Forever Waiting (10 page)

“Underground Railroad?” Frederic queried, the term unfamiliar.

“The name hasn’t made its way into print yet, but it’s an association many Southerners whisper about.”

“What exactly is it?”

“A group of Southern and Northern abolitionists who aid and abet runaway slaves. It is rumored John is one of them—that he uses Duvoisin vessels to transport slaves from Richmond to New York.”

“Is this true?” Frederic asked, his eyes shooting to John. Memories of his early days with Colette took hold. She was in this room, with them right now. He could feel her at his side.

“Have you taken to spying on me now, Father?” John asked, his voice mildly amused, though his face was stern. “Is this why you invited me back? I’m not here five minutes and already I’m under interrogation. Why the inquisition?”

“Is it true about the Virginia bank accounts?”

“Yes, it’s true. Did your brilliant Mr. Westphal tell you there was a bank panic last year? That hundreds of farmers lost everything when the U.S. bank was dissolved? But not you, Father. Why? Because of the Northern securities I purchased in your name
before
the panic. Your banker, Mr. Westphal, hasn’t noticed you’re already the richer for it. No, he’s been too busy discrediting me to see past the nose on his face!”

“Since when are we in the canal and railroad business?” Frederic demanded.

“I thought I was in charge on the mainland, Father,” John jeered. “Shipping is shipping. What does it matter if it’s ships or canals or trains? Whenever I’ve found a sound investment, I’ve purchased it—with my own money, as well.”

“Why not make these investments in the South, where we have our roots?”

“The South as it stands will not last,” John replied. “I’ll be long gone from Virginia when it comes tumbling down. If it were up to me, I’d transfer all your assets north.”

“And what of this ‘Underground Railroad’?”

“I support it,” John replied simply, “with my money.”

Frederic sighed in exasperation. Ten years ago he’d waged this battle with Colette. John had embraced her convictions, while he had suavely sidestepped them.

“And you’ve used Duvoisin vessels to smuggle runaways?” he pursued.

“Occasionally.”

Frederic’s anger began to percolate. “If this gets out, it will be devastating to my holdings and trade in Virginia. Harboring runaways is against the law! Imagine what the authorities will do if they find you’ve been pirating them!”

Agatha gloated. At last, they were getting somewhere.

“You are right,” John declared, satisfied when Frederic’s expression turned to one of bewilderment. “So, I have a solution. I’m resigning as manager of your Virginia estates, and I demand you remove my name from your will.”

“John—” Paul sputtered “—you can’t do that!”

“Oh yes, I can.”

Anguished, Frederic murmured, “Now you use my wealth to thwart me?”

“I’ve learned well from you, Father,” John answered flatly.

“I won’t do this,” he rejoined.

Agatha stepped forward. “Why not, Frederic?” she demanded, afraid John might rescind his request. She indicated Paul. “Surely you can place it in more worthy—competent—hands?”

“Silence, woman!” Frederic thundered, before turning back to John. “Why—why are you doing this?” he beseeched, nonplussed.

“Because the price of your great fortune has been evil, misery, and tears,” John replied in disgust. “I’ve had my fair share of it, and I don’t want it anymore.”

Frederic gaped at him, reluctance and dismay branded on his face. Agatha beamed ecstatically. Anne leaned forward, savoring the unfolding story.

“I can accept your resignation,” Frederic said, “but I will not remove you from my will.”

“If you leave my name on it,” John sneered, “I swear, on the day you die, I will turn every parcel, every packet, every penny over to the Underground Railroad. Why not give it all to Paul? He deserves it far more than I do.”

Paul shifted uncomfortably, looking from Frederic to John. “John—” he started again, but his brother waved him off, his eyes fixed on Frederic.

“John is right, Frederic,” Agatha desperately chimed in. “You’d be wise to agree to this proposal immediately. It is the right thing to do. You have overlooked your worthy son for far too long.”

“Agatha! I said—”

“For once we agree, Auntie,” John concurred, cutting his father off. “What I don’t understand is why you’re such an advocate for my brother. He hates you as much as I do. One might think you were his mother.”

Paul’s eyes shot from Agatha’s injured face to his astonished father, a spark struck, a thought ignited.

“Frederic, you have no choice!” Agatha pursued irately. “Would you really see the family fortune tossed to the dogs? Why do you hesitate?”

“Silence, woman!” Frederic bellowed a third time. He studied John sadly. The chasm between them was growing wider.

John watched Frederic, confused by the genuine regret on his face. Why had the man spent the better part of a lifetime setting him aside, pushing him away, scorning him, even undermining him, if he really cared?

“You leave me no choice,” Frederic muttered, echoing a triumphant Agatha.

“Don’t worry, Father,” John offered sarcastically, “I do have one redeeming request of you.”

“What is it?”

“Guardianship of my sisters when you die. They are all that matter to me.”

Frederic’s eyes welled with tears, but he quickly hid them behind the hand he brought to his brow. Once composed, he nodded his assent.

“I’m sure Edward Richecourt will be here this week,” John continued. “Shall I make the arrangements for a meeting with him, or will you?”

“I will make the arrangements,” Frederic rasped, his plaintive eyes going to a stunned Paul. With a nod, John pushed out of his seat and left.

Frederic turned on Westphal. “Why wasn’t I given this information sooner?”

“I—I—” Westphal sputtered, red-faced. He didn’t want to betray Agatha because she had paid him well for the information.

“Stephen,” Paul jumped in, “we can finish up later—at your house.”

“Very good,” Westphal replied gratefully, hastily grabbing his portfolio and shoving the folder into it as he scurried from the room, Anne on his heels.

Frederic waited out their departure, his fury rising. “I warned you, Agatha,” he snarled, “yet you deliberately interfere with John and me time and again!”

Her chin jabbed up, but she did not speak.

Paul stepped between them. “Is what John said true, Father?” he asked, eyeing them both, reading their expressions as they glared at one another.

“Is what true?” Frederic asked, bewildered again.

“About Agatha.”

Frederic bowed his head, but Agatha smiled victoriously.

“You
are
my mother, aren’t you?” Paul demanded, incredulous, yet enlightened.

“Tell him, Frederic,” Agatha pressed. “Isn’t it time your grown son know the truth about us?”

Frederic looked at Paul’s harrowed face, a testimony to the total betrayal he now felt. “Paul, I need to explain. It’s a complicated story.”

“I’m sure it is,” Paul snorted, holding up a hand to hold him silent, “especially with all the lies you built around it. But I don’t want to hear it now! I have guests to greet and the reception tomorrow. I don’t want my plans for the week spoiled by this odious admission. I’ve worked too hard!”

John entered his room and threw his knapsack on the bed. He’d walked into an ambush! With his head pounding, he considered returning to town and boarding the first ship to Richmond, but he couldn’t disappoint his sisters, or Charmaine. He sat down and massaged his brow, breathing deeply to calm himself. The entire conversation came back to him now, and he wondered whether Westphal had taken his father by surprise. After all, Agatha had prompted Westphal’s diatribe. Yes, she hated him, but John hadn’t realized just how much until now. Though his taunting infuriated her, he doubted that alone motivated today’s tactics. There had to be another reason.
But what
?

When Anne London dined with her father later that evening, he forbade her to repeat a word of what she’d learned that afternoon, threatening to reveal her best-kept secrets if she dared to jeopardize his position on Charmantes.

Sunday, April 1, 1838, 4 a.m.

Paul could not sleep, yesterday’s incredible revelation magnifying in the darkness. He’d avoided his father for the remainder of the day and brushed aside two Caribbean farmers with whom he should have made time to speak. His mind was not on ships, steam propulsion or export commodities. The looming week was suddenly a heavy yoke, a burden to bear. He paced his bedchamber, grinding his left fist into the palm of his right hand, grappling with the truth he’d have to come to grips with and shake off, lest all his hard work go to waste. Agatha was his mother—the mother who was supposed to be dead. According to his father, she was dead! It wasn’t possible! But it was logical.

How had it happened? What had brought them together? Had Agatha offered Frederic succor after the death of his beloved Elizabeth? Was that it? But it couldn’t be. He was told he was older than John. Or was that another lie, too? Why did he even want to know?

You don’t want to know
, he tried to convince himself,
not yet anyway
.
Set it aside. Don’t let it distract you
.

He needed air. With that thought, he left his rooms for the stable. He saddled up Alabaster and rode the stallion hard into town. Once there, he boarded the
Bastion
, the ship that had brought John to Charmantes. Standing on her empty decks, he cast his eyes beyond the thin peninsula, out to sea. A light rain was falling, and he breathed deeply of the salty air, letting the gentle drops wash away his turbulent thoughts
. You will forget
.
Until the week’s end, you must forget!

Frederic lay abed, listlessly contemplating the ceiling.
Paul knew … he finally knew
. Frederic had dreaded this day, dreaded it with a passion. He had lied to Paul all those years ago. When the bright five-year-old found out he and John did not share the same mother, telling Paul his mother had died as well seemed the simplest, least painful, solution. It also protected Agatha. She was married and living a respectable life; it became important to keep the secret for her sake. Though Paul had never asked about her again, Frederic wondered if he longed to know more. Evidently, he did. Frederic recalled the torment in his son’s eyes, and he worried where his dishonesty would lead.

Then there was John. This afternoon’s fiasco had been another setback, not the step forward for which Frederic had hoped. Though he’d always allowed John free rein on all mainland business matters, he’d been embarrassed to learn about the family’s financial business through Westphal, so he’d lost his temper. Still, he’d endured far worse where John was concerned. The investments, though not traditional, were sound enough, reassuring Frederic the Duvoisin fortune was in capable hands. As for the abetting of runaway slaves, he had grave misgivings. Yet now, hours later, he knew John’s crusade had nothing to do with retaliation or revenge. It was a cause in which John believed.

Frederic sighed deeply. Thanks to Agatha, both sons were angry with him. Somehow, he had to repair the damage. He would begin by speaking with John, alone. After that, he’d direct his attentions to Paul. For the first time, the son who had always honored him was more difficult to approach. He’d respect Paul’s wishes and wait until the week was over.

When John had first returned to Virginia last October, fitful sleep and fragmented dreams tormented him, despite long days of strenuous work. Nearly every night, he had nightmares that transported him to remote places where he roamed aimlessly along unfamiliar streets and spiritless strangers passed him. They were all ugly. He would turn a corner onto a crowded thoroughfare littered with refuse, carts, and animals. In the midst of the throng, he could see Pierre, lost. The boy’s face was streaked with dirt and tears, his clothes tattered and filthy, his eyes searching the faces around him. As John hastened to rescue him, the boy would move just beyond his reach until the pushing and shoving bodies swallowed him. Ultimately, his powerlessness would startle him awake.

By Christmas, the dreams were all but gone. Then, on the night of Michael’s visit to Freedom, the harrowing dream recurred, and it plagued him relentlessly over the days that followed. But unlike before, when he dismally attributed the nightmare to his guilty conscience, this time he felt it meant something more. Inexplicably, it pointed to Charmantes, telling him he had rushed back to Virginia too quickly—that he would never put the past behind him until, for some unfathomable reason, he returned home. Stranger still, he slept peacefully every night once he decided to return. That is, until tonight …

Succumbing to fatigue, bizarre images beset him. Colette was coming to him again, the first time since last October. She sent the breeze as her scout, clearing the way into this room of clandestine encounters. The drapes billowed with a gust of wind, coaxing the French doors open. John turned on his side, determined to ignore her, but the air was already imbued with her scent, and her shadow fell upon the threshold. He didn’t want her there, but she seemed to need him tonight. As she glided closer, he rose, transfixed by the blue eyes desperately beckoning him. As he lifted his hand to touch her, she grabbed it, pulling him across the room toward the French doors. But he planted his feet firmly and wrenched free. When she grabbed at his hand again, he cried out as if burned, and awoke.