Forever Waiting (7 page)

Friday, March 9, 1838

Anne had been on the island less than two weeks, and already Paul had had enough of her. Out of deference to her father, and because she knew a good many influential men from Virginia, he escorted her around Charmantes, as every polite host should. He was glad when she went off with Agatha to gossip and plan. Guests would begin arriving in just over a fortnight.

Today, he was with his father, handling routine business that had been neglected with the imminent unveiling of the new island and fleet of ships.

Frederic rubbed his brow. “I hope there’s enough capital to cover this,” he mused. “We may have to liquidate other assets.”

“I thought the same thing,” Paul agreed. “I’ll talk to Stephen about it later.”

“You’ll be seeing him again?” Frederic asked with surprise.

Paul sighed. “With Anne here, Agatha has invited him to sup with us.”

Frederic leaned back in his chair and considered his son for a moment. “And this ‘relationship’ with Anne London,” he proceeded cautiously. “Are you interested in this woman?”

Paul shook his head. “There is no relationship, Father, but it is in my interest to be hospitable while she’s here. Anne knows many people, has many connections through her deceased husband.”

“I see,” Frederic breathed. “And what of Charmaine Ryan?”

Paul was confounded. “Charmaine?”

“You’ve spent a good deal of time with her over the past five months. I have eyes you know. I can see how you look at her.”

Paul was embarrassed. He’d never had a heart-to-heart talk with his father about a woman before. When he didn’t speak, Frederic continued. “You could do worse than Charmaine, you know.”

“What are you saying, Father?” Paul asked, stupefied.

“You could do worse than Charmaine,” he reiterated. “You don’t need to marry for money. Why not choose a woman who will make you happy? I could be mistaken, but I think you’d be far happier with Charmaine than with Mrs. London.”

Paul smiled broadly. “There is no comparison.”

“I thought not,” Frederic nodded, turning back to the documents before him, happy he’d found the right moment to speak his mind.

Paul was heartened that Frederic cared—was concerned that money might influence his choice in a spouse.

He suddenly thought of the banquet and ball. As yet, he had no partner. Inspired, he coveted Charmaine in that role.
She should be very pleased if I ask her
.
How many other governesses have received such an invitation?

His mind raced ahead to that night. Charmaine was in his arms, and they were dancing the first waltz. She was smiling sweetly up at him, blushing, as she had that first year, before John had come home and interfered. The evening would be magical, and anything could happen.

Charmaine Duvoisin
— yes—he liked the sound of it.

Sunday, March 11, 1838

Like every evening since Anne London had arrived, Charmaine ushered the girls from the dinner table straight to their rooms. “I don’t want to go up there yet,” Yvette complained, but Charmaine had given her a reprimanding scowl.

An hour later, Paul said goodnight and went to the nursery. He found Charmaine reading to his sisters, who groaned when he asked to speak to her privately. “Why don’t you go down to the drawing room for a few minutes?” he queried. “Fatima has set out some delicious sweets.”

Charmaine gave her consent, sighing as they left. “You’ll send them back up to me?” she asked, certain she’d struggle to extricate them from the parlor later on.

“There is something important I want to ask you,” he said instead.

Disconcerted by his stern face, she was sure she’d done something wrong.

“Has anyone asked to accompany you to the dinner and ball?”

Charmaine looked down at her hands. “No,” she whispered. She thought of Mercedes, and her throat constricted
. He’s about to forbid me to attend, too
.

“Well, then,” he inhaled. “
I
would like to be your escort.”

Astonished, her head snapped up before she could conceal her tears, but they told Paul he had made her very happy. He smiled devilishly, and she felt like throwing herself into his arms.

“I gather that is a ‘yes’?” he asked.

“Yes!” she cried with disarming exuberance.

He pulled her to him and savored the kiss she was willing to give. His embrace tightened, and his kiss grew passionate. Abruptly, he tore away, unsettled by the spell she had cast upon him, his breathing ragged, his eyes smoldering with desire. “I had better say goodnight, Mademoiselle,” he said lustily, “lest I take you to my room.”

Her blush thrilled him, his desires fanned by the realization his words still affected her. “I will send the girls up to you,” he murmured.

Charmaine waltzed around the nursery when he was gone. The ball! Paul’s partner! It didn’t seem possible! She needed a gown! Tomorrow, she would have to ride into town. She would invite Mercedes to come along. Yes, Mercedes could help her pick out the very best one!

On his way back to the drawing room, Paul wondered why he had been content to wait so long to make love to Charmaine Ryan. She was the only woman he had ever waited for, and yet, if he desired her, if he loved her as he was beginning to believe he did, why was he content to wait? Sometimes, he was able to put her from his mind completely, but other times, her stubbornness not to submit vexed him to distraction. Didn’t she realize if she pleased him in bed, he’d do the gentlemanly thing and marry her? Perhaps he’d just grown comfortable knowing she would always be here waiting for him. Sooner or later, desire would prevail, and they would consummate their love. Sooner or later, she would scorn her empty bed and fall into his. Sooner or later she would want to become a woman, his woman. Perhaps she’d succumb sooner than later—on the night of the ball.

Chapter 2

Sunday, March 18, 1838
Richmond, Virginia

F
ATHER
Michael Andrews had heard talk of Paul Duvoisin’s gala celebration every Sunday now for the past month. Greeting his congregation after Mass, it was a favorite topic of conversation among the clutches of chatting parishioners gathered outside St. Jude’s. Anticipation was building for the weeklong event.

Michael had last seen John two months ago. He was headed for New York and hadn’t mentioned anything about his brother’s debut. Michael wondered if he planned to attend. Though he knew John wouldn’t have dreamed of going home to Charmantes last year this time, John’s unexpected trip last summer made
this
visit a possibility. Something urged Michael to find out, so after dinner, he went to John’s town house. The butler answered and told him John had returned from New York, but had gone directly to the family plantation for the planting season. He wasn’t due back in Richmond until mid-April. Perplexed, Michael climbed back into his buggy and flicked the reins. He was only a short distance down the street when intuition compelled him to turn back. The steward opened the door again and gave Michael directions to the plantation. He would set out first thing in the morning. Mondays were quiet at the refuge, so he could afford to be away.

Monday, March 19, 1838

Michael arrived at Freedom around four o’clock in the afternoon. Only the house staff was at the quaint plantation house. John had left with his overseer at dawn and might not return from the tobacco fields until dusk. A manservant let Michael in, and he settled into the parlor with tea, biscuits, and a book. Michael tried to read, but his thoughts meandered.

He’d been worried about John for months now, seeing through his jovial front, disturbed by the despair in his eyes, like the John he’d met four and a half years before. Michael wondered again about the man’s trip home—the single place on earth John had vowed never to return.
Give him time
.
You gave him time before and he talked …

Michael shuddered with the memory of that “talk.” It was the spring of 1834, and they had known each other for six months. John had received news from Charmantes, upsetting news. With Marie Ryan’s insistence, Michael had finally driven to John’s Richmond town house and heard the man’s confession that fine spring day …

John was angry Michael was there. “Did Marie send you?” he bit out, half-drunk. “That’s the last time I tell a woman anything.”

“She didn’t
tell
me anything, John,” Michael refuted, “she’s worried.”

John scoffed at the answer, but Michael was not easily dismissed. “John … when are you going to tell
me
what happened? Perhaps I can help.”

Gulping down a mouthful of whiskey, John eyed the priest derisively. “I don’t need you to hear my confession,
Father
.”

“Not a confession, John. Just a heart-to-heart between friends.”

Taking another long draw off the glass, John gazed out the window.

“You’re not the only one who has done things of which he’s not proud, John,” Michael offered when the accumulating minutes became uncomfortable.

“Oh really?” John sneered dubiously. “And what could you have possibly done, Michael? A little nip and tuck in the sacristy with the consecrated wine?”

Michael welcomed the sarcasm with a smile. “I’ll confess if you confess.”

John’s brow raised in interest. “You’ve got a deal, Father.”

Michael froze. He hadn’t thought John would take the bait.

“Well?” John nudged, eyes intent, relishing his distress. “I’m waiting … ”

Michael cleared his throat. “When I was much younger … ”

“Yes?” John prodded again, leaning back against the liquor cabinet, crossing his legs and folding his arms over his chest.

“I broke my sacred vows of celibacy—with a woman, whom I loved … ”Silence. “That’s it?” John asked disappointedly. “That’s all?”

“That’s all?”

John chuckled and shook his head. “At least it was with a woman. That will be nine Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, and one Act of Contrition.”

With downcast eyes, Michael smiled, but he wasn’t going to release John from his end of the bargain. “Your turn, John.”

John leveled a piercing gaze on him, his reticence gone. “I took my father’s wife to my bed and fathered a baby with her. When I bragged to him about our affair, we nearly came to blows, causing a seizure that’s left him an invalid. I fled Charmantes, leaving her to contend with his wrath alone. I hated him so much, I prayed, in your holy sanctuary, for him to die so I could be with her and my child … ” Swallowing his pain, John laughed wickedly. “Tell me, Father, does it get any worse than that?”

Michael saw through the evil. “You love this woman, don’t you?”

“More than my own life,” John freely admitted, turning away as if to barricade his grief. “My son was born three weeks ago … Pierre,” he whispered hoarsely, “his name is Pierre.” After an interminable silence, he looked over his shoulder. “Tell me, Michael, if I suffer a lifetime never knowing the boy, will I be forgiven?”

“You’ve been forgiven already, John.”

“No, Michael,” John denied fervently, irately. “To be forgiven, one must feel remorse. I’m not sorry; Colette belonged to me!”

Michael learned the whole story that night, leaving John close to dawn. John had vowed never to return to Charmantes, allowing Colette to live the life she had chosen. He would punish himself by never beholding his little boy. And the world would know Pierre Duvoisin as his younger brother. It was Colette’s choice, and now it would be his.

But, John
had
returned to Charmantes. Why?

It was nearly dinnertime when Michael heard the yapping of dogs. He looked out the window. John, dirty and sweaty, was walking up to the house with another man, presumably his overseer. Two large hounds bounded around them.

“What the hell are you doing here?” John asked, once they’d walked through the door, his crooked smile broadening, hand extended. “No, let me guess … Pope Gregory found out the truth about you, and you need a job.”

“The truth about me?” the priest asked warily, taking his hand.

“Admit it, Father, you’ve been using your priestly powers to turn bread and wine into steak and ale. So where’s dinner?”

Michael laughed along with John’s overseer, sending his eyes heavenward. They went into the kitchen for drinks, and John introduced Michael to Brian. John grew serious and asked, “What brings you all the way out here?”

Michael looked at Brian, who took the cue he wanted to speak to John privately, stepping out the back door and heading toward a row of cabins in the distance. The cook, who’d been running furiously between cookhouse and kitchen, disappeared as well. Michael and John sat down at the table, cold glasses of water in hand.

“Parishioners have been mentioning your brother, Paul, lately,” the priest began. “There’s talk of a big celebration for the launch of his shipping concern.”

John shrugged. “He’s been developing another of the family’s islands for over a year now. My father gave it to him. He’ll run his own shipping line from it. So?”

“I don’t mean to meddle, but a few of my congregants say they’ll be leaving shortly for the affair. Aren’t you going?”

John leaned back in the chair. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Why not? Wouldn’t your brother appreciate your support?”

John scratched his head. “Have you forgotten my vow, Michael?”

“John,” the priest breathed, “I know you traveled there this past fall.”

John was surprised, but Michael continued. “Your butler told me.”

John bowed his head to the unwelcome memories and his heart began to race.

“Are you going to tell me what happened? Why did you go back? You said you’d never go back.”

John massaged his brow, and the room fell disturbingly quiet as he searched for words. “Colette wrote to me. My friend, George … he delivered the letter. He had trouble finding me. I was in New York, and it took him weeks to track me down. By the time I got home, Colette was dead.” John’s throat tightened, and he could say no more.