’d been attracted to him. He was young and handsome and, unlike other plantation owners, he had spoken to her, even though she was a slave. Within months of purchasing Wisteria Hill, John freed her and Rose. She moved to the plantation house at Freedom and became the resident housekeeper there, while Rose remained at Wisteria Hill for the same purpose. Rose was a mere two miles away.

Lily was beautiful, her skin a light, creamy tan. She was tall and lithe with straight dark hair, black eyes, sensual lips, and an aristocratic nose. Lily had twin sons and a daughter by her husband, Henry, who had been sold south to a North Carolina cotton planter before John had purchased Wisteria Hill.

Henry was a mulatto, so their children were also light-skinned; the casual observer would never suspect their black ancestry. John had tried to purchase Henry to work at Freedom, but his owner, a viciously stalwart Southerner, was unwilling to sell him for any price, for Henry was big and strong and worked hard. Furthermore, his new master held great disdain for border-state plantation owners who liberated their slaves, and bristled at the thought of even one more black, especially a mulatto, being freed.

Lily knew she would never see Henry again. Over three years ago, she had received word he’d been “crippled” during an unsuccessful escape attempt. Three runaways had made it as far as Freedom, delivering into Lily’s hand a short letter from Henry. According to the runaways, Henry had been brutally mutilated, the toes on his right foot hacked off so he would never run again. Lily became resigned to life without him.

When John began making frequent trips to New York, she begged him to take her, Rose, and her children there. She wanted to start over, to be independent. She wanted her children to be more than emancipated, she wanted them to be educated. In New York, they could go to school. John was reluctant to bring her north. Lily and Rose kept the plantation houses running smoothly when he wasn’t there, which was more often than not. But with her incessant begging, he eventually relented, and nearly three years ago, she arrived with him in New York.

John helped both women find jobs as housekeepers for affluent New York merchants; for the first few months, Lily worked for his aging aunt. He located a tiny house for them in lower Manhattan, gave her money for a full year’s rent, and accompanied her when she enrolled her children in a New York public school. The schoolmaster assumed John was her husband and the children, white. When he asked John where he was employed, he simply said the Duvoisin shipping line, which satisfied the schoolmaster and wasn’t a lie. So, even without Henry, Lily’s life had never been better.

Lily loved Henry and longed to be with him again, but Lily also loved John. She loved him because he treated her with a respect other white men reserved for white society ladies. She loved him because she could tell him anything and he always listened without passing judgment. She could cry about missing Henry, and he understood, because instinctively, she knew he also had been separated from somebody he loved. She loved him because he was kind to her children and he made her laugh. She loved him because he had never forced himself on her, as every one of her other white owners had. Even so, she had shared his bed many times. John had joked if Henry ever found out, he’d overcome his infirmity and escape bondage solely to find and kill him.

Tonight, she would seek out John. He’d relieve her gnawing need, one that hadn’t been satiated since February. After her children were fed and put down to sleep, she would leave them with Rose and return to John’s house.

John pulled his collar up high around his neck and his cap down low on his forehead, his back to the hallway as he rapped on the landlady’s door. The building had been sectioned so each floor was a two-room apartment. The ground floor corridor was shrouded in darkness, as evening was falling and rain pounded on the muddy street outside. Most of the longshoremen had already arrived home, the connecting houses resonating the sounds of clattering dishes, muffled voices, and children’s play.

The landlady opened the door. She was a stout, middle-aged woman, her greasy, gray-streaked hair tied back into a ponytail that reached her hips. She looked up at him, chewing on a mouthful of her dinner.

“Whaddaya want?” she asked before swallowing, one front tooth missing.

“I am looking for Dr. Coleburn.”

“Did ya knock on his door?”

“There was no answer. When does he usually arrive home?”

“Who wants tuh know?” she boldly asked, sizing him up. He’d probably knocked up his girlfriend and needed the doctor’s services.

“A patient.”

She eyed him skeptically.

He flashed her a one-dollar note.

“He gets back late. After nine o’clock, gen’rally. You’d best come back then.” She snatched the bill from his hand.

“It’s raining. I’ve come a long way, and I’d rather wait for him here, in his apartment.”

Though suspicious, she didn’t object. “What’s it worth tuh ya?” she asked, fingering the keys that hung on a chain at her waist.

John extended his hand again; a crisp five-dollar note sat neatly in his palm. Her greedy eyes grew wide. “How’s about two of those?” she replied.

Frederic pushed through the front door and found Michael in the parlor reading a newspaper next to the burning hearth. Dusk had fallen and all the lamps were lit. It had been a long, yet gratifying day.

Late last night, the Heir had reached New York. Frederic had spent the hours after dawn closeted in the captain’s cabin while John showed Michael where Blackford lived and worked. In the two hours they were gone, Frederic explained to Will Jones, the Heir’s captain, what had happened and what he planned to do. By the time John and Michael arrived at the wharf, Will knew if, for any reason, Frederic, John, or Michael had not contacted him in three days’ time, he was to sail back to Charmantes without them. There he would tell Paul that Blackford had indeed been found under the assumed name Coleburn, and Frederic and John had attempted to apprehend him on the sixth of December. Frederic was confident nothing would go wrong, but it was best to be prepared for the worst.

The Heir carried a letter from Charmaine, and Frederic had watched as John eagerly ripped into it, the third he’d received. He’d been happy with all her news, especially pleased to learn the Harringtons had decided to remain on Charmantes until the baby was born. He was befuddled as he read on; Charmaine had not received any of his letters, save the first one. Frederic had assured him that mattered very little now. By tomorrow, everything would be resolved and they’d be on their way home, arriving a month before the birth of his child.

The remainder of the morning had been grueling. Frederic and John unloaded the ship’s cargo onto a partially laden vessel that had berthed in New York en route to Liverpool. They had hastily commissioned the other carrier while the cargo space was still available, and threw themselves into the laborious task of shifting goods, since hired help was short that morning. In this way, the Heir could return directly to Charmantes, and the sugar and tobacco promised for Europe would arrive on time. Frederic had felt extremely lucky that morning. He’d been certain they’d have to wait at least a fortnight before a Duvoisin vessel reached New York.

A crew had been hired by lunchtime, and Michael realized he was of little use standing around. He was only getting in their way. So, he left them and spent the afternoon and early evening walking the streets, visiting a myriad of churches and buildings, many of them magnificent. In the weeks they had been there, he’d rarely gone exploring, and by tomorrow, they’d be traveling to Charmantes, so this was his last chance. When it began to rain, he headed home.

He’d been at the house for nearly two hours and looked up when Frederic entered, pulling off his wet overcoat, shaking it out, and hanging it in the foyer. “Where is John?” he asked when the door did not reopen.

“What do you mean?” Frederic queried. “I thought he was with you. He said he was going to meet you when he left the merchant’s office a few hours ago.”

Their eyes locked, and Frederic’s face grew stormy. “What is Blackford’s address, Michael?”

“13 Stone Street,” he answered, praying John had taken him to the right building and hadn’t purposefully misled him. “It’s just south of Wall Street.”

“Thank God.”

“I should go with you.”

“No. Wait for me here—in case we’re wrong.”

Michael looked at him skeptically. “I should check the clinic. Something may have happened there. We will meet back here.”

Frederic agreed, then rushed upstairs, taking the stairs as swiftly as his lame leg would allow. Riffling through his trunk, he found the revolver and bullets he’d purchased their first week in New York. He hastened back down to the foyer, where he pulled on his coat, loaded the firearm, and shoved it deep into a pocket. Grabbing his cane, he threw one last look at Michael, who was also ready to leave. Together, they set off, hailing two cabs.

Robert Blackford climbed three flights of stairs to his cramped rooms. The cry of a baby and the couple fighting on the floor below echoed upward, the odor of food fried in rancid suet melded with the must of the damp hallway. Although the row house afforded him anonymity, he eschewed such squalor whenever possible. Practically every evening, he visited the affluent neighborhoods north of this hovel, where he could enjoy the finer things in life the city had to offer. Tonight, he was returning from dinner at the Astor House Hotel. Tomorrow, he would go to a playhouse. He liked it here in New York. Indeed, life was better than he imagined it could be, even without his beloved Agatha.

He walked to his door, put the key in the lock, and turned it. He tried to push the door open and realized he had locked rather than unlocked it. Funny, he always locked up when he left.

He stepped into the dark flat and groped his way to the lamp on the table. Finding the tinderbox, he struck the flint and lit the wick, the flame flaring up in the lamp and illuminating the cold room. He rubbed his hands briskly together to warm them against the chill and decided to leave his cloak on. After thirty years in the Caribbean, he would never grow accustom to the penetrating cold.

It wasn’t until he turned to light a fire in the stove that he saw the shadow of a man sitting in the chair next to it. Recognition spurred him into motion, and he swung around swiftly, flying to the door.

John was out of the chair in an instant, reaching out and clutching his billowing cloak. Robert managed to pull the door open before he was forcefully jerked backward. John immediately threw an arm around his neck and grabbed his wrist, yanking it high behind his back. Robert howled in pain.

“It’s reckoning time, Blackford,” John growled against his ear, pushing him toward a large wooden dish tub set on the floor next to the stove.

As they got closer, Robert could see it was still filled with the morning’s dishwater. John wrenched his arm even higher, then violently kicked the back of his legs so they buckled under him, and he fell to his knees before the tub.

John followed him down. “Tell me why you did it, Blackford.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, John,” he croaked, as he felt his nephew’s hand move to the back of his head. “There must be some kind of mistake. What is this about? Can’t we talk about it?”

“Tell me why you did it, and I’ll let you live.”

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

“Then why are you hiding here under an alias?”

“Please, John … ”

John ignored his pitiful appeal and began pushing his head slowly, purposefully down toward the water. “How do you think it felt, Blackford?” John cried. “How can you live with yourself knowing what you did to Pierre?”

Robert resisted, struggling to turn his head aside as his face met the cold water. Then he was totally submerged, held fast, immobile. He concentrated on mustering all his strength to throw his body backward, but that effort proved futile. John finally released his head, and he came up sputtering and gasping for air.

John took tighter hold of him, pressing a knee deep into his back. “Are you ready to tell me why you did it now?”

“It wasn’t my idea—it was my sister’s! Paul is her son, he should have been the heir.”

“That’s not good enough, Blackford!”

John propelled his head toward the water again. “Do you think this is how it felt, you evil fiend?” he sobbed. “Did you take great pleasure in drowning an innocent child? I want you to know how it felt, you Satan!”

He plunged Blackford’s head deep into the tub again, pressing down upon him for endless seconds. Great air bubbles churned violently to the surface, and water sloshed over the sides of the tub. Blackford’s legs thrashed and kicked across the slippery floor, catching the chair and toppling it over. His free arm flailed in every direction, blindly grappling for anything within reach. John released his head, and Robert emerged, heaving and gulping in air.

“Are you ready to tell me now?” John sneered, his fingers entwined in the man’s hair. “It wasn’t just for the money. So tell me—why did you do it?”

“I loved my sister. Your father ruined her life,” Robert wheezed, gasping to catch his breath, the water dripping off his face and hair.

“Not good enough, Blackford!”

Robert’s head dipped toward the water a third time, the room deathly silent, save his desperate struggle to wrench free of the strong hands guiding him forward. “All right, John, all right!” he begged. Then came the murmured admission. “I was in love with my sister … I would have done anything for her.”

John felt the blood drain from his limbs and, with a tormented curse, relaxed his grip. Robert instantly threw himself backward, and John staggered, slipping on the wet floor. Robert rolled over to face his attacker. But John was up and on him again, straddling and pinning him down, hands around his neck. Robert’s head was cocked at an awkward angle, shoved against the side of the tub. He sputtered for air, and his fingers furiously clawed at John’s hands. But the vise continued to constrict. John was going to strangle him.

He had one last hope. Straining to the right, he groped inside his boot for the knife he carried for protection against the street thugs who loitered around his clinic. The tips of his fingers brushed against the smooth handle. Stretching farther, he loosed the dagger from its sheath, pulling it free. He drew it back and plunged it viciously into John’s flank.

John cried out and, clutching his side, collapsed next to him.

Choking, Robert’s hands shot to his throat, the knife clattering to the floor. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, inhaling rapidly, his pulse thundering in his ears. When he could breathe again, he fumbled for the knife at his side. He knew he had to finish John off—slit his throat quickly and flee.

As he opened his eyes, a tall shadow loomed above him, and he found himself looking up the barrel of Frederic Duvoisin’s revolver.

Frederic looked away and pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a loud report. He glanced down at the grisly sight, threw his cane aside, and dropped to his knees beside John.

“John! Get up!” he urged, nudging John fiercely. “We have to get out of here—now!”

“Father … ” John groaned, pushing himself onto his knees.

Already the room reeked of fresh blood. Frederic hurriedly looped his arm around John’s waist and shouldered a portion of his weight. Then he struggled to his feet, dragging John with him.

Somebody screamed, and Frederic looked up, the pistol concealed in the folds of his coat. A young woman stood in the doorway, gaping at them. “Murderers!” she shrieked, raising the alarm. “Murderers! Police!”

He advanced, his arm tight around his son. The girl blocked their path. “Move aside,” he demanded. When she didn’t, he pointed the firearm at her. She stepped back quickly, but screamed again after they passed. More voices sounded from the dark hallway below.

Frederic forced himself calm. “John, you have to walk down the stairs. You must help me.” Trembling, Frederic released him, his hand covered in thick, syrupy blood.

John grabbed hold of the railing and started down, enduring the searing pain that radiated into his chest and down his leg.

Frederic followed, gun drawn.

John managed the first two flights, fighting to breathe, each aspiration shallow and excruciating. Three steps farther, and his knees buckled beneath him. He tumbled down the last flight, landing in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairwell.

Frederic raced after him. The landlady’s door cracked open as he reached the bottom, and she peered out. Frederic dropped to one knee, but swiftly straightened as two men confronted him. He flashed the pistol again, and the two backed off. “Get up, John!” he shouted, holding the firearm level against them. “You must get up!”

His father’s command echoed as if at the end of a tunnel. Though everything was fading, John grabbed the railing and pulled himself to his feet.

Frederic put an arm around him again, and John leaned heavily into his body, forcing Frederic to carry most of his weight. Staggering across the foyer, they pushed through the doors and out into the rainy night.

Thankfully, the hired carriage was still there. Frederic had promised the driver a double fare for the return trip if he waited. He shoved John in and climbed onto the seat across from him, directing the cabby to make haste uptown. The old man set the horses into a brisk trot, and at last, they were rolling away. As they turned the corner a few blocks up, they passed two mounted policemen heading toward the row house.

John moaned and his head fell back against the seat cushions. Frederic crossed to his side and pulled him into his arms. John jerked forward, then slumped across his lap, shivering uncontrollably, his clothing soaked through.

“Hold on, John,” Frederic pleaded in a whisper, enfolding him in his cloak, his anxiety rising in proportion to his hammering heart.

“How could he, Papa?” John beseeched, his voice a strained sob, his face contorted in pain. “How could he murder my little boy?”

“I don’t know, John,” Frederic murmured, pulling John closer, gathering the dry cloak tighter around him. “I don’t know.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead.”

John looked up at his father. He hadn’t heard the answer, for the world was slipping away. “Is he dead?”

“Yes, John, he’s dead.”

John closed his eyes. “Charmaine … ”

“Hold on, John. Just hold on. You’re going to be all right. We’ll get you a doctor.” Frederic looked at the blood on his hands again, his own coat stained red, and was petrified his son was going to die in his arms.

The carriage rolled up to John’s row house, the driver glancing furtively back into the enclosure of his cab.

Michael heard them and ran outside. He’d been back all of ten minutes, having found the clinic closed. Frederic had already alighted, his expression imploring Michael to keep silent.

Frederic addressed the coachman, pulling the double fare from his wallet. “You’ll get twice this tomorrow night if you keep your mouth shut,” he enjoined, pressing the coins into the man’s hand. The cabman nodded, and waited as Frederic and Michael pulled an unconscious John from the vehicle. They struggled a moment, throwing his arms over their shoulders, then dragged him inside and up the stairs to his bedchamber.

“What happened?” Michael asked, alarmed by John’s blood-splattered coat, horrified when Frederic removed it to reveal his blood-soaked shirt beneath.

“They were in a scuffle,” Frederic replied brusquely, ripping open the shirt and pressing a handkerchief to the wound. “Blackford knifed him.”

“Is he alive?” Michael asked fearfully, placing a hand on John’s chest in search of a heartbeat.

“Yes, but there is no time to lose. He needs a doctor before he bleeds to death. I’ll find one as fast as I can. Lock the door behind me and douse the lights.”

“Why?”

“Blackford’s dead. There were witnesses. The police will be looking for us.”

Michael regarded Frederic in dismay. “Did John—?”

“No. I did.”

A knock on the front door silenced them.

“Damn!” Frederic cursed, moving to the window. To his relief, a woman was on the stoop. “Probably a meddling neighbor. Can you get rid of her, Michael?”

Michael hurried to the first floor. Sweet Jesus, how did I wind up here, aiding and abetting a murderer? What lies will I have to conjure now? Closing his eyes, he drew a deep breath and intoned a Hail Mary. He opened the door, stunned to see a woman he recognized. They had met in Richmond nearly three years ago when John was bringing her to New York. “Lily?”

“Father Andrews? What are you doing here?” Lily queried.

“Come in, come in,” he insisted, gesturing emphatically for her to step inside quickly and out of the rain.

“Where is John?” she asked, looking across to the parlor, disconcerted by the priest’s white face and disquietude.

“He’s been hurt.”

“Hurt?” Her eyes shot back to Michael. “How? Where is he?”

“Upstairs.”

Lily flew up the stairs and charged into John’s bedroom, running headlong into Frederic. He grabbed her arms, keeping her from the bed. “Who are you?” he demanded as she struggled to pull free, her eyes riveted on John.

Michael stepped through the door.

“My God!” she cried.

“Who are you?” Frederic demanded again.

“I’m his friend!” she replied, trying to wrench free, looking for the first time at Frederic. “John brought me here from Virginia. Who are you?”

“John’s father.”

Frederic read her astonishment. He released her, and she ran to John, clutching his cold hand. “John! John! Can you hear me?” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Sweet Lord!” she cried, caressing his face and stroking back his hair. “There’s so much blood! Wake up, John! Please wake up!”

She looked over her shoulder at Frederic and Michael. “He’s soaking wet. We have to get him out of these clothes and warm him up! And the blood—this cloth isn’t working. We have to stem the blood!” She started to pull the shirt from John’s arms. “Get some clean towels!”

“I will do this, Miss,” Frederic declared, uneasy with her familiarity. John and she were obviously more than friends. “Do you know a doctor who can help us? We need one right away. Neither of us know the city well enough—”

“Yes, I do.”

“Can you get him to come here tonight?”

“I think so.”

“Then please take Michael, go find him, and bring him back here,” Frederic implored. He handed Michael his wallet. “Spend whatever it takes, Michael, but bring him back as quickly as possible.”

Frederic followed them downstairs. Without another word, Lily and Michael slipped out into the dark city.

After they left, Frederic locked the door and doused the lamps in the parlor. He returned to John’s bedchamber, pulling the curtains shut, leaving only a single candle burning on the floor as he tended to his son.

Within the hour, the clopping of horses’ hooves resounded from the street and men’s voices carried up to the quiet bedroom. There was a rap on the door. Frederic snuffed the candle. The rap came again, louder this time, and he peered through a crack in the curtains down to the street. Two men in uniform, carrying nightsticks, stood at the door. The cabdriver must have ratted on them. Frederic prayed they would not try to enter. The police rapped again and waited, and he worried Lily and Michael would return while they were there. A carriage rattled up the street, slowing as it passed the row house, but then it lurched forward, turning a corner a few blocks up. The officers paced around the yard a few times, glancing up the façade of the building. Shrugging, they mounted their horses, and trotted away. Not long afterward, the same cab of only minutes before pulled up to the house, and Lily, Michael, and another man alighted.

Lily returned to John’s side as Dr. Hastings came away from the bed and washed his hands for the last time in a bowl of water on the dresser. Grabbing a towel and his medical bag, he motioned for Frederic to step out of the room.

They descended to the first floor, where Michael stood sentry in the darkened foyer, waiting for the police to return.

“It’s just as well he’s unconscious,” the doctor stated, their only light the small candle Frederic carried. “Stitching a deep wound can be very painful.”

“Will he be all right?” Frederic asked.

“He has lost a lot of blood, but the bleeding has stopped, and I don’t think any important organs were damaged, else he’d be dead already.”

Frederic sighed in thanksgiving.

The doctor noted his relief and was compelled to speak again. “I am concerned about his left lung. It may have been punctured. And there’s the greater danger of infection. I saw this in the wounded in 1812. The infection will eat beyond the wound. It can kill him. He’s likely to become very ill in the next few days.”

Frederic’s alarm was rekindled. “Then what are we to do?”

“Keep the fever down. Keep a tub of water and some ice on hand. If he gets very hot, submerge him in an ice bath. It’s my own remedy. I’ve found it works. Other than that, there’s nothing to do but wait. It all depends on how strong he is. It doesn’t help that he’s lost so much blood.”

Frederic closed his eyes in dread. He’d hoped to leave on the Heir first thing in the morning, but now that was too dangerous. “What will it take to keep this between us, Doctor?” he pursued in another vein.

“Nothing,” Dr. Hastings replied. “Your son is a good man, Mr. Duvoisin. He helped my nephew set up a practice—on your island. I hope he recovers.” He removed his cloak from the coat rack and pulled it on. “Send for me if you need anything else.”

Frederic returned to the bedroom once the physician had left. “We have to move him,” he declared. “The police will be back.”

“You can stay at my house,” Lily offered. “It’s small, but we’ll make room.”

Frederic nodded, and once again, Lily and Michael went out into the gloomy night, this time in search of Lily’s friend, who owned a livery service. She would borrow a carriage to transport John downtown.

By dawn, they had settled John into her humble, two-bedroom home. Lily’s children and Rose were moved to the tiny parlor, leaving the second bedroom to Frederic and Michael.

Michael caught a few hours’ sleep before setting out in search of ice. He got lucky when he went to a neighborhood tavern. The proprietor gave him the name of an ice supplier, and by the afternoon, a buckboard had pulled up in front of the house. Curious neighbors paused to watch as the massive block was unloaded. It had been cut out of a lake well north of the city in Rockland County and floated down the Hudson River. Now it sat on a wooden pallet in the backyard of the small house, covered in burlap. The December weather had turned mercifully cold, snow blowing in, and the ice would stay frozen.

Friday, December 7, 1838

Frederic came away from John’s bedside early, nodding to Michael who now took up the vigil. As he stepped into the front parlor, he found Lily hastily tying her daughter’s shoelaces, her twin brothers impatiently waiting.

“I can do it, Ma!” she complained. “We’re gonna be late!”

Lily stood, gave both sons’ coats a final tug, nodded her approval, and shooed all three out the door with the words, “No stopping along the way and come directly home after school!”

“We will, Ma!”

She sighed, then turned around, surprised to find Frederic studying her.

“You love them very much,” he said.

“Yes,” she admitted with a smile, “my pride and joy. How is John?”

“The same: still sleeping, no fever.”

“Good.” She moved toward the hearth. “Rose has already left for work. Can I make you something to eat?”

Frederic waved away the offer. “Not just yet. I’d like to talk, if you can spare the time.”

“My time is my own. Rose will make my excuses at work.”

She settled into an armchair and motioned for Frederic to do the same. When he had, he rubbed his brow, wondering how to broach the subject that had plagued him since Lily had rushed into John’s bedroom not two days ago.

“You’re quite a woman, Miss Clayton,” he began. “Again, I thank you for your hospitality—what you’ve done for my son.”

Lily smiled knowingly. “I’m also a woman of color, Mr. Duvoisin—a quadroon.” She chuckled deeply at his astonishment. “You’re surprised.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, sir, John is not the father of my children. I was a slave at Wisteria Hill, the plantation near Freedom. When John purchased it, we—that is my children, Rose, and I—became his property, though not for long. We were emancipated within the year. Your son is a good man, sir, an honorable man. If not for him, I would never have made it north, my children would have remained uneducated, not much better off than those in bondage, and life would hold little hope for them.”

“And what of their father?”

Lily bowed her head, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. “Henry—my husband—remains a slave. He was sold south nearly five years ago. I will never see him again.”

Frederic heard the despair in her voice and knew a greater dread. “You love your husband.”

Lily’s head lifted. “With all my heart.”

“All your heart?”

“Yes,” she averred.

A lengthy silence descended on the room. Frederic wondered where John fit into the picture. It was obvious this woman had feelings for his son. But were they deep? Or did John merely fill a void left in the wake of a family torn apart—the dismal abyss of loneliness? The possibility stirred a memory and thoughts of Hannah Fields clouded his musings. Hannah had not only filled a void; she had seen firsthand the atrocities of slavery, escaping to this very same city. Did she and Nicholas still live here?

“I know what troubles you, sir,” Lily was saying.

Frederic was drawn back to the present. “Do you?”

“John was there when I needed him most,” she answered slowly. “But I love John as surely as I love Henry. I will always love John.”

Frederic scoffed at the assertion, and Lily raised an irate brow in return.

“I see you don’t believe me.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Clayton, but you avow your love for your husband and, in the very next breath, proclaim your love for another.”

“Is it so hard to believe a woman could love two men?” Lily’s voice cracked, her tears accumulating. “I assure you, sir, it isn’t. I know I have two hearts. One was broken five years ago. The other is breaking now.”

Frederic was dumbfounded and profoundly moved. Without warning, he thought of Colette, and everything was clear, crystal clear. “John is married now,” he pronounced solemnly, “with a son or daughter on the way.”

Lily digested the information, and her sadness intensified. She collected her emotions and whispered, “Then I pray he will be happy. He deserves to be happy. But first, I pray he will recover.”

Frederic nodded. Declining breakfast, he stood and retired.

The second day was as tranquil as the first. John remained unconscious, though he groaned now and then. His eyes would sometimes flutter open, and he’d mutter incoherently before they’d close again.

That evening, he showed signs of fever, shivering under the blankets as a sweat broke on his brow. Lily continuously applied a cool cloth to his forehead, but by morning, the fever was raging. He shuddered uncontrollably, and his teeth chattered violently. He bucked against the compresses and pulled at the bedcovers to get warm, even though Lily kept pulling them away. Frederic and Michael prepared an ice bath. They stripped off his nightclothes and submerged him in the frigid water. He cried out in agony, struggling against the arms that held him down, but the bath worked, and as they settled him back into the bed, he slept peacefully. Within hours, the fever rose again, and he began to hallucinate, uttering fragmented phrases, reliving the confrontation with Blackford and calling out for Charmaine. Michael and Frederic submerged him in the water again, and again they succeeded in bringing the fever down.

Saturday, December 8, 1838

Frederic stirred in the cramped chair next to John’s bed, the glaring sunlight streaming through the window slats, shocking him awake. He looked at John, who lay deathly still. Jumping up, he grabbed his son’s hand and gasped in relief. It was cool, but not cold. Still, John was unresponsive to anyone’s voice or touch, his breathing shallow, his face colorless.

Lily ran for Dr. Hastings again. An hour later, he examined John, then stepped out of the room with a grim shake of the head. “I’m sorry … I wish I could do more.”

Michael studied Frederic, whose eyes were dark with grief, and pitied him. So valiant an effort, and now this. Michael looked down at John, his good and generous friend. The face was ghostly white, a face the priest had seen too many times while presiding over a bedside, administering the Last Rites. It was the face of death. He thought of his daughter. She would not be here to say farewell to the husband she loved.

Michael’s eyes filled with tears. Silently, he recited the prayers for the dying, finishing with: Sacred Heart of Jesus, pray for us … St. Jude, helper of the hopeless, pray for us … Father in Heaven, restore him to us …

Late Evening

Frederic sat beside his son’s lifeless body. With head bent, he clutched one of John’s hands between his own, and brought it to his mouth in a fervent prayer. “Dear Lord,” he murmured, “don’t take him from me—not now!” He squeezed the hand harder as if he could infuse it with his own vitality. “I promised Charmaine I would bring you home, but not this way, Dear God, not this way!” He buried his head in the bed clothing and wept.

John looked down upon the curious scene unfolding below. His father was praying over his body, but he didn’t feel the man’s pain, only serenity. Am I dreaming? Someone was calling his name—not from the room, but from above and behind him. He turned slowly, and the corner of the ceiling opened wide, bathing everything in splendor. Far off, a woman was walking toward him, silhouetted against the bright light, and he shielded his eyes to better see her. She called his name again, her voice unfamiliar. Her hair was golden brown, her eyes like honey. She was plain, yet beautiful in her placid mien, and something in the way she moved reminded him of Colette. He knew she was his mother.

“John,” she breathed again. “I’ve longed to see you.”

There was a great distance between them, but his heart swelled with her greeting as if she were only a breath away. He took one last look at his father and turned back to her.