Forever Waiting (28 page)

Charmaine eyed John surreptitiously from her mirror on her dressing table. He hadn’t spoken two words to her since they had arrived home. His morose mood was quite amusing, and she thought to have a bit of fun with it.

“How is Paul?” she asked sweetly.

He only grunted, provoking a smile that danced in her eyes. But he wasn’t looking her way. He sat hard on the bed, pulling off a boot.

She arranged a serious expression on her face and stepped in front of him. “You wouldn’t object if I nursed Paul back to health, would you?” she asked nonchalantly, stooping to help him with the second boot and tossing it aside.

“The hell you will!” he exploded, nearly coming to his feet.

She ignored the outburst and pushed him back onto the bed. Propping herself atop him, she giggled. “John Duvoisin—the man who’s so good at getting everyone else’s goat—can’t take a bit of teasing himself.”

As his eyes narrowed, her fingers traced his hairline, and she studied every feature of his handsome face. “If you don’t know by now my heart belongs only to you, then you
are
a fool, Mr. Duvoisin!”

Before he could reply, she kissed him passionately, entwining her hands behind his head.

His arms encircled her and he rolled over with her in his embrace. When he lifted his head, his eyes sparkled with mischief. “You saucy, brazen wench.” He kissed her again and all other thoughts fled him.

Saturday, May 19, 1838

Paul spent the next two days trying to cleanse his body of the grainy odor that permeated his hands, his hair, and his nose. His throat was parched and he couldn’t drink enough to quench his persistent thirst. His body ached from head to foot, his chest raw and throbbing. Dr. Hastings had bound the ribs tightly, and the wrap offered support, but he grimaced every time he moved. Still, he counted himself lucky to be alive. Everyone in the household bent over backward to see to his comfort, and he soon grew weary of their hovering.

Charmaine used the time he spent recuperating to carve out a new friendship with him. Though John might not understand, she liked Paul and regretted their estrangement. He had been her protector—a fortress, and she was ashamed she’d told him she hated him.

Near the end of the week, she caught him alone in the study, sitting in an armchair with a newspaper. When she stepped in, he rose as quickly as his mending ribs would allow.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Much better. And you?” he inquired, aware she suffered with morning sickness. Even so, she looked radiant; pending motherhood brought a new beauty to her face.

“I’m fine.”

The room fell into an awkward silence. He moved closer, putting her ill at ease. When he was but a breath away, he spoke again. “You’re happy now, aren’t you?” he asked, as if it were very important for him to know her marriage to John was what she really wanted.

“Yes,” she sighed, “I’m very happy.”

“I could have made you happy, too.”

“Yes, you could have, had I never met your brother.”

Paul nodded slightly, realizing again what he had lost. Charmaine belonged to John, and he would do well to remember that. He raised a hand and gently tucked a stray lock behind her ear.

She did not cringe. Inexplicably, she wanted to cry. “I would like for us to be friends, Paul,” she whispered.

“I’ll always be here for you, Charmaine,” he said, “all you have to do is call.” With that, his hand dropped away.

Friday, May 25, 1838

John was livid. He had stewed for the better part of the afternoon, and now it was time to have it out.

Charmaine jumped when he slammed the bedroom door shut behind him. “What is the matter?” she queried with concern.

He paced back and forth, then abruptly stopped. “I’m very angry.”

Instantly, she realized his ire was directed at her, but she was at a loss as to what she had done to upset him so. “What is the matter?” she asked again.

Her seeming innocence riled him more, and he raked a hand through his hair twice. “Don’t pretend ignorance!” he stormed.

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” she responded in kind, annoyed with his childlike behavior. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re upset?”

“I was coming out of the stable this afternoon,” he bit out. “I saw Paul’s arms around you—the two of you were laughing together!”

Charmaine let out a relieved giggle, but John did not find her sudden gaiety humorous.
“This is funny?”
he choked out.

“No,” she said, “but you mistook what you saw. I tripped on the top step of the portico. I was running to help Jeannette with the heavy lemonade tray, and I tripped. Paul was right there, and he caught me. I knew I looked foolish, so I started to laugh. He laughed, too.”

The explanation did not put him at ease, and she was at a loss as to what to say. “Surely you’re not upset over an innocent stumble? The girls were right there, John. I slipped!”

“Yes,” he muttered, his eyes still simmering, “that’s how it starts—with a slip, an innocent slip.”

Charmaine considered the strange remark. “What are you saying?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Is that how your affair with Colette began? She stumbled into your arms?”

He was uncomfortable with her swift comprehension and turned away. Charmaine tore after him. “Well, let me tell you something, John Duvoisin!” she shouted, standing in front of him now. “I am not Colette! And I will not meekly stand by while you compare us!”

“Charmaine—” he started, his voice soft and repentant.

“No! I don’t want to hear it!” She charged from the room, slamming the door behind her.

John sighed, feeling quite the buffoon. Clearly, his wife would not be bullied into feeling guilty over something quite innocent.
I must learn to trust her; otherwise, our marriage is a farce
.

Quite abruptly, he realized his worry had little to do with his faith in her and quite a great deal to do with his mistrust of Paul, who seemed bent upon pursuing her, even though she was now married. Suddenly, he was ashamed of his own behavior, not with Charmaine, but with Colette.

Grace Smith, Paul’s head housekeeper, was glad when he returned to Espoir. Though the manor was back in order, and things were running on an even keel, Agatha Duvoisin had been rattling her nerves, roaming the mansion and talking to herself. Even more disturbing was the voice Grace heard answering. The moment Paul stepped through the door, she confronted him with the news of his mother’s condition.

Tonight, he sat alone in his library, sipping a brandy. He felt like a different man; he should have been dead. Charmaine was lost to him forever. Earlier today, he’d almost come to blows with his brother. John had cornered him in the stable, incensed that he’d touched his wife. The stumbling incident had been spontaneous and innocent, but Paul could still hear the blood thundering in his ears as he hugged her, holding her a moment longer than necessary. She had laughed with embarrassment, he with happiness. John had had a right to be angry with him. To avoid another such encounter, he would stay far away from Charmaine—best to remain on Espoir. With a sigh, he drank the last of his brandy and rose for bed.

Voices in the hallway drew him to the door. Agatha stood in the foyer: her hair knotty, robe askew, eyes vacant. Grace’s disquietude appeared warranted. Two weeks ago he’d attributed his mother’s condition to duress, but now he was really concerned. She wasn’t talking to herself, but to people she believed stood before her: her brother, Elizabeth, and, he suspected, Colette.

“Agatha, what is wrong?”

“Frederic,” she sighed, “there you are. I heard the baby crying, but I can’t find the cradle where Robert has put him. Help me find him.”

“Agatha,” Paul implored. “It’s me— your son—Paul. Agatha?”

Her head was cocked to one side, straining to listen. “Do you hear that?” she queried, oblivious to what he had said. “I think … I think I hear
two
babies crying. You haven’t brought Elizabeth here, have you?”

“Agatha—”

“I’ll not allow her bastard in this house!”

Paul was beside himself. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard, forcing her to look at him. “Agatha! Mother!”

Recognition dawned. “Paul?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, relieved. “I think you’ve been sleepwalking. Why don’t we get you to bed?”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I’m quite tired. Tell your father I’m in my chambers when he’s ready to retire.”

“I’ll do that, Mother.”

John found Charmaine in Pierre’s bed, cuddled under the light coverlet. He had searched most of the house, overlooking the most obvious place. Now, he felt the dunce. “Charmaine?” he whispered.

When she didn’t stir, he scooped her up and headed to the door. She murmured something in her sleep and, with a sigh, shuddered deeply, the kind born of many tears. He was ashamed he had made her weep. He cradled her close, kissing her head. Before he got to their room, he realized she was awake. He laid her gently on the bed, and she looked up at him through heavy eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick, “I won’t—”

She put her fingers to his lips, not wanting to hear Colette’s name again. He grabbed her hand and kissed it. Settling next to her, he drew her close. They lay quietly, Charmaine sad, yet content with the feel of his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek, he relishing her arm wrapped around his waist, a sense of forgiveness. He stroked her hair and kissed her head again and again, then pressed back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

She awoke at dawn, not knowing when she had fallen back to sleep. John’s arms were still around her, his breathing deep.

When he rose, he found she remained annoyed with him, and even though he apologized again, she had to speak her mind to put the event behind her. “I chose you, John,” she said, “not Paul. I waited for
you
, even though Paul was here while you were away. Why would I turn to him now? I love you.”

He believed her and vowed never again to brood over Paul. Still, he was happy his brother had returned to the other island.

Paul threw himself into work on Espoir. There was plenty to keep him busy, and he’d ride home at dusk exhausted, unable to think about anything but sleep. If he wasn’t overseeing the planting or nurturing of a field of sugarcane, he was directing the clearing of the first harvest. It had taken nearly twelve months for the stalks to grow a full twenty-four-feet high. He had staggered plantings to pace the yield. Though the harvest should have heralded the end of the grueling labor, it was, in fact, the beginning of another brutal phase. After the cane was cut, it was hauled and shredded. Lastly, the stalks were immersed in water and passed through large rollers to express the sugary extract that ran into casks that were sealed and carted to the warehouse for transport.

He had many valuable workers. His father had suggested he take three of the best men from Charmantes, indentured servants who had paid their time of service. He put them in charge of planting and weeding, cutting and shredding, pressing and transport. Others had ventured from Charmantes on their own, those without families, eager to work harder in the hopes of carving out a more elevated position on the fledgling island.

Although the plantation could run itself, toil helped Paul forget. His drive and ambition inspired the laborers, and he got more out of them than before. After three months, he was able to stand back and smile. Three shipments had already left port—not bad, considering his crew had tarried through the rainy season of May and June, and this was still a virgin undertaking.

He threw a party to celebrate at the end of July, giving all the freed men a bonus. Presently, most of them were living in tents, so he encouraged them to build cabins near the harbor, supplying the lumber at a nominal fee.

As busy as he was, he checked in on his mother almost every day. She seemed to improve for a while, but if he missed a visit, Grace Smith would give him a disturbing report. It was almost always the same: she heard voices. Agatha usually carried the conversation, but Grace often heard a whisper from the other side of the room. Paul laughed off her superstitious speculation, until one day, she claimed she’d had enough of the frightening episodes and quit.

Saturday, June 10, 1838

Mercedes was radiant when she stepped into the chapel.

George had the jitters waiting for her at the altar. Paul and John were with him, doing little to calm his frazzled nerves. Paul kept teasing him it wasn’t too late to back out: plenty of good years of bachelorhood left, no more late nights at Dulcie’s, no more flirting with the barmaids, no more courting the maidens in town who pined for him. “No more hoarding all your money,” John added.

When Mercedes followed Jeannette and Yvette up the aisle, George was beaming, and Charmaine was certain the smile would be permanently etched across his face.

A small group of friends had been invited: Wade Remmen and the Brownings among them. John and Charmaine stood as witnesses for the bride and groom. After the ceremony, they were the last to congratulate the newlyweds. Charmaine kissed Mercedes on the cheek and gave George the fiercest hug she could muster.

At the luncheon reception on the portico, Caroline Browning approached Charmaine. “My dear Charmaine, you are looking well!” Her eyes darted to Charmaine’s stomach.

“I
am
well, Mrs. Browning,” Charmaine replied cautiously.

“Harold and I are so happy for you, dear. I
knew
I was right in convincing my sister to bring you here. And look how well you have done for yourself, marrying such a fine gentleman!”

Charmaine was astounded, recalling the woman’s scathing remarks about the Duvoisin brothers. “I’m very fortunate, Mrs. Browning, and very blessed.”

“I can see marriage agrees with you.” The fulsome compliments continued to pour forth as Caroline assessed Charmaine from head to toe.

“Good day, Charmaine,” Harold Browning greeted as he walked over to them. “Congratulations to you, too! John is a smart man choosing you for his wife.”