Forever Waiting Page 9

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, turning back toward the doors, even though she wanted to sit down next to him. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

  “You don’t have to leave, Charmaine,” he called after her, halting her step. “I was enjoying the peace and quiet. Come, sit with me.”

  She gladly joined him.

  “We didn’t see you all day,” she commented, arranging her skirts.

  “The journey caught up with me, and I slept late,” he replied. “Why aren’t you abed? You didn’t sleep well last night, either.”

  “I’m not tired. I suppose I won’t feel tired until the week is over.”

  John smiled at her ingenuous remark, his eyes coming to rest on her face.

  “How did you fare with your father yesterday?” she asked, daring to broach the subject that had slipped her mind last night.

  “It didn’t go well,” he replied. “Westphal had a long list of my latest transgressions. My father and I were at it again in all of five minutes. I don’t understand why he invited me back.”

  “Your father didn’t ask Westphal for that list,” Charmaine replied, her anger swift and sure. “Agatha did.”

  “Really?” John asked, surprised she’d come to the same conclusion he had.

  “She had Westphal get information on me, too,” Charmaine explained. “He’s the one who found out about my father, and Agatha tried to use it to have me dismissed. Fortunately for me, it didn’t make any difference to Colette or Paul.”

  She studied John for his reaction to Colette’s name, but he remained impassive. “It was fortunate for the children, too,” he said.

  “Not if it had fallen to Agatha. She’ll stop at nothing to get rid of anybody she doesn’t like. I’d lay money down she instigated yesterday’s confrontation sure as she plotted the one last October. Your father wasn’t sending the twins to a boarding school, but she made the girls believe he was, knowing Yvette would run to tell you. I can’t tolerate her. I don’t know why your father married her.”

  “He married her to punish Colette.”

  Charmaine grew quiet, the silence catching his attention. “I don’t think so,” she replied softly, debating her next thoughts. She was treading on dangerous territory. “He loved her, John.”

  John scoffed at the assertion, impelling her to speak her mind. “I don’t know if I’ll ever understand the relationship your father and Colette shared, but I’m certain he loved her.” She hesitated before adding, “And Colette told me she loved him.”

  “Of course she’d tell you that,” John said derisively, “to keep up appearances.”

  “Perhaps,” Charmaine replied, realizing John wasn’t willing to entertain such an idea. There was no point in pressing it. “Still, your father didn’t have a confrontation in mind when he invited you home. I know he is very sorry about what happened. He has changed since you left: coming out of his isolation, taking charge of business again, and spending time with the girls.”

  “It didn’t appear as if he’d changed yesterday,” John mused.

  “Perhaps he was taken off guard.” She sighed deeply. “He invited you back to make amends. I’m certain of it.”

  John mulled over her words; they echoed Michael’s sentiments. “I trust what you say, my Charm,” he ceded. “Still, he’s off to a pretty bad start.”

  “I’m sure he is, but old habits die hard, so give him a chance.”

  She thought to lighten the mood and changed the subject. “What are your latest transgressions?”

  “The list is long, my Charm,” he chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

  “Then tell me about Virginia. You never talk about it.”

  “I go back and forth between Richmond and the plantation.”

  “Do you like it there?”

  “I hate it: the slave business, the classes, the games one must play to survive. But, a few people there depend on me, so I’m bound to it.”

  “What would you rather be doing?”

  “Live in New York, play the piano, be a composer. But there isn’t any money in it, and I like having money too much to do without it.”

  Charmaine laughed. “You don’t realize how true your words are. You’ve never been poor, but I have. There’s no going back!”

  John laughed, too. When their mirth died down, she asked, “Why do you like New York so much?”

  “It will be the center of the world before long—bigger than London, bigger than Paris. In New York, if you’ve got ambition, you’ve got a chance. The only thing to hold you back is yourself. In New York, you can start over.”

  “Is that why you go there—to start over?”

  “Perhaps, but right now, I travel between two worlds.”

  “I’d love to see it,” she stated with conviction, turning her regard to him.

  “And I’d love to show it to you,” he replied, his eyes captivating her.

  She could not look away, thrilled by the plummeting lurch in her stomach, her quickening pulse, and her heart thudding in her breast. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, John leaned in to her.

  The door opened behind them, and Paul stepped out of the house. “Here you are!” he exclaimed. “Jeannette had a bad dream and is calling for you.”

  Blushing, Charmaine quickly stood and, without a backward glance, rushed past him. Paul watched her go, then considered his brother. But John had turned back to the lawns, apparently disinterested in Charmaine’s departure.

  Monday, April 2, 1838

  “No, John,” Paul said, “they are not paddlewheels. The European engineers are manufacturing what they’ve termed a corkscrew propeller, which they claim will cut Atlantic crossing time by half.”

  “Well, if locomotives are possible, I suppose anything is,” John rejoined.

  “Do you realize what this could mean for Duvoisin shipping?”

  Charmaine listened to their civil banter, amazed by it. The girls were playing outside, and she could keep an eye on them from the open French doors, so she meandered to the drawing room casement and paused in the archway.

  Presently, Paul was asking John’s opinion on the New York guests and how to persuade them to use his fleet for their exports. The Duvoisin barristers were due to arrive shortly, and he was waiting for them. When a carriage rolled up and two distinguished gentlemen stepped out, she assumed it was them.

  One man was middle aged, of medium height, with liberal touches of gray in his hair and beard. The younger was short, but good-looking in a pretty sort of way: with blue eyes, long aristocratic nose, protruding chin, and oiled-down blond hair.

  “Mr. Pitchfork,” John exclaimed, extending a hand to the elder solicitor when George showed them into the drawing room, “you’ve arrived!”

  The man’s face twisted into a grimace, but his associate snickered. George laughed outright. “I’d appreciate the use of my proper name,” the lawyer replied curtly, “Richecourt—Edward Richecourt. When will you realize you’ve worn out that witless name?”

  “When you’ve worn out getting angry at it,” John quipped.

  George chuckled again, and Richecourt’s assistant joined in.

  Though the latter had never met John before, he’d heard talk of the man’s acerbic wit. He was quite funny.

  Scratching the back of his head, John turned mischievous eyes to the young lawyer. “Who’s your friend here, Pitchie?”

  “This is our most promising junior associate,” Richecourt offered, ignoring John’s gibe, “Geoffrey Elliot III.”

  “There are three of you?” John exclaimed, eyeing the younger man.

  Geoffrey extended a hand to John, still chuckling in camaraderie. “My father was Geoffrey Elliot II.”

  “Ah, that explains it: if at first you don’t succeed … ” John shrugged. “Are you the one who consigned two shiploads of sugar here when my export broker took ill last January?” he continued, leveling his gaze on Elliot while ignoring Paul’s deepening frown.

  “Why, yes, I
am!” Elliot replied proudly.

  “And where do you suppose those boatloads of sugar came from, Geoff?”

  Momentary confusion washed over Elliot’s face as John shook his hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Idiot,” he declared merrily. “What else are you promising at, Junior?”

  Elliot’s face dropped in injured astonishment. “Why—I’m a lawyer. I’m a graduate of William and Mary—I’ve—I’ve—I’ve—”

  “Yes—yes—yes?” John asked unimpressed, the devil in his eyes.

  “Mr. Duvoisin!” Elliot rejoined angrily, his back stiffening. “I warn you now, I am not Mr. Richecourt! I’ll not tolerate name-calling. Do so again, and I’ll not hesitate to remonstrate you!”

  “Mr. Idiot,” John cut in, “I don’t question your ability to remonstrate or reprobate. I’m concerned with your ability to contemplate and concentrate. And while you ruminate on that, this will make you fulminate: tell me, do you ejaculate when you mastur—”

  “We get the idea, John,” Paul cut in sharply, averting his face from Elliot as he crossed the room; he didn’t dare look at George, who was howling hysterically. Instead, he turned to Richecourt. “Welcome to Charmantes,” he greeted, once he could speak without laughing. “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll ring for refreshments. No doubt you’re weary from the journey.”

  As they found seats, Paul turned to the bell-pull, casting murderous eyes upon John, who smiled sheepishly back at him. Elliot glared at John in utter disbelief, his face beet red, but he didn’t dare open his mouth, lest he be cut down quickly.

  John is in rare form today, Charmaine thought. She wondered why he called Mr. Richecourt “Mr. Pitchfork.” There had to be a reason.

  Richecourt summarized the business matters he would address in detail later on in the week, then eyed John, who lounged in an armchair, thumbing through a magazine, his booted legs propped on the low table. “John,” he called, “Geoffrey has prepared some important documents at your broker’s request.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” Geoffrey jumped in, composed and ready to begin anew, “and I will personally bring them back to Richmond. Mr. Bradley needs them posthaste if he is to finalize agreements before others step in to undercut your price.” He placed his valise on the table and fished out a thick stack of papers, a quill, and a bottle of ink. “Here, I can show you where to sign.”

  “Leave them with me, Geffey,” John replied, “I want to read them first.”

  “I assure you everything is in shipshape order, just as your broker specified.” He dipped the pen and extended it to John. “Now, allow me—”

  “No, Geffey, I’ll read them first,” John insisted, “lest I end up shipping ladies’ undergarments to West Point instead of tobacco to Europe.”

  Elliot’s face reddened again.

  The twins came skipping across the porch, petitioning Charmaine to take them into town to fetch their dresses. When she agreed, she caught Geoffrey Elliot’s interested gaze on her. “We’ll have to take the carriage,” she said.

  Yvette nodded, then turned to her brother. “Johnny? Will you come, too?”

  “Yes, I’ll come,” he agreed, happy to disengage himself from the pompous Geoffrey Elliot III. “Will you show me your dresses?” he asked. “Or will you hide them away until Saturday?”

  “We’ll show you!” Jeannette exclaimed. “They came all the way from Paris! Stepmother ordered them for us last fall, but we’ve grown since then, and Mrs. Thompson had to make quite a few adjustments. I can’t wait to try mine on!”

  “And what of Mademoiselle Charmaine? Will she model hers as well?”

  Paul’s eyes shot to Charmaine. He had yet to see the expensive finery.

  “Why?” Yvette questioned.

  “I want to see if it meets with my approval,” John replied.

  Paul’s scowl darkened, and Charmaine’s cheeks burned, knowing the twins waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, John only chuckled. “I’ll ask Gerald to ready the carriage,” he offered, tossing the magazine onto the table.

  “But, Mr. Duvoisin,” Geoffrey objected, “what about your contracts?”

  “Don’t get your knickers twisted, Geffey,” he called over his shoulder, already out the door, “or there won’t be a Geoffrey Elliot IV.”

  Paul watched as Charmaine and the twins followed, disconcerted by the expression on Charmaine’s face. She looked pleased. He’d seen that expression a few times already this week, and he didn’t like it— he didn’t like it at all.

  John heard the twins’ voices as he climbed the stairs, and he strode to the open bedroom doorway to say goodnight. He was surprised to find his father there, sitting on Jeannette’s bed, telling them a story about a gentleman pirate, Frederic’s father, Jean Duvoisin II.

  Apparently, he was tucking them into bed. Perhaps this transformation Charmaine had talked about yesterday was real.

  “Did he truly steal ships and plunder treasures?” Jeannette asked.

  “He always claimed he did,” Frederic chuckled. “But I think he exaggerated a bit for my sake. What he actually did was look the other way when pirate ships entered Charmantes’ coves. They found safe haven here, and in return, they didn’t attack my father’s merchant ships.”

  Frederic looked up to find John standing in the doorway. They hadn’t spoken since Saturday afternoon, and he didn’t want the week to go on like this, cringing again with the memory of Saturday’s dispute. If the mood remained strained, John would leave for Virginia as soon as Paul’s gala ended.

  “Come in, John,” he encouraged with a smile. “I was telling Yvette and Jeannette about their grandfather.”

  “He was a pirate!” Yvette exclaimed as John hesitated and then stepped across the threshold, settling on the end of her bed.

  “So I’ve been told,” John replied mildly.

  Frederic’s eyes danced. “And your brother is following in his footsteps,” he declared, looking pointedly at John and gaining all of their quizzical regards.

  “He is?” Yvette queried.

  “First of all, he’s named after his grandfather. Jean means John.”

  “But Johnny is not a pirate, Papa,” Jeannette reasoned.

  “He is— of sorts.”

  Again, Frederic’s gleaming gaze met John’s raised brow.

  “But Johnny wouldn’t smuggle diamonds and gold,” Yvette countered, certain her father was telling a tall tale. “He’s already rich!”

  “There are other things to smuggle besides treasure, Yvette,” Frederic replied. “But let us save that story for another night. It is time to turn down the lamps.”

  Despite their protests, he leaned heavily on his cane and rose from the bed. He doused the light and kissed them goodnight. He and John stepped into the hallway together.

  As John turned toward his own chambers, Frederic called to him. “John, we have guests arriving during the week, brokers from Boston and New York. I’ve been told you suggested they contact Paul.”

  “I did,” John nodded.

  “Since you know these gentlemen, would you be willing to entertain them at the celebration Saturday night? I understand tensions run high between Southerners and Northerners these days, and I want everyone to keep a level head. I thought I’d have them at their own table with you seated there.”

  “That’s fine, Father,” John said.

  Frederic hadn’t moved, and John knew he had more to say. Finally he spoke, his voice earnest. “I’m glad you came home, John. I wasn’t spying on you, and I didn’t ask Westphal to get that information. I was as astonished as you.”

  “My aunt has been very busy, then. I’m not surprised. She has always hated me. I deserve it now, but I didn’t when I was a child.”

  Frederic nodded. He thought about asking John to reconsider his request to be taken off the will, but stopped short of broaching the topic. He knew John had made up his mind, so he turned toward the stairs instead. “Goodnight, John.”<
br />
  “Goodnight, Father.”

  Tuesday, April 3, 1838

  John rose early, but not early enough. His sisters were not in the nursery. He turned from the doorway, but had a change of heart and stepped into the room.

  Unlike last night, all was peaceful. He was alone, alone with his memories. He crossed to Pierre’s empty bed and sat gingerly. He caressed the pillow, remembering the last time he sat here.

  Charmaine was three steps into the children’s bedroom before she realized John was there. Embarrassed, he stood and turned away, wiping at his face with his forearm. She wanted to cross the chamber and comfort him, but knew he wanted to bury his sorrow, not reopen the healing wound. Most times it’s easier to cry than to laugh. Now she understood, truly understood.

  “We are going for a stroll. Would you like to come along?” she offered.

  “No,” he rasped. “I’d rather be alone today.”

  Charmaine hesitated, then turned away, leaving him to his mourning.

  Wednesday, April 4, 1838

  Charmaine grabbed the doorknob and pushed into the study, coming up sharply as she found herself in the midst of a meeting between John, Edward Richecourt, Geoffrey Elliot, and another man she did not recognize. All three men shifted in their seats as she entered, conversation suspended, their eyes fixed on her. She, in turn, regarded John, who lounged in the large desk chair, his elbows propped casually on the armrests, one booted leg crossed over his knee, and Jeannette’s cat in his lap. Fleetingly, she thought he was angry, perhaps at her, for barging in so unceremoniously.

  “I—excuse me,” she stammered and began to back out of the room, groping behind her for the doorknob.

  John’s voice cut across her apology. “Miss Ryan, where are my sisters?”

  She was stunned by his formality, the annoyance on his face.

  “They are with your father. I had some time to myself.”

  “You mean leisure time,” he corrected tersely.

  “Yes,” she capitulated, still taken aback. Is this meeting confidential?

  “Miss Ryan, you are not paid for leisure time. So, since you have nothing to do right now, I will find something.”

  Charmaine stood dumbfounded. Was he Agatha in disguise or was he showing off in front of the lawyers? Maybe he was out of his mind.