Forever Waiting Read online

  Michael handed the paper over. John glanced at it and said, “Let us see if they made it to Freedom last night.”

  Michael chuckled, and together, they retraced John’s steps to the cabins.

  Stuart came out onto the porch again, smiling in relief.

  “So, they are here?” John asked.

  “Yes, John, since dawn, but I didn’t know you were up at the house.”

  “No harm done,” John replied. “Today continues to be their lucky day. Since there are only two of them, and Father Michael will be setting out for Richmond in the morning, he can transport them to the refuge in his buggy.”

  Michael nodded; it looked as if he’d be spending the night.

  They slid a heavy, crude hutch off two movable floorboards, and the couple emerged from the crawlspace beneath Stuart’s cabin. Nettie gave them dinner, then prepared a bed for them, and at the crack of dawn the next morning, they were on their way. The pregnant woman sat beside Michael and did not look out of place; the advertisement had not described her and she could pass for his housekeeper. Her husband, however, was tucked uncomfortably behind the carriage seat, concealed under a blanket. Still, it was better than walking.

  John wished them well and pressed some money into the woman’s hands.

  “Thank you, sir,” she whispered, grabbing hold of his arm and cradling it to her heart. “God bless you and your family.”

  “And you, ma’am,” he rejoined. He shook Michael’s hand and said, “I’ll stop by when I’m back in Richmond.”

  The priest flicked the reins, setting the buggy in motion.

  Saturday, March 24, 1837

  Charmantes

  Charmaine and Mercedes stepped out of Maddy Thompson’s cottage, in no hurry to return to the manor. Charmaine sighed contentedly. Two weeks ago, she had worried about what she would wear. She was determined to turn every eye at the banquet and ball, but the dresses on display in the mercantile were far from elegant. Certainly, the other maids and matrons would be wearing gowns purchased abroad, in Paris and in London. Paul had said as much when he insisted he purchase her entire ensemble. Thankfully, he and Maddy had come up with a solution. Fashionable gowns were advertised in the magazines on the mercantile counter. Charmaine would choose amongst the finest fabrics in stock, and Maddy, who had been a seamstress for a couturier in Charleston, would do the rest. So, for the past two Saturdays, Charmaine had stood like a statue on a pedestal in Maddy’s parlor as the gown took shape. One final fitting and it would be ready, and Mercedes would take care of any minor adjustments at the house.

  They crossed the busy street and headed toward the livery. A large sign hung in Dulcie’s window: attention sailors: no vacancies, and in small letters: lodging available at the warehouse. The most influential guests would be staying in the mansions on Charmantes and Espoir, and Frederic was paying Dulcie well to accommodate the others. Earlier in the week, the saloon had been whitewashed, and the shutters repainted. Today, the second-story windows were thrown wide, and six women were in the side yard bleaching the bed linens. The whole town was busy preparing for this unprecedented event.

  When Charmaine and Mercedes turned their mounts onto the main road toward the manor, Charmaine couldn’t contain her excitement. “Thank you, Mercedes, thank you so very much. I wish you could be there, too.”

  Mercedes discounted the sympathetic remark. “Don’t fret about me. You’ll enjoy it for the two of us. And on Paul’s arm, no less! I can’t believe it. I really thought he’d ask Anne. She had her eyes fastened on his brother last year. She’d kill for that spot, you know.”

  Charmaine smiled, the pleasantness of the day expanding.

  “Why did he ask you?” Mercedes queried, making the most of Charmaine’s elation, yet hoping she wouldn’t think her impertinent.

  “Paul and I have grown very close, especially over the past five months.”

  “Close?”

  “He’s a friend, Mercedes, a very good friend.”

  “A friend?” Mercedes mused doubtfully. “Charmaine, do you realize how many girls would give an arm and a leg to be in your shoes? How jealous they will be? And you’re telling me you’re just ‘good friends’? Aren’t you attracted to him? Why, if he squired me, I’d have a fit of the vapors, or blush scarlet at the very least!”

  Charmaine laughed in spite of herself, recalling those early heart-thundering days when all she did was blush. Nowadays, she kept her composure around Paul without a worry, and she wondered what had changed.

  “Well?” Mercedes asked, leaning forward.

  “Well, what?”

  “Well—are you in love with him? Is he interested in you?”

  “Interested,” Charmaine mumbled. You should be interested to know Paul has but one interest in you …

  Why had she thought of that? “Yes.” Charmaine smiled. “He is interested in me.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  “What do you mean, what am I waiting for?”

  “Go after him! Don’t let him get away! Don’t allow Anne to sink her claws in! You’ll never have an opportunity like this knocking at your door again.”

  Saturday, March 31, 1838

  The ball was fast approaching, only a week away. Travis had been stationed in town days ago, receiving ships as they made port and establishing the prestigious visitors at their assigned lodgings. Many had already arrived. Tomorrow afternoon there would be a reception at Dulcie’s to commence the weeklong conference.

  This morning, the breakfast table buzzed with happy conversation, filled to capacity with guests. Everybody was talking except Frederic, who remained distant, his eyes solemn. Charmaine wondered if he was as downtrodden as she. Is he thinking of John? Did he remember today would have been Pierre and Colette’s birthdays? That Pierre would have turned four? That the anniversary of Colette’s death was only a week away? Charmaine sighed with a heavy heart.

  As if reading her thoughts, Frederic spoke directly to her. “Miss Ryan, you seem unusually pensive today. Is something wrong?”

  “You have been uncommonly quiet this morning, too,” she replied, “for the very same reasons, I believe.”

  All eyes were instantly on them, the clamorous table falling silent.

  “What reasons?” Agatha queried, eyeing Charmaine suspiciously.

  Frederic smiled sadly and answered laconically. “Miss Ryan is very astute.” Then, “I’m afraid I shall be busy all day, Miss Ryan, and need you to mind the twins. Perhaps a ride with my daughters will lift your spirits.”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered dismally, certain nothing could do that.

  Yvette and Jeannette lit up with Frederic’s suggestion and quickly ran off to the kitchen to invite Mercedes. As Anne opened her mouth to object, Frederic intervened. “Mrs. London, I assume you will be assisting my wife today?” With her slight nod, he said, “Then why not allow Miss Wells to accompany my daughters? Agatha’s itinerary should only require the services of the house staff .”

  Not wishing to appear cruel, Anne smiled unhappily. She would have a private word with Mercedes later.

  Heading toward the paddock, Jeannette noticed a cloud of dust kicked up on the dirt road beyond the entry gates. “A rider!” she exclaimed.

  Yvette stopped dead in her tracks, eyes riveted to the road.

  “What is it, Yvette?” Jeannette queried, turning to her sister.

  “It’s Phantom!” she screamed, dashing across the lawns, “and Johnny!”

  Jeannette broke into a run behind her, arriving at the gates as Phantom cantered through them. “Johnny!” they squealed, grabbing at him before he could dismount. He jumped off the stallion and hugged them with a jubilant laugh. “This is wonderful! You must see Mademoiselle Charmaine! And Papa, too!”

  A stable-hand hurried over and took charge of Phantom. John slung his knapsack over his shoulder and walked up the lawns, the girls on either side of him. Jeannette’s arm was clasped tightly around his waist, and Yvette beamed
up at him as if he were a mirage that might disappear if she dared to look away.

  “So, what have I missed while I was gone?” he asked, squeezing Jeannette’s shoulder.

  “Papa spends Saturdays with us,” she gushed, “and we have ball dresses!”

  “I’m the bookkeeper for the mill!” Yvette interjected.

  “We went to Espoir, and Mademoiselle Charmaine can ride Dapple now!”

  John was gladdened by their enthusiasm. Their joyous reception always made him feel welcome here, that this was his home. He pulled them closer, wondering where Charmaine was.

  Charmaine stepped out of the house, adjusting her bonnet as she went. Her heart caught in her throat. There was John, walking toward her! Her eyes feasted on him: the cap cocked to the back of his head, his wavy brown hair falling on his brow, his self-assured gait. In that rush of joy, the urge to fly down the steps and throw her arms around him was overwhelming, and she had all she could do to hold to her spot. He looked up as he arrived with the twins at the foot of the portico, and their eyes met.

  He drank in the sight of her: the plain, well-worn riding dress, her shaking fingers belatedly tying the strings to her bonnet under her chin, and her large brown eyes betraying her excitement to see him. Instantly, he was indescribably pleased he had come back, and he inhaled slowly, relishing the ineffable elation expanding in his breast. He had missed her, more than he’d realized. Jeannette scurried into the house, eager to tell her father the good news. He hardly noticed.

  “You look well, Mademoiselle,” he said in that crisp voice, long denied.

  Blood thundered in her ears, and her heart pounded in her chest. His regard was warm as he and Yvette climbed the steps. A crooked smile broke across his lips, bathing her in another wave of happiness. “I am,” she breathed, tilting her head back to study his face. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine—just fine.”

  “You’ve come home for the celebration?” she commented more than asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, “my father invited me. Apparently, he’d like to mend some fences.” She nodded, and his eyes went to Mercedes, who had stepped out of the house with her. “Good morning, Miss Mercedes.”

  Mercedes murmured a quick greeting and looked at the ground.

  Charmaine suffered a pang of jealousy before remembering Mercedes had made John’s acquaintance through Anne London. She was delighted when he chuckled and turned back to her.

  “Will you be staying long?” she asked, hopeful the answer was yes.

  “That depends,” he replied, sizing up her attire. “I see you are on your way out.”

  Charmaine was about to respond when the front door opened and Frederic joined them. His eyes glinted, and his smile widened.

  “John,” he started, “welcome home.”

  John fought a sure and congealing repugnance, the impulse to retreat.

  “Come inside,” Frederic motioned. “There is cool lemonade in the study.”

  John hesitated, then forced himself forward. The twins tagged along, but Frederic stopped them. “Girls, go for your ride with Miss Ryan and Miss Wells. You will have time with your brother when you return.”

  “Come, girls,” Charmaine commanded, “the ponies are waiting, and if we dally any longer, it will be too hot to go.”

  They reluctantly capitulated, turning away from their beloved brother. But Charmaine’s eyes followed the men into the house. There was Agatha, standing in the foyer, her hate-filled regard reserved for John. Then, the door closed.

  Mercedes stepped nearer Charmaine. “You’re in love with him,” she murmured close to her ear.

  Charmaine spun round, shocked. “Don’t be silly!”

  Mercedes chuckled knowingly. “No wonder Paul is just a ‘good friend.’ ”

  Paul greeted John with a handshake, amazed he had returned. John clasped an arm around his shoulder. “So, Paul, this is your big week. Are you ready?”

  “Never more in my life,” he replied, surprised by John’s affable manner. Anne descended the staircase and turned her head aside in blatant disdain when she saw John. That suited him fine. Everyone stepped into the study, rejoining Stephen Westphal, whose anxious eyes darted from John to Frederic, a folder clasped tightly to his chest. Frederic resumed his seat behind the desk, while Paul and John took the chairs across from it. Agatha walked over to the French doors, and Anne perched on the settee. Felicia scurried in with lemonade and poured everyone a glass.

  “I gather you came on Paul’s ship,” Frederic said. “How was the crossing?”

  “The sea was calm, the wind strong. We made the voyage in no time. A fine packet, Paul. Those makeshift apartments were very cozy. When your guests got a glimpse of Dulcie’s, they ran back to the captain to make reservations for the week!” Agatha frowned, but John’s deviltry only intensified. “Yes, a fine vessel, perfect once the leaks are repaired, but there are always flaws on a virgin voyage.” Paul’s eyes darkened apprehensively. “Leaks? There shouldn’t be any—”

  “Not to worry, Paulie,” John chuckled. “Everything was fine.” The jest registered, and Paul laughed, too. “What is the latest news from the States, John?”

  “That depends where you are in the States.”

  “Why not start in New York?” Agatha interjected, her gaze steely upon him. He eyed her suspiciously. “What would you like to know, Auntie?”

  “It’s not what I’d like to know,” she returned smugly, her voice sweet, “it is more a matter of what your father would like to know.”

  Befuddled, Frederic’s attention shifted from his son to Agatha.

  “Stephen,” she continued, “why don’t you tell John what you’ve learned about his dealings in New York?”

  Westphal inhaled. Agatha was supposed to divulge the information he’d garnered. But Frederic’s eyes were leveled on him, a hardened regard Stephen knew all too well. There’d be no release until Frederic’s curiosity had been satisfied. Stephen glanced at John, who wore the same expression, and he shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to get on either man’s bad side. “Perhaps we can discuss this at some other time … ” he sputtered.

  “No, we’ll discuss it right now,” Frederic pronounced, his confusion growing. He thought to shoo Anne out of the room, but what was the point? She could extract the story from her father or even Agatha, if she didn’t know it already.

  Westphal cleared his throat. “My banking contacts have mentioned things … ”

  “Go on,” Frederic pressed in irritation.

  “They’ve written John has been investing heavily in canals and railroads in the North, using Duvoisin monies withdrawn from the Bank of Virginia.”

  Paul glared at John in astonishment. Westphal hesitated to say more.

  “And?” Frederic urged.

  The man cleared his throat again. “I also have it on good authority John is an abolitionist. He has ties to the Underground Railroad— provides them with financial support.”

  “Underground Railroad?” Frederic queried, the term unfamiliar.

  “The name hasn’t made its way into print yet, but it’s an association many Southerners whisper about.”

  “What exactly is it?”

  “A group of Southern and Northern abolitionists who aid and abet runaway slaves. It is rumored John is one of them—that he uses Duvoisin vessels to transport slaves from Richmond to New York.”

  “Is this true?” Frederic asked, his eyes shooting to John. Memories of his early days with Colette took hold. She was in this room, with them right now. He could feel her at his side.

  “Have you taken to spying on me now, Father?” John asked, his voice mildly amused, though his face was stern. “Is this why you invited me back? I’m not here five minutes and already I’m under interrogation. Why the inquisition?”

  “Is it true about the Virginia bank accounts?”

  “Yes, it’s true. Did your brilliant Mr. Westphal tell you there was a bank panic last year? That hundreds of farmers los
t everything when the U.S. bank was dissolved? But not you, Father. Why? Because of the Northern securities I purchased in your name before the panic. Your banker, Mr. Westphal, hasn’t noticed you’re already the richer for it. No, he’s been too busy discrediting me to see past the nose on his face!”

  “Since when are we in the canal and railroad business?” Frederic demanded.

  “I thought I was in charge on the mainland, Father,” John jeered. “Shipping is shipping. What does it matter if it’s ships or canals or trains? Whenever I’ve found a sound investment, I’ve purchased it—with my own money, as well.”

  “Why not make these investments in the South, where we have our roots?”

  “The South as it stands will not last,” John replied. “I’ll be long gone from Virginia when it comes tumbling down. If it were up to me, I’d transfer all your assets north.”

  “And what of this ‘Underground Railroad’?”

  “I support it,” John replied simply, “with my money.”

  Frederic sighed in exasperation. Ten years ago he’d waged this battle with Colette. John had embraced her convictions, while he had suavely sidestepped them.

  “And you’ve used Duvoisin vessels to smuggle runaways?” he pursued.

  “Occasionally.”

  Frederic’s anger began to percolate. “If this gets out, it will be devastating to my holdings and trade in Virginia. Harboring runaways is against the law! Imagine what the authorities will do if they find you’ve been pirating them!”

  Agatha gloated. At last, they were getting somewhere.

  “You are right,” John declared, satisfied when Frederic’s expression turned to one of bewilderment. “So, I have a solution. I’m resigning as manager of your Virginia estates, and I demand you remove my name from your will.”

  “John—” Paul sputtered “—you can’t do that!”

  “Oh yes, I can.”

  Anguished, Frederic murmured, “Now you use my wealth to thwart me?”

  “I’ve learned well from you, Father,” John answered flatly.

  “I won’t do this,” he rejoined.

  Agatha stepped forward. “Why not, Frederic?” she demanded, afraid John might rescind his request. She indicated Paul. “Surely you can place it in more worthy—competent—hands?”