A Silent Ocean Away (24 page)

Paul’s face hardened, aware of the children’s interest in the matter. “She will recover completely this time, Robert,” he threatened.

The doctor snorted. “What is being done for her this morning?”

“When I left, Gladys and Millie were drawing her a bath, and Fatima is preparing her something to eat.”

“
A bath?
They are preparing her a bath? Have they gone mad? Even if the fever has abated, she could easily catch another chill and fall more gravely ill than before.”

Paul shrugged. “It is what she requested.”

Robert rubbed his brow before throwing his sister a beseeching look, as if no one in the house, save her, would support him. “The food,” he continued, “I hope it is something light, like soup or broth?”

“I believe so. But you can check with Fatima.”

Fatima scurried around the kitchen, preparing not one, but two trays. If the mistress was up to eating, so was the master, she told Rose.

Rose agreed and helped lay serviettes and utensils on the trays. “She’s better, Robert,” the elderly woman blithely announced as the physician and his sister entered the kitchen, “and ready to eat something.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He watched as the broth was ladled out, the toast buttered, and the coffee poured. “I’ll take this one,” he offered as he picked up Colette’s tray of food. Fatima nodded and turned to ring for Anna or Felicia. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Agatha is coming with me. She can carry Frederic’s tray.”

Fatima held open the swinging door as sister and brother headed for the mistress’s chambers.

Frederic ate most of the food laid before him. But Colette’s tray would have to wait. His wife was in the middle of her bath, he informed Robert and Agatha, and when she was finished,
he
would make sure she consumed something. Colette wanted to rest, undisturbed.

Again, Agatha bristled at the intended slight and sauntered toward the door. Robert, on the other hand, warned Frederic of the danger he was courting. “Her condition is fragile, Frederic.
You and I both know she has had relapses before. As for this bath, it is sheer folly. Mark my words: her fever will return before day’s end. If you are wise, you will insist she eat and rest, nothing more.”

Frederic nodded, but refused to speak.

“I will remain at the house,” Blackford continued, “in case I am needed.”

Supported on either side by Gladys and Millie, Colette stepped from the tepid tub water and walked the short distance to the armchair, where they helped her dress. Though she shivered, she was glad to be clean.

Millie began brushing out her hair, clicking her tongue in dismay as many golden strands were pulled free. “I fear this illness has damaged your hair, Miss Colette,” she lamented, gaining her mother’s immediate frown and swift shake of the head. The last thing Gladys needed was her mistress asking for a mirror and fretting over her cadaverous appearance. Colette needed happy words right now.

They had just finished changing the bed linens when Frederic rejoined his wife. Millie cast nervous eyes to the floor and curtseyed, but Gladys smiled. “I’ll send Joseph in for the tub, sir,” she said as she ushered her daughter from the room. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Would you bring the food tray in?”

She complied, then quickly departed.

Frederic turned loving eyes on Colette. “Fatima prepared something for you to eat. Do you think you could manage some broth?”

She nodded with smiling eyes. Her face was so very drawn, and yet today, it possessed a radiance he’d not seen for years. To Frederic, she was beautiful.

She took a small bite of toast and found even chewing an effort. When she reached for the spoon, her fingers refused to work. “My hands are numb,” she complained.

Frederic drew a chair closer and took the utensil from her. “I never thought I’d live to see this day, Colette,” he quipped, “or perhaps you’d have me believe I am the stronger one.”

“We do make a pair,” she jested with a chuckle. It only served to trigger another convulsive cough, which she struggled to subdue, exhausted by the time it had subsided. “I’m afraid it will be some time before I’m improved.”

“You’ve improved already,” he countered lightly. “No more talk of illness. We are going to nurse one another back to health.”

He extended the first spoonful of broth to her lips, but the liquid had grown cold. The tray was sent back to the kitchen with Joseph, who had come in for the tub, with orders the coffee and broth be reheated.

In the interim, Frederic encouraged Colette to enjoy the fresh air out on the veranda, and a chair was moved into the morning sun. It was there the children found her.

“Mademoiselle Charmaine was right,” Jeannette laughed, “miracles can happen! I’m going to say extra prayers to thank Jesus and Mary
and
St. Jude.”

Frederic smiled at his daughters, happy for their happiness. He regarded Pierre, who sat on a bench next to his mother, content to let her stroke his hair. Today, he did not cry or pull away; today, he recognized the woman who leaned forward and kissed his head. Frederic would also thank God.

When Colette’s tray of food arrived, Charmaine nudged her charges. “Come children, we have lessons, and it is important your mother eat and rest so she recovers completely.”

Their father concurred. “You may see your mother again tomorrow.”

Pacified, they gave Colette one last kiss and scampered happily across the balcony and back to the nursery. Once again, Frederic proceeded to feed his wife. This time, the broth was hot and the coffee, heavenly.

“Now,” he breathed as she finished the last few drops, surprised by how much she had actually eaten, “it is time you were back in bed, napping. I’ll send Rose in to sit with you while I see to myself.” When her eyes grew alarmed, he added, “I won’t be gone for more than a half hour, and I promise, no pestering from Agatha or Robert today. I told them to stay far away earlier this morning.”

“Thank you, Frederic.”

He gently drew her out of the wing chair and into his arms. Her frail body was soft and feminine against him, evoking exquisite, scintillating sensations where the two met. For the first time in years, he kissed her as a man kisses a woman, the tender embrace blossoming into passion as his mouth opened hers.

She grabbed hold of him to steady her reeling senses, intoxicated by the power, the smell, the feel, the very essence of him. Slowly, his lips traveled on, across her cheek and to her neck, where he buried his head in her hair and whispered endearments near her ear.

“I love you, Colette. I’ve always loved you.”

Recalling the last time she had heard those words, she turned her face into his shirtfront and whimpered joyfully.

When she was back in bed, she remembered the letter she had written and wondered if she had done the right thing. A voice from within whispered she had. She closed her eyes and fell into a peaceful sleep.

Frederic had barely finished dressing when there came a fervid knocking on his dressing room door. Travis opened it, muttering
something about patience. His wife stood there, ashen-faced. “It’s Miss Colette—she’s ill again!”

Robert Blackford was quickly summoned. Frederic was thankful the man had remained in the house, but he cursed himself for ignoring the physician’s advice. Her fever raged anew, and now, she was vomiting with acute stomach cramps. What had happened? He knew: the bath, the food on an empty stomach, and her excursion from the bed.

Blackford attempted to give her a draught of elixir, but she expelled that right away, doubling over in agony. He stood, shook his head in trepidation, and glared contemptuously at Frederic.

Frederic was grateful he didn’t say, “I warned you.”

Rose took up her post at Colette’s bed, mopping her fiery brow with a cool cloth. Agatha demanded Gladys wash the chamber pot, bring fresh linens, and draw cool water.

Frederic threw himself into the nearest armchair and buried his head in his hands. A relapse…how many times had she had them over the past year? Many, though none this severe. Still, she had had them.
Why then, did I tempt fate?

The day drew on, and Colette remained violently ill, coughing and laboring to breathe. She didn’t have the strength to sit up and needed help to lean forward when overcome with a wave of nausea. She became delirious, soiled the bed, and slipped in and out of a fitful slumber in which she uttered strange words and names.

Frederic forbade anyone to tell the children, and so, their afternoon passed by happily. But Charmaine began to worry when they took supper alone. No Rose, no Agatha, and no Robert Blackford, though she knew they were all in the house. If only Paul were home…

As twilight fell, a calm pervaded the infirm room. Colette’s vomiting had subsided. Only the fever remained. Still, the two
men and two women kept up their bedside vigil. When the clock tolled nine, Frederic broke the solemnity. “Robert, Agatha, Rose, why don’t you three have supper and retire? Colette has been resting for some time now. If I need you, I will send Travis.”

They nodded, knowing there was little more anyone could do, except wait and pray. Perhaps this night would be as kind as the last.

“If there is any change whatsoever—if she deteriorates or improves,” Robert admonished, “I want to be called immediately. I will not abide any more of these old-fashioned remedies. She is my patient. I’m the one who will see her well again, God willing.”

His heart heavy with guilt, Frederic nodded. “As you say, Robert.”

When they were alone, he limped to the bed. This morning he’d felt whole; tonight, he was weary, crippled again. “Colette?” he queried softly, the mattress sagging under his weight. “Colette?” he called again, grasping her fiery hand.

She was awake, the glassy gaze now regarding him, revealing she had heard every word. He was shaken by her scrutiny. It was as if she were trying to see into his heart, to know whether the last hours they had spent together had been real. Suddenly, he wanted her to see every fiber of his agony, and his eyes welled.

“I love you, too,” she whispered.

He was astounded, and the ache in his breast ruptured. “Oh God, Colette, for so many years I’ve waited to hear those words. Why now?”

“I thought I hated you,” she choked out. “Because of my injured pride, I wanted to hate you…I was a fool, Frederic. Later, when I knew, when I longed to tell you, I thought it was too late…I thought you despised me.” She was crying, too, her eyes swimming with tears. “Frederic, I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

She struggled to reach his arm, the fist pressed against mouth,
but her hand dropped away. He grabbed hold of it and drew her fingers to his lips. “Only if you can forgive me,” he pleaded hoarsely.

“I did that a long time ago.”

She yearned for him to hold her again, yet she knew she must broach the subject that could send him away forever. “John,” she breathed, bravely forging forward, “he needs your love, even more than I do…I’m worried for you both, Frederic. I’m not going to get better. Please promise me—”

“Ssh,” he said, placing a finger to her lips. “I love him as much as I love you, Colette. The past is over. Let us look to the future—together.”

The hatred of yesterday was gone. Today, love prevailed, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t fear tomorrow. Closing her eyes, a great calm washed over her. “Hold me tightly like you did last night,” she entreated. “I want your arms around me again.”

Frederic doffed his clothing and climbed into the bed. Like the night before, she was burning up with fever and shivered as a wave of cool air wafted beneath the blanket. Quickly, she nestled against him, caressing his chest, savoring the warmth of his body stretched full length next to hers, the strong arms that encircled her. He stroked her hair, her shoulders, her back as he kissed the top of her head again and again. She closed her eyes in unsurpassed happiness.
Is there any better way to leave this world?
she wondered with a prayer of thanksgiving. They fell into a peaceful slumber, one from which Colette never awoke.

Sunday, April 9, 1837

I
N
a shower of spring brilliance and crystal-blue skies, Colette Duvoisin was laid to rest. As the sun climbed to its zenith, a throng of mourners left the manor’s chapel and headed north to the estate’s private cemetery, a gnarled, ill-kept plot of land populated with brambles, wild flowers, and stark, jutting headstones that reached heavenward. Here the morbid procession stopped, allowing the pallbearers room to lay down their feather-light burden on the cushioning briars. Then the circle closed around the pine coffin, the mourners drawing solace from one another as they awaited the closing eulogy.

Finality greater than death gripped them, an overwhelming loss that continued to intensify. Yesterday, they had walked in a daze. But today, the firmament illuminated the unfathomable truth, the mortal truth: Colette Duvoisin was dead, and no one—no private prayers, nor dreams of the past—would bring her back. She was gone from them forever, and many weeks would pass before the pain subsided.

The twins were unusually silent, their blue eyes spent of tears,
their stoic stance belying the torture Charmaine knew ravaged their hearts. Yesterday, those eyes had not been dry for more than a moment at a time, and poor little Pierre, too young to truly comprehend the finite event, was caught up in their acute remorse, sobbing over their distress. Today, Rose had remained behind with him, maintaining the cemetery was no place for a three-year-old and she would visit it soon enough. But Colette’s daughters were determined to join the procession, sitting ramrod straight throughout the entire funeral Mass, standing and following the pallbearers from the chapel without so much as a glance in anyone’s direction, their eyes trained on the coffin that held their beloved mother. Charmaine’s breast ached for their terrible loss, all the more excruciating in her inability to comfort them.

She remembered Jeannette’s innocent query when they received the devastating news. “What happened to our miracle, Mademoiselle Charmaine?”

“I know what happened!” Yvette burst out. “God was only pretending to hear our prayers! I’m never going to pray to Him
or
St. Jude ever again!”

“You don’t mean that,” Charmaine consoled. “It’s your pain talking.”

“I do mean it!” she shouted, erupting into tears. “I do!”

Charmaine had searched for words of solace, but they eluded her. She attempted to recall Father Michael Andrews’s eulogy at her own mother’s funeral, to no avail. Either her grief had been too profound to hear the priest’s kind words or his remorse too great to impart them. She embraced Yvette instead and allowed her to cry into her skirts, stroking her hair until she was worn out and heaving. Jeannette wept next, and it was thus they passed that first awful day.

Today, as Charmaine stood on the knoll, memories of her own mother’s death besieged her. She relived the suffering of those first
few days, her feelings of abject hopelessness. She had been older than the girls, an adult really. Yvette and Jeannette, on the other hand, were so young. How would they endure? Suddenly, Charmaine’s prayers changed. She no longer offered them for Colette. The fair woman rested in heaven. Instead, Charmaine prayed for the twin sisters, that the weeks ahead would heal their hearts. Last night, they had cried out in their sleep for her, and that was a good sign. Charmaine would always be there for them, just as she had promised Colette.

As Father Benito St. Giovanni stepped forward, Charmaine surveyed the assembly that numbered nearly a hundred strong. It seemed the entire town, or at least its workers, had traveled the nine-mile distance to pay their final respects. As for those who lived and worked on the Duvoisin estate, only George and his grandmother were absent.

Again she puzzled over the man’s whereabouts this past week and remembered Rose’s words. “He’s attending to an errand for Colette.”
What did that mean?
Charmaine thought it wise not to ask. But just yesterday, she’d been privy to the whispered gossip coming from Felicia and Anna. “He’s traveled to Virginia.”
But why?
The answers would have to await his return.

Charmaine’s gaze continued to travel from face to foreign face, alighting on two she recognized: Harold Browning and Wade Remmen. Slowly, warily, her eyes left the arc and settled for one uncomfortable moment upon the two men standing apart from the crowd.

Frederic shunned the large circle of mourners, leaning heavily on his black cane, dismissing the stalwart son who flanked his left side. Like his daughters, his heart was locked away. He had not emerged from his chambers since leaving his wife’s deathbed, and Charmaine surmised those quarters would once again become his prison. She was mistaken in believing he’d come to console the
children yesterday or this morning, for he refused to even look their way, his eyes trained on his wife’s coffin. Charmaine sadly realized his easy dismissal of the girls and Pierre was as much a punishment for himself as it would become for them. Their mutual sorrow and the comfort they could have drawn from one another might have been the start of healing, but such was not to be the case. Why, then, had he labored from chapel to graveyard, this man who wanted to brood alone, who wanted no one to console him, who rarely left his rooms, this effete man whose love of wife Charmaine had often doubted? Why had he taken up his place beside Colette’s casket this morning?
Because he loved her
…
just as Colette had loved him.

As the crowd pressed forward to better hear Father Benito’s final benediction, Frederic held his ground, his eyes barren, the polar opposite of Friday, when they had visited Colette on the balcony. Instantly, Charmaine’s heart was rent by another devastating thought: Colette’s dreadful illness had drawn them together, ending their estrangement. How terribly tragic that love had come too late—that their eleventh hour affection had been laid to waste at the toll of twelve. No wonder Frederic wanted to mourn alone. He was damning the world, damning himself. Charmaine shuddered, though the April sun was quite warm. With growing alarm, she wondered where the mortal event would lead this already embittered man. Instinctively, she knew the days and weeks ahead would be bleak, more so than she had feared at the start of this dreadful day.

Late the next evening, Paul knocked on the nursery door. Charmaine, happy to have a moment alone with him, stepped out into the hallway.

“How are they?” he whispered.

“They’re sleeping now, but I don’t know for how long.”

He studied her face compassionately. “How are you?”

“Better than the girls,” she murmured.

“But you’ve been crying.”

“For them. They’re devastated, Paul. I don’t know who’s more upset, the girls or Pierre.” Her voice grew raspier. “He doesn’t understand why he can’t go to see his mother and—”

Paul was not immune to her tears, and his eyes welled in response, but he hid the unmanly display behind the hand he brought to his brow.

“They refuse to eat,” she finally continued. “I’m at a loss as to what to do.”

“There is nothing you can do, Charmaine. Give them time. They need to be sad for a while.”

“Do you think your father would let them visit his chambers?” she asked hopefully. “I think he would be a comfort to them, and they to him.”

“No,” Paul replied, unsettled by the suggestion. “His grief is too great.”

Though dissatisfied with his answer, she didn’t press him. She needed to draw strength from someone. “At least you’re here for them,” she said instead.

He inhaled. “Actually—I have to leave for Espoir at dawn. I spent today getting the business on Charmantes in order, but I’m needed there. Until George returns, I’m extremely pressed. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, you’re abandoning us again,” she blurted out.

“That’s a harsh statement,” he objected, grimacing inwardly. “The lumber has been delivered, the foundation for the new house laid, and, now, before the rains are upon us, I need to enclose the building. I’ve hired carpenters and contracted an architect, who can only remain in the Caribbean for a month. Aside from that, the men are awaiting work. I have to be there.”

“You’re right,” she tried to agree. “It will be better for you to keep busy.”

Her conciliatory sentiment cut more deeply than her accusatory one, and he found himself torn. “I promise to return by week’s end. We can take the children on an outing together, lift their spirits.”

“They should like that,” she replied, forcing a smile.

“Good. Then it’s a date.”

The weekend came, but Paul never returned. Word was sent that a “catastrophe” prevented him from leaving Espoir. He’d see them sometime during the following week. It was just as well. The girls were still grieving; they’d never have agreed to go anywhere.

Sunday, April 30, 1837

Colette had been dead for three weeks, and conditions in the manor had not improved, leastwise not where the children were concerned. The “date” Paul had planned weeks ago had finally arrived, but the girls refused to participate, their remarks disdainful.

“If they do not want to go, don’t force them,” he rejoined curtly, annoyed he’d suspended his grueling schedule specifically to be with them. A confrontation with his father earlier in the morning had set the mood for an aggravating day, and now he wished he hadn’t returned at all.

Exasperated, Charmaine decided to leave them to lament. She and Pierre would accompany Paul into town, and as they departed the grounds, the girls might possibly change their minds. They didn’t, and only Rose waved goodbye when the landau pulled away, promising to look in on the twins throughout the afternoon.

Unlike his sisters, Pierre was happy, recovered. Innocent of the
grave event that had shaken the rest of the house, he showered Charmaine with the love he had once bestowed upon his mother and blew kisses to Nana Rose as he tried to lean farther out the window of the conveyance and shout “bye-bye.”

The closed carriage bobbed down the quiet road, but the silence within was not peaceful. Paul stared pensively out the window, his countenance dour.

Charmaine spoke first. “How is your father?”

He snorted, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Not well, I’m afraid. More despondent than my sisters, in fact. I think I made matters worse this morning.”

“I don’t see how,” she commented derisively. “The children haven’t seen him since the funeral. They’ve not only lost their mother, but their father as well.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong, Charmaine. Matters
can
grow worse, much worse. My father has vowed to follow Colette to the grave,” he whispered, fearful Pierre might understand, “and I’m beside myself as to what to do.”

Charmaine shuddered at the thought. “Perhaps he
should
see the children, see what he’d be leaving behind.”

“Do you really want to subject them to that, Charmaine?”

Again she shuddered, and the remainder of the ride passed in silence.

Charmaine was uncertain if it was Pierre’s exuberance or the bustling town that lightened their moods, but the afternoon turned somewhat pleasant as they strolled along the boardwalks, greeting people they met, mostly Paul’s acquaintances. They arrived at the mercantile where Madeline Thompson welcomed them. “My goodness, Pierre, how you’ve grown in just a month!”

The boy giggled, happily accepting the peppermint stick she offered.

“Where are the girls?”

“I’m afraid they’re still in mourning, Maddy,” Paul explained.

The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Why don’t you take them two sweets as well?” she said, allowing Pierre to choose.

They browsed a bit. Charmaine kept returning to a bolt of yard goods and finally decided to purchase a length of the pretty fabric. “Jeannette has taken quite an interest in sewing, and Yvette may perk up if I suggest she design a frock.”

Paul smiled down at her, glad his sisters had Charmaine to fret over them. He refused to allow her to pay, telling Maddy to add the cost of the material to his monthly bill. He insisted she select something for herself, but she dismissed the idea, telling Pierre to choose a toy instead.

Shortly afterward, they left the store. They’d been away from the house for little more than two hours, but when Paul asked, “Where to next?” he knew Charmaine had had enough of the town.

“I really should be getting back to check on the girls.”

“You are a wonder, Miss Ryan,” he said, white teeth flashing for the first time that day. She looked innocently up at him, and he had the impulse to kiss her right there in the middle of the public thoroughfare. But that would surely inhibit the friendship growing between them, a friendship similar to the one he had shared with Colette. His passionate bend was swept away. He scooped up Pierre instead, and together, they crossed the street.

They had just arrived at the livery when Buck Mathers hailed them down, out of breath. “They need you at the dock, Mr. Paul. There’s a big problem.”

Paul shook his head in vexation, but Charmaine soothed the situation. “You go ahead. We have a carriage and a driver. We can find our way home.”

“I’ll be there for dinner,” he promised, setting Pierre to the ground.

Charmaine nodded, encouraging the three-year-old to wave as the two men rushed off.

Thursday, May 11, 1837

Charmaine massaged her throbbing temples and collapsed into the armchair. The evening air was silent, but not peacefully so. Not one sniffle wafted on the breeze, though the French doors were open in the adjoining room. The unknowing ear would assume the children slept, but she knew better, certain that two sets of eyes stared dismally into space.

She hadn’t meant to speak harshly to them, upsetting little Pierre in the process, but Yvette and Jeannette’s depression—their drawn faces—could no longer be borne. They consumed very little food, and the effect was haunting. They’d become miniature replicas of their mother in the days before her death and, from what Charmaine had heard whispered, imitators of their father. Time would heal them, everyone kept insisting, time and limitless love, yet these had yielded little. Even Rose seemed incapable of mitigating their grief.