Decision and Destiny Page 4

  “Mama! Mama!” Pierre desperately cried, clutching her legs.

  Agatha yanked him free and carried him across the room to her dressing table chair, where she sat, laid him across her lap, and bared his bottom. She grabbed her hairbrush and struck him with it.

  “Don’t!” Charmaine shrieked. “Please, don’t!” But her horror was muffled beneath Pierre’s wails, which grew louder with each brutal whack, spilling an ocean of tears on the carpet. She finally dove at the woman. “Let him go!”

  “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Startled, Charmaine broke away. But Agatha cowered, for a livid John stood over them, beholding her defenseless victim. The boy’s bottom and lower back were covered in purple welts. Repulsed, he turned acid eyes on his aunt.

  “By God, woman, what is the matter with you?”

  Ashen-faced, Agatha abruptly released Pierre, who ran to Charmaine. Then, she rose regally from her chair and smoothed her rumpled skirts, a pathetic pretense at dignity.

  “The boy needed a firm hand,” she replied imperiously, attempting to conceal the hairbrush in the folds of her skirt.

  “A hand?” John snarled, seizing her arm and ripping the brush away. “You nasty bitch! I should take this to you!”

  Agatha flinched when he hurled it across the room, then gasped at his profanity. “How dare you? I am mistress of this manor! I demand your respect! You will not speak to me like that! You will apologize!”

  “Hell will freeze over before I apologize to the likes of you!”

  “How dare you?”

  “How dare you abuse the boy over a vase that can easily be replaced?” he shot back. “I warn you now, Agatha, if you ever raise a hand to any child in this house again, I will tear it off and cast it to the dogs!”

  “How dare you? How dare you?” she shrieked.

  John ignored her, turning to Charmaine, who cradled Pierre to her breast, the boy’s grip tenacious, face buried in her hair, his muffled sobs little more than shuddering whimpers. John placed a comforting hand to his back, then grasped Charmaine’s elbow. “Come with me, before I strangle her.”

  He nudged her forward, faltering momentarily. Frederic stood in the corridor doorway, his face grim. John pressed on, and the elder immediately stepped aside. Charmaine felt a frigid gale of resentment pass between them, the icy tentacles made manifest by Agatha’s cries of indignation. “He has abused me, Frederic! You didn’t hear what he called me in front of the house staff! I am…”

  They continued down the south wing corridor. When they reached the nursery, Charmaine looked at John askance, bracing herself for a battery of irate questions. “Where are the girls?” he asked instead.

  “In the stables with George, watching the new foal.”

  She was surprised when the inquiry ended there. John was already at the bell-pull, summoning a maid.

  Charmaine placed Pierre on his bed and sat down next to him. He cuddled his pillow for comfort, compounding her misery. She had failed him, and her heart was heavy with guilt. “Pierre, I’m sorry—so sorry,” she whispered.

  He shoved a thumb into his mouth and closed his eyes to the world.

  A hand came down on her shoulder, and Charmaine looked up at John. He had rescued them both. “Thank you,” she choked out, uttering words she never thought she’d say to him.

  “For what?” he asked softly, his eyes earnest.

  “For stopping Mrs. Duvoisin, for—”

  “I was a bit late.”

  Charmaine gazed down at the boy, silently shouldering her culpability; she should never have handed him over to the wicked woman. “How could she do that to an innocent child?” she lamented.

  “It is beyond reason,” John snorted. “Horsewhipping is too good for her.”

  A knock fell on the outer door, and John opened it to Anna. “We need a basin of cold water and fresh washcloths,” he directed.

  With a bob, the maid disappeared, returning minutes later with the requested items. Rolling up his sleeves, John dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out, gently laying the cool compress across Pierre’s buttocks.

  “This should keep the swelling down.”

  Pierre awoke with a start, not at all pleased with the comfort placed upon his bruised posterior. He moaned, and Charmaine knelt beside him, massaging his back while John continued to apply the cloth.

  “I’m sorry, Mainie.”

  “I know you are, Pierre, but you mustn’t go near those rooms again.”

  “I won’t go there no more.”

  “Good,” she murmured and placed a kiss on his forehead.

  Pierre turned his head deep into the pillows. Charmaine took the cloth from John. The welts had already gone down, but she feared he wouldn’t be able to sit for the next day or two.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Ryan,” John reassured, reading her mind.

  “Children heal quickly. I’m sure we can find a soft pillow for Pierre’s bottom.”

  “This should never have happened. I should never have left him alone, and I should never have allowed that woman to raise a hand to him, threats or no.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself, Mademoiselle. It would have been far worse if you weren’t there. You saved Pierre from Agatha, and he knows that. There is no sense in punishing yourself over it.”

  She was astonished; his words were compassionate and comforting. Just as amazing, he hadn’t taken her to task for allowing Pierre to escape her supervision.

  “Better?” he queried.

  She nodded, nonplussed.

  “Good. Then I’ll be on my way. Take care of him for me now, will you?”

  When she nodded a second time, he smiled at her—a genuine smile, devoid of mockery. Then he was gone, leaving her in stunned disbelief over all he had done for them.

  Sunday, August 27, 1837

  John and Pierre sat at the dining room table. Almost everyone, family and servants alike, was at Sunday Mass. But the wooden pews of the chapel were too hard for the boy’s bruised buttocks, so John had suggested Pierre remain behind with him. Thus, the boy’s injury had allowed them this time to be alone together.

  John leaned forward, pretending to study Pierre as raptly as the three-year-old studied him. A fine boy, he decided. “Well, Pierre, what are we going to do for the next hour?”

  “Go fishin’.”

  “Fishin’? How do you know about fishin’?”

  “Jawj said you fish-ed wif Gummy off’a the dock, ’member?”

  John chuckled, amazed by the boy’s recollection. “One day we shall go fishing,” he promised, “but we will use a rowboat.”

  Pierre tilted his head to one side. “What’s a woeboat?”

  “It’s a small boat that only a few people can sit in at one time,” John explained patiently. “It’s the best way to fish in a lake or on a river. Maybe I’ll purchase one for your birthday, and we can go fishing then. Would you like that?”

  “Uh-huh,” Pierre nodded emphatically.

  “Good. In fact, where I live, there’s a large river called the James. Do you think you’d like to go fishing there?”

  Pierre puzzled over his elder brother’s words. “Where you live?”

  “Yes—in Virginia. I’ll have to travel back there soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have work to do there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” John was at a loss and chuckled again. “Because I just do. Do you think you’d like to come with me? We would captain a giant ship across the ocean and sail right up the James River. And when we landed, you could see the buildings in the big city and my house. Do you think you’d like that?”

  Pierre studied him speculatively. “Would I live in your house?”

  “Would you like to live with me?”

  “Only if Mainie could live there, too.”

  “Only if Mainie could live there, too,” John mumbled under his breath. “Well, Pierre, we’ll have to see about that.�
�� He ruffled the lad’s hair affectionately.

  Father Benito droned on, and Charmaine caught herself daydreaming. Agatha sat directly in front of her, a constant reminder of John’s profanity. Bitch…the label had had an effect. Agatha had kept to her boudoir until this morning, and Charmaine could thank the man for that, too. Nevertheless, she anguished over Frederic’s reaction. He hadn’t confronted her as yet; surely he would.

  John. By no means did his blessed intervention excuse his reprehensible behavior, but it had brought about a most unexpected cease-fire. For this reason, she bowed her head and said a prayer for him. It was as if her mother were there, telling her it was the right thing to do. Even at dinner last night, he had been pleasant. With Paul and Agatha absent, the mood had been relaxed, and to the children’s delight, he and George carried on throughout the meal, telling jokes, playing tricks, and acting silly. Not once did he send a cutting remark her way, and so it had been easy to place Pierre in his care this morning. Perhaps the worst was behind them; perhaps they had reached a truce.

  When the Mass ended, Stephen Westphal approached Paul.

  “What brings you to services here?” Paul asked.

  Westphal, who hadn’t returned to the manor since that terrible dinner last December, glanced at Charmaine. “It is difficult to track you down during the week, so I had hoped to catch you at home.”

  “What is it?”

  Agatha moved to Paul’s side, and Stephen nodded a greeting.

  “Perhaps we should go to the library. This is a business conversation, private in nature.”

  “You can tell me here,” Paul replied, suspicious of the man’s reticence.

  Westphal plunged in. “Some of the Richmond accounts you attempted to liquidate were closed out earlier this year.”

  “Closed out? What do you mean, closed out?”

  “The funds were withdrawn in March—” Westphal cleared his throat “—by John. By all indications, there are no monies left in the Virginia State Bank.”

  Paul massaged the back of his neck, perplexed.

  “This is outrageous!” Agatha exclaimed.

  Westphal rushed on. “Don’t worry, I had Edward Richecourt contact the Bank of Richmond. Those accounts are still intact, and the shipping firm has been paid; however, it would be prudent to find out whether other accounts have been terminated before future notes are written against them.”

  “We can find that out right now,” Paul replied, “that is, if I can locate John. He’s probably still sleeping.”

  “No, he’s not!” Yvette piped in. “He’s in the dining room with Pierre.”

  “Pierre?” Paul queried, noting for the first time the three-year-old’s absence. “Alone?” he added, his anxious eyes now leveled on Charmaine. “You left the boy alone with John?”

  “Yes—” Charmaine faltered “—but I’m certain he is fine.”

  Paul rushed from the chapel. Stephen threw a quizzical look at Agatha and hastened after him. Trembling, Charmaine and the girls did the same. She worried over the expression on Paul’s face, the implication Pierre was in some sort of peril. Surely John wouldn’t endanger his own brother.

  They found Pierre seated in John’s lap, giggling.

  “What’s the matter, Paul?” John asked as his brother stepped up to the table, a small entourage behind him. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Paul exhaled.

  Greatly puzzled, Charmaine studied both men, but their faces bore no answers. Pierre is fine—so why the alarm?

  Stephen broke the perplexing tableau, stepping forward with hand extended. “John, how good it is to see you again.”

  John made no move to rise. “It is?” he asked, ignoring the proffered hand, which hung suspended in midair long enough to become embarrassing.

  “Of course it is,” the banker rejoined in confusion, his arm dropping to his side. “Anne has written a great deal about you of late. I’m pleased to hear you’ve been getting along so famously.”

  John snorted. “Famously? Is that how she describes it?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Westphal began fiddling with his collar. He’d forgotten how brutally blunt John could be. Ten years in America hadn’t smoothed the man’s rough edges.

  “Did your daughter write she was chasing me all over Virginia and I traveled to New York to get away from her?”

  “No—no, of course not!” Westphal blustered, then laughed pretentiously as if John were only joking. “She led me to believe that—that—well, that—”

  “Well, Mr. Westphal, it appears your daughter has misled you. So let me clear the matter up for you right now: I have no intention of ever proposing marriage to her. Is there anything else you’ve been led to believe?”

  To Charmaine’s delight, the banker’s face reddened in disgrace. “I don’t know what to say,” he jabbered further. When John held silent, he beat a hasty retreat toward the foyer.

  “I know he’s annoying,” Paul commented as everyone took their seats, “but you didn’t have to break it to him quite like that.”

  “No? Trust me, Paul, it is for the best. Unlike Mrs. London, he got the message, so perhaps he will convince her she is wasting her time. I’m tired of her incessant pestering and would see an end to it.”

  Paul shook his head, but didn’t pursue the matter. “I need to speak with you about the Virginia bank accounts. You closed two of them. Why?”

  John leaned back in his chair. “I thought it unwise to have all our money in the South, so I transferred funds to New York. Why do you ask?”

  “I wrote notes against those accounts. Why didn’t you let me know they’d been moved?”

  “I didn’t know about the notes. Why didn’t you let me know?”

  Paul didn’t answer. He grabbed a journal, sat, and began to read.

  The children had just finished changing out of their formal Sunday attire and into clothing suited for the stable when a knock fell on their nursery door.

  Jeannette opened it. “Papa!”

  Charmaine finished tying Pierre’s shoelace and stood slowly, bracing herself for the man’s upbraiding.

  “Good morning, Jeannette,” he greeted. “Where are you off to today?”

  “The stables, Papa. We’re going to check on the new colt!”

  “Chastity foaled yesterday,” Yvette added. “We’ve spent so much time at her stall, the colt thinks we’re his masters. Maybe he could be mine?”

  “I don’t know, Yvette,” her father answered seriously. “If the foal grows to be anything like his sire, he may be too much stallion for you to handle.”

  Yvette grumbled, but he chuckled softly. “Why don’t you and your sister run along to the paddock now? I’d like to speak with your governess.”

  They needed no further encouragement. Other than Pierre, who was on hands and knees playing with his blocks, Charmaine and Frederic were suddenly alone.

  He must have read her apprehension, for he spoke directly. “Miss Ryan, I apologize for my wife’s conduct yesterday morning. It won’t happen again.” Charmaine was dumbfounded, but he didn’t seem to notice, his attention on Pierre. “How is he?”

  “Recovering,” she said, and then, by way of justification, “I thought he was napping, sir. When I returned to check on him, he was gone. I suppose he went into Mrs. Duvoisin’s chambers because they used to belong to his—”

  “Charmaine, I’m not asking for an explanation. I am quite pleased with your care of my children. It is the single thing I don’t worry about.”

  Amazingly, the ugly episode was closed, Frederic calling to the boy and requesting a hug, which the child eagerly bestowed.

  That evening, John came to the nursery to say goodnight to the children. He hesitated on the threshold, his eyes resting on Charmaine, who was struggling to dress Pierre for bed. The boy giggled up at him, squirming against the garment.

  “He’s improved throughout the day,” she commented with a tentative smile.

  “
Johnny,” Yvette interjected before he could respond, “is it true you’re not going to marry Mr. Westphal’s daughter?”

  “I’m not going to marry her,” he reassured.

  “Good,” she said. “I don’t want you to marry anyone, especially her!”

  John smiled at her naked honesty.

  “Is she really rich like her father says she is?” she pressed.

  “Her husband was a wealthy man, and she’ll most likely inherit her father’s money some day, too.” He eyed her quizzically. “Why do you ask?”

  “If she is already rich, why would she want to marry you?”

  John laughed heartily. “Because I’m so charming, of course!”

  Charmaine rolled her eyes, not caring that he had turned to see her reaction.

  “I don’t think so!” Yvette refuted. “That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”

  “For some people, no matter how much money they have, it’s never enough, so they make their fortunes bigger by marrying someone with even more.”

  “But you won’t do that, will you, Johnny?” she asked.

  “If I marry, Yvette, it will be to a woman who won’t care about the size of my fortune; a woman who is happy just to be married to me. And someday, that’s how it should be for you, too.”

  Charmaine was stunned by his declaration and bowed her head, not wishing him to see she approved of the values he was imparting to his sisters.

  “Like Cinderella?” Jeannette interjected, bright-eyed.

  “Like Cinderella,” John nodded.

  “Only the wicked stepmother will belong to the prince’s family,” Yvette added. “But she’ll never get you to sweep the floors, will she, Johnny?”

  John sniggered. “I wouldn’t dream of taking her broom. How ever would she travel?”

  Monday, August 28, 1837

  With Fatima at market and the children hungry, Charmaine prepared a snack tray in the kitchen. She looked up when Anna and Felicia entered the room, then set knife to bread and tried to ignore them.

  “Like I was sayin’,” Felicia began pointedly, chafed by Charmaine’s aloofness, “I’ll satisfy him. Just you wait and see, and it won’t be by pretendin’ to be some innocent virgin. He don’t want some backward chit, anyway. What do you think, ‘Ma-de-mwah-zelle’? Do I got a chance?”