Forever Waiting

  Forever

  Waiting

  colette’s appeal

  DeVa Gantt

  Forever Waiting is dedicated to

  the three important men in our lives:

  Dad, Joe, and Dave,

  who encouraged the pursuit of our dream

  Our patient children,

  who indulged us during writing time

  and are now our most ardent promoters

  And finally—our artistic inspiration—“the boys”

  Wherever you are, you are here . . .

  We’ d also like to thank our agent, Sandy Cokeley,

  for loving and believing in the work

  Our editor, Lucia Macro,

  for offering sage advice and giving the Colette Trilogy a second look

  Our publicist, Joanne Minutillo,

  for arranging many fabulous book-signing events

  Esi, for keeping us on schedule, Adrienne for her selling savvy,

  and the rest of the HarperCollins’s staff

  It’s been a pleasure!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Directory Of Characters

  By DeVa Gantt

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Friday, October 20, 1837

  Freedom … fifty-six miles west of Richmond, Virginia

  BRIAN Duvoisin was black. Born on the Duvoisin plantation thirty-five years ago, he had been a slave for most of his life, that is, until the day John Duvoisin signed the document that freed him. Having no surname to place on the legal paper, John suggested he use Duvoisin. Brian agreed. Grinning, John shook his hand and called him “brother.”

  At first, Brian was wary of John’s motives, but he remained on the plantation. He really had no choice. Where else in the South could a penniless, unskilled colored man go?

  John emancipated many other men, women, and children that week, and his indignant neighbors swiftly dubbed the Duvoisin estate “Freedom.” Within the month, John erected an elaborately carved sign above the plantation’s main gates. Freedom it was.

  John grew to respect Brian and, with each passing season, placed greater responsibility upon his shoulders. The field workers respected him as well. If John wanted the plantation to remain productive, especially when he was away, Brian was the man to have there.

  Brian’s wife was also free, for John had purchased Wisteria Hill, the adjacent estate where she lived, releasing those slaves as well. At first, Brian puzzled over his wife’s emancipation; leaving Virginia was possible now. He’d gained some skills beyond the backbreaking field labor. He could travel north, take Nettie with him, earn a living, and keep a roof over their heads. Why he didn’t go, he couldn’t say, other than John relied on him.

  Today, he was the only black overseer in the entire county. It did not sit well with John’s neighbors, who opposed paid Negro help. But John never caved in to the pressure; rather, he seemed to revel in the controversy, holding firm to his decision. His staunch resolve garnered Brian’s steadfast loyalty and trust. Now, four years later, the two men were close friends.

  Stuart Simons was white. Though born and raised in the South, he was a Northern sympathizer, a posture embraced by his Quaker parents, who had instilled in him a deep sense of right and wrong. Because he rebuked a number of Southern viewpoints, finding employment had been difficult until he met John. Eventually, he became Freedom’s production manager.

  John knew Brian needed the protection of a white man, especially when he was abroad in Richmond or New York. Therefore, John situated Stuart on the plantation to discourage his neighbors from harassing the black overseer when he was away. It proved a wise move. The first time John had left Freedom on an extended trip, there had been an incident, one easily quelled when Stuart appeared to greet the men who just happened to stop by for a “visit.”

  Because Stuart had an easy manner, and because he also respected Brian, they became friends. Stuart quickly learned the workings of a tobacco plantation. He already knew the ins and outs of the shipping business, overseeing the loading and unloading of Duvoisin vessels in Richmond after the fall harvest. This year, John had relied heavily on both men, for he had been away the entire summer and fall. But the plantations rested in capable hands, so Freedom and Wisteria Hill’s harvests were the least of John’s worries.

  Tonight, the two men sat at the kitchen table, discussing the year’s production. Cotton prices were down fifty percent, and although cotton was not grown at Freedom, John wasn’t going to like it. The brokers in New York were not buying. If the newspaper reports were correct, Congress had authorized the issue of ten million dollars in short-term government notes to stem the panic that was sweeping across the country.

  It was thus John found them—deep in worried conversation.

  Though John’s comings and goings were always unpredictable, they looked up in surprise. He’d notified them some months ago that he had traveled to Charmantes. They knew him well, having spent many a night with him after an onerous day in the fields, drinking and talking into the wee hours of morning. For John to go home, something had to be wrong. One look at his face and they knew they were right.

  “Good God, man,” Stuart breathed, “you look awful.”

  John grunted and slumped into a chair.

  “What’s the matter?” Brian asked.

  “Everything,” John chuckled wryly, “as always.”

  Stuart leaned forward. “Did you see them?”

  “Just my son,” John said softly, tenderly. “Colette was dead before I reached Charmantes.” Propping his elbows on the table, he drove his fingers through his tousled hair before whispering, “Pierre died a week ago.”

  “John,” Stuart murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too, John, me too,” Brian consoled. When the silence became uncomfortable, he asked, “What are you going to do now?”

  “Try to forget … ”

  “Maybe this will help,” Stuart offered, extending the paper with the rankling financial figures.

  For the next few hours, they examined plantation documents, discussed the tobacco yield and production costs, shipping, the New York brokers, and the economy. John seemed unconcerned with the rumors of the dissolution of the conservative Bank of the United States and the failure of three banks in England. Stuart shook his head; the man obviously knew what he was doing.

  When all topics had been exhausted, John stood up and stretched. “I’ve had enough for one night.”

  As Brian and Stuart rose, he broached another subject. “You’ll be going into Richmond tomorrow?”

  Stuart nodded. “I’ll be leaving at the crack of dawn.”

  “Do me a favor, then, would you?”

  “What’s that, John?”

  “Visit Sheriff Briggs and find out if a John Ryan was ever apprehended.”

  “John Ryan?” Stuart puzzled. “He used to work for you.”

  John’s brow lifted in interest. “Really?”

  “I believe he was being sought in connection with his wife’s death.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I remember Briggs coming to the wharf and questioning the men. I don’t think he was found. Why in heaven’s name are you interested in him?”

  “Locating him is important to a friend of mine and it’s important to me.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out. If the authorities aren’t a help, I’ll make a f
ew inquiries of my own around town.”

  John nodded a thank you and turned to leave.

  “How long are you planning to stay in Virginia?” Stuart asked.

  “Aside from a trip north, you’ll be seeing more of me from now on.”

  Both Brian and Stuart smiled, happy to be in the man’s company again, but reading John’s face, they knew the sentiment was not reciprocated.

  The next afternoon, Stuart went directly to the sheriff’s office. Briggs seemed annoyed, grumbling something about “white trash” and that wife beating wasn’t a crime. Disgusted, Stuart realized he was getting nowhere fast. He might uncover something at the wharf. With the Duvoisin clout, the authorities might be persuaded to reopen the case. He was not disappointed. A few longshoremen had seen Ryan scrounging around for odd jobs, but his appearances were sporadic, and no one remembered exactly when they’d seen him last.

  John was displeased. “Could you ask the men to keep an eye out for him?”

  “Sure, John,” Stuart agreed, “next time I’m in Richmond.”

  Saturday, October 21, 1837

  Charmantes

  Charmaine and the girls arrived in the dining room well before nine o’clock. Today was the first Saturday they would spend with their father. True to his word, Frederic was waiting for them. After breakfast, the threesome departed the manor, leaving Charmaine alone.

  Yvette dragged her feet, her father’s steps quick and sure by comparison.

  “What is the matter, Yvette?” he asked as they arrived at the paddock.

  “Nothing,” she grumbled sullenly.

  Frederic only smiled.

  Gerald appeared with Spook and Angel, and Yvette perked up. “We’re going riding?”

  “That and other things.”

  Paul emerged from the barn with a meticulously groomed stallion.

  “Papa,” Jeannette breathed in alarm, “you’re riding Champion today?”

  “I intend to try, Jeannette.”

  Paul had his doubts, but he’d been unable to talk Frederic out of this folly and knew it would be futile to try again now. “I ran him hard yesterday,” Paul said, “so he shouldn’t be straining at the bit today.”

  “That’s fine, Paul. I might need some help getting in the saddle, though.”

  Frederic swallowed his pride and endured the humiliation of mounting the horse he’d ridden countless times. He stumbled only once, his lame arm buckling under him as he pulled up and into the saddle, his chin hitting Champion’s neck hard. His eyes shot to Paul, who swiftly averted his gaze, pretending he hadn’t seen. The awkward moment passed as Frederic situated himself atop the steed. Paul secured the cane to the saddle, nodding in approbation. They were all set. Frederic breathed deeply. “Come, girls,” he encouraged, “we’ve Duvoisin business to attend.”

  His smiling daughters were already on their ponies. Together, they trotted down the cobblestone drive and out the gates. “Where are we headed, Papa?” Jeannette asked enthusiastically.

  “The mill.”

  “The lumber mill?”

  “I have a great deal of catching up to do,” he answered, “and I’d like to start by meeting the newest men working for me. Wade Remmen is first on the list.”

  Jeannette was beaming. This was going to be a wonderful Saturday! As for Yvette, it would take more than a visit to the mill to please her; however, the ride was pleasant.

  Paul watched them go, then headed toward the house. Charmaine was all his today. He found her in the gardens reading a book. A melancholy smile greeted him, causing his heart to hammer in his chest. He remembered the feel of her in his arms just one week ago, and he longed to hold her again, to comfort her. He sat next to her on the bench they had shared an eternity ago.

  “So, Miss Ryan, what are we going to do today?”

  She regarded him quizzically. “You’re not working?”

  “I said we’d spend time together.”

  Her smile turned sweet.

  “A visit into town?” he suggested. “Or perhaps a walk along the beach?”

  The mill was abuzz. Yvette and Jeannette’s eyes widened as they approached, for they had never imagined the sweaty toil here. A score of men labored with teams of draft horses, pulling long, thick logs to a central building where they would be milled. A huge waterwheel rotated briskly at the far end of the structure, plunging into a deep ravine. Planks were emerging on the other side, where they were swiftly hoisted onto a buckboard for transport to town. The screech of saws, the shouts of men, and the whinny of horses punctuated the air.

  “Yvette, Jeannette?”

  They tore their eyes from the engrossing commotion and looked down to find their father had already dismounted.

  “Are you coming?”

  As Frederic and his daughters approached, one man looked up, then another, until all work was suspended. Jeannette searched for Wade, spotting him near the tree line, speaking to a young woman. Her smile vanished. “Now where is this Mr. Remmen?” her father asked, puzzled by her glum face.

  “Over there,” she pointed.

  Frederic eyed the couple. The young woman was quite lovely, with straight black hair. She didn’t belong at the mill, and apparently Wade Remmen was telling her so, his voice raised in agitation.

  “I don’t care if it is Saturday, nor that you’re bored, I’ve work to do!”

  Dismissing her, he turned back to the mill, immediately spotting Frederic and the girls. His momentary shock gave way to a frown. He strode toward them with a determined gait. “Mr. Duvoisin,” he pronounced, extending a hand. “Yvette,” he continued with a nod, “Jeannette. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “My daughters and I are abroad for the day, and having heard a great deal about you, Mr. Remmen, I thought it was time we met.” Frederic glanced over Wade’s shoulder to the edge of the forest, but the woman was gone. “We didn’t mean to interrupt—”

  “No,” Wade replied, “that was my sister. She wanted to spend the day with me, but Paul asked me to work. She’s young, and I don’t like her going into town on her own. So what does she do?” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “She walks here instead.” He exhaled loudly, then shook it off. “Would you like to see the mill in operation?”

  An hour later, they set off again, this time toward town and the warehouse, where they would reconcile invoices against lumber deliveries and finish up the day’s business at the bank. Frederic had something he wanted to show Yvette.

  Stephen Westphal was astounded when Frederic stepped up to his desk. He scrambled to his feet, sputtering, “Well—isn’t this a surprise?”

  “Yes, Stephen, the first of many.”

  “What can I do for you today, Frederic?”

  “The mill account—I’m going to put Yvette in charge of it.”

  “Pardon?” the banker exclaimed loudly, his astonished query overpowering Yvette’s similar response. “But she is a mere child—a female!”

  “She is also a Duvoisin and my daughter,” Frederic replied. “Like her mother, she has an acuity for figures. Now that Paul is preoccupied with Espoir, I’m going to make use of other resources.” He draped his arm affectionately across her shoulders and drew her close. “I’m willing to gamble on Yvette’s ciphering abilities and see if she is capable of handling the books. If her sister shows some interest, I’ll find something for her to accomplish as well. Now, if you’d be so good as to provide a ledger of this month’s transactions, I’ll go over everything with her this evening.”

  They lunched at Dulcie’s, a place Yvette thought never to see again, let alone in her father’s company. The townsfolk stared openly at them, which made her feel important. So this is what it means to be a Duvoisin.

  “Did you ever give that money to the poor?” she courageously asked.

  “What money, Yvette?”

  “You know what money.”

  “Actually, no.”

  When her father didn’t elaborate, she dropped the subject. Still, their b
anter was easy, and she truly enjoyed being with him.

  “Papa?” Yvette asked as they rode home. “Will I really be in charge?”

  “Of the lumber mill books? Yes.” She smiled exultantly. “But I warn you now, Yvette, it is not going to be easy.”

  “Don’t worry, Papa,” she assured, “I’m capable. I won’t disappoint you.”

  Frederic chuckled, unable to remain serious. For the first time in years, his heart swelled with pride.

  “What about you, Jeannette? Would you like to take charge of something?”

  “Well, I’m not as good with figures as Yvette is, Papa, but I’ll help if I can.”

  “Only if you want to, princess, only if you want to.”

  They arrived home by three o’clock. At the girls’ insistence, Frederic allowed them to groom their ponies in the paddock. He retreated to the house.

  They had just finished currying Spook and Angel when their stepmother swept past them without so much as a word of greeting. Yvette eyed her suspiciously as Gerald rushed over. They exchanged a few words and the stable-master nodded toward the carriage house, where a chaise stood ready. Agatha climbed in, flicked the reins, and steered the buggy through the manor gates.

  “That’s strange,” Yvette murmured.

  “What is?” her sister asked.

  “Auntie going out for a buggy ride.”

  “Why is that strange?”

  “When have you ever seen her riding out alone—without a driver?”

  “Never?” Jeannette supplied thoughtfully.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Agatha was in no rush to be on time for her customary three o’clock appointment. She was close to an hour late when the carriage rolled up in front of the tiny abode. She alighted from it and stepped up to the door, not bothering to knock. Her adversary sat at a small table near the hearth, pen in hand. He looked up, seemingly unaffected by her unannounced entrance. When he did not speak, she took charge. “This will be my last visit,” she announced.