Forever Waiting Read online

  Her companion was younger, perhaps Charmaine’s age, and dressed in plain clothes. She was tall and slender, her long hair tied back with a ribbon and falling to her hips. She was busy unloading hatboxes from the second carriage, which was piled high with luggage. The top box wobbled, then fell altogether, spilling a frilled bonnet onto the lawn.

  “Really, Mercedes,” Anne London exclaimed with a click of the tongue, “do be more careful! I haven’t even worn that hat yet, and already you’ve managed to soil it!” Mercedes scrambled to pick up the expensive item, blushing in embarrassment as both Stephen and Paul turned to see. “Why don’t you follow the butler and bring the boxes up to my room?”

  “Who is it, Mademoiselle?”

  “Mrs. London,” Charmaine replied, gaining Yvette’s grimace.

  “Good thing Johnny isn’t here!”

  Charmaine chuckled.

  Again, they heard the commotion in the hallway. Travis had opened John’s dressing room door and was carrying two trunks into the chamber. Charmaine was instantly annoyed. “Mr. Thornfield,” she called when he reappeared empty-handed, “what are you doing?”

  “Delivering Mrs. London’s things to her room, Miss. Why do you ask?”

  “You have the wrong room,” she replied.

  “Master Paul told me to bring them here, Miss Ryan.”

  “Take them to another room,” she insisted. “Two doors down will be fine.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Paul and Anne arrived. “Is something the matter?” Paul interrupted.

  “Miss Ryan seems to think I’m placing the baggage in the wrong room.”

  Paul turned quizzical eyes on Charmaine, and Anne’s gaze followed.

  Charmaine watched her nose wrinkle disdainfully and knew what she was thinking: So this is the governess, Miss Ryan, the daughter of a murderer—worse than common. Charmaine tore her eyes away and looked pointedly at Paul.

  “May I speak with you privately, Paul?” she pressed, pleased when Anne appeared aghast at hearing her use his given name. “It will only take a moment.”

  Paul seemed oblivious to the silent exchange. With a courteous smile, he excused himself and followed Charmaine into the nursery.

  “Those are John’s quarters,” she said when he had closed the door behind him. “Mrs. London can stay in another room.”

  “What difference does it make?” Paul asked, entirely befuddled.

  “Those chambers belong to John and shouldn’t be disturbed. He was pushed out when I took his room. Now it’s happening again. It’s not right.”

  “But he’s not here, Charmaine. I don’t think he would care—”

  “I care,” she replied, unmindful of his annoyance. “And what if he should come home for your celebration?”

  “That is unlikely,” Paul replied, taken aback by her disappointed expression. “Very well,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

  He returned to Anne and directed Travis to move her bags to the next suite. “The children are early risers, Anne,” he explained urbanely. “You’ll have peace and quiet if we place a little distance between your quarters and theirs.”

  “How kind of you,” she smiled artificially, glancing Charmaine’s way.

  “Would you like to join us for lunch?” Charmaine asked from the door.

  The young woman turned from her task of hanging dresses in the armoire. “I have to unpack all these gowns first,” she told Charmaine and the twins.

  “It’s getting late,” Charmaine remarked. “You must be hungry. Can’t you finish this after lunch?”

  “I had better do it now. Mrs. London will be furi—upset if they’re wrinkled.”

  “Well, then, let us help, so you can have lunch, too. Come, girls.”

  Charmaine stepped into the chamber, followed closely by the twins, and proceeded to take one beautiful garment after another out of the traveling cases.

  “I’m Charmaine Ryan, Yvette and Jeannette’s governess,” she offered, extending a hand to the lady’s maid. “Welcome to the Duvoisin manor.”

  “I’m Mercedes Wells. It is nice to meet you.” For the first time, the young woman smiled. Charmaine knew she had made a friend.

  Thursday, March 1, 1838

  George admired Mercedes from the armchair where he sat, as he’d done for the past three nights after dinner. Paul had invited Anne London’s personal maid to join them. Though George was pleased to enjoy her company, if only from afar, the words he’d exchanged with Paul earlier at the mill still rankled him.

  “Not this one, Paul— you’re not going to have this one.”

  Paul threw him a puzzled look. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know goddamn well what I’m talking about—encouraging Miss Wells to join the family after dinner.”

  Paul remained bewildered. “She and Charmaine have struck up a friendship. Don’t tell me you’re annoyed I’ve invited her to … ” Suddenly, Paul was laughing. “Oh, now I understand. You’re jealous.”

  George’s face reddened. “Just leave her alone.”

  “She’s not beautiful, George,” Paul teased, “comely, but not beautiful.”

  “The hell she’s not!”

  Paul chuckled again. “If she were beautiful, my friend, do you think she’d be Anne London’s attendant? I assure you, Anne would never place a delectable dish so near her own plate. She’s far too vain.”

  George remained tight-lipped, simmering.

  “I’m not interested in Miss Wells, George. I leave her to you.”

  Mercedes Wells was beautiful— in George’s eyes, the most beautiful woman in the room. Abruptly, he stood and walked over to her chair.

  She looked up in surprise.

  “Miss Wells,” he heard himself say, “will you take a stroll with me in the gardens?” He was elated when she murmured, “Yes.”

  In the days that followed, Charmaine saw very little of Paul. He was busy with preparations for the celebration, and when he was free, Anne London rarely left his side. She now commanded his Saturdays.

  Anne and Agatha got along famously. When Paul wasn’t around, they spent much of their time together. Agatha was engrossed in planning every detail of the affair, from receiving invitation responses to selecting flower arrangements, preparing menus, organizing table settings, hiring musicians, establishing lodgings and other accommodations. Anne advised Agatha on all these matters, and they spent many an hour locked away in Agatha’s boudoir.

  Charmaine and Mercedes’s friendship continued to grow. Mercedes was a sensible, down-to-earth woman, with a keen perception of people and their motives. Because she was Anne London’s lady’s assistant, she was at the widow’s beck and call for anything and everything. Up and out of bed well before dawn, she laid out Anne’s clothes and placed her breakfast order before she awoke. When Anne did rise, Mercedes didn’t know a moment’s peace until long after lunch, shuttling food trays to and from the widow’s chambers and helping with her morning toilette and coiffure, a laborious process that took hours. Afterward, she ran errands: posting Anne’s letters, acquiring incidentals from the mercantile, bringing her drinks, or fetching her books from the library. Anne was condescending and abusive, constantly threatening to dismiss her for the most minor infraction or mishap.

  Mercedes despised Anne London, but she was paid well, and she needed her job. Like Charmaine, her mother had died a few years earlier, after a prolonged illness. Mercedes’s father was a stable-master on a Virginia estate, and she had an elder brother, also a stable-master, who had a wife and children. Her father was rarely around, and Mercedes felt it was time she set out on her own in the world. Because she’d grown up around horses, she was an experienced rider.

  When Yvette told Frederic this, he gave the young woman free rein to ride Colette’s mare, Chastity, since the horse was in dire need of regular workouts. So in the afternoons when Anne went off with Agatha, Charmaine, Mercedes and the twins went riding to all corners of the island, having
a fabulous time.

  Whenever he could, George returned to the manor for lunch, and after work, he avoided Dulcie’s, preferring to go straight home. Occasionally, he’d get lucky and Mercedes would go for a walk with him after dinner. He despised the way Anne London treated her. Much as he wanted to defend her, he didn’t dare, certain Anne would dismiss her on the spot.

  Some weeks before Paul’s gala, George asked Mercedes to be his partner at the banquet and ball. She accepted eagerly, but the very next day, she told him Anne had forbidden her to attend.

  “This isn’t a servant’s affair,” Anne had remonstrated sarcastically. “It’s a business engagement and a society soirée, reserved for gentry with social status. It will be very embarrassing for Mr. Duvoisin and for me if you show your face there. I will not allow it.”

  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

  FATHER 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

  Mic
hael 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.”