A Silent Ocean Away (17 page)

Paul threw up his hands in exasperation. “Tobacco is just a suggestion, a crop the family has experience with, but if some dramatic changes aren’t made, Charmantes will be in deep trouble. She’s bringing in minimal revenue now.”

“I can see you have something else in mind. What is it?”

Paul inhaled. “Go back to the other island and finish what you started there four years ago.”

Frederic’s countenance blackened. “The land is cursed.”

“That’s ridiculous, Father. What happened on Charmantes had nothing to do with Espoir.”

“If I had been here—”

Paul’s own anger flared. “We’re not going to go over this again! What’s done is done! The other island is there. It’s fertile. It’s partially cleared. You’ve built a bondsmen keep—constructed a dock. It’s begging to be developed!”

“You do it,” Frederic interrupted.

“What?”

“You heard me. I give it to you. It’s yours, Paul. Do with it as you will.”

Paul frowned in disbelief. “You’re serious? You’ll allow me free rein?”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll give you enough money to contract the building of three ships—your ships—expressly designed to transport your sugar. You will also need a fourth vessel for the treks between Espoir and Charmantes. Purchase a considerably smaller packet, something ancient. In addition, I’ll supply the funds to acquire an indentured crew. How many men will you need: twenty, thirty?”

“Twenty will be more than sufficient,” Paul breathed, his jaw slackened in amazement.

“Very well, then,” Frederic continued, his mind working rigorously now. “Set up a meeting with Stephen Westphal. We’ll need to liquidate some funds, but for the balance, our bank seal and the Duvoisin name should hold some weight in the States and Europe. I suggest you commission the ships in Newportes Newes or Baltimore. Best to check with shipbuilders in New York as well. If the southern costs come in too high, quote the New York estimates to them.”

“American-built vessels? But the British tariffs—”

“Construction costs should come in at least twenty percent lower than any bark you could commission in Britain. From what I’ve been reading, European shipbuilders can’t compete with the States’ plentiful lumber. If you contract the building of three vessels, the savings should be considerable. That alone will outweigh any British import tax. The newest clippers have proven advantageous to many shipping magnates, and America seems to be leading the fray in perfecting them. Speed, not imposed tariffs, should be the deciding factor.”

“What of steam propulsion as opposed to fully rigged sail?”
Paul asked in waxing excitement. “They are cutting crossing times in half. I’d like your permission to look into that as well.”

Frederic nodded, feeding off his son’s exuberance. “By all means. You’ll have to travel to Britain for the bondsmen. While there, contact the Harrison shipping firm. They can vouch for progress with the paddlewheel. Perhaps they could be persuaded to share information concerning the success of their own steam fleet. Now, if you are as excited about this as you appear to be, it is prudent not to delay. I suggest you leave as soon as monies are made available through Stephen.”

Paul’s mind was reeling. This couldn’t be happening! All these years, he had dreamed of owning a piece of the Duvoisin fortune. To John, the prospect meant nothing. John was the legitimate heir, therefore, the Duvoisin fortune had always been there for the taking. Paul, on the other hand, had labored long and hard for his father, and still, after ten years, remained his loyal son, nothing more. Today, the long journey had come to an end. Somewhere along the way, he had proven himself worthy; he was finally being offered his deepest desire—his rightful share of the Duvoisin holdings. Suddenly, he was smiling broadly, and Frederic was happy to know he had pleased at least one son this day.

“It will be mine?” he whispered. “Not to be shared with John?”

“It will be yours, Paul,” his sire avowed, “all yours. No interference from John, no conferring with John, no dependence upon John. I should have done this a long time ago. You’ve been a good son. You deserve more.”

“Thank you, sir,” Paul said with the utmost respect. “I’ll contact Stephen.”

Paul’s mood was far different when everyone gathered at the dinner table that evening. The children were equally lighthearted,
and Charmaine regarded George, Rose, and Colette, who seemed part of the same merry conspiracy. As the meal progressed, she grew more befuddled and petitioned Jeannette for an answer. “Why is everyone so happy?”

“You’ll see,” was all the girl would say, and Charmaine caught Colette’s wink. But Pierre was unable to keep silent and blurted out, “Mainie’s birfday!”

“Pierre!” Yvette scolded. “You’ve gone and spoiled the surprise!”

“The surprise?” Charmaine asked, her eyes arcing around the table until they rested on Paul, who raised a brow in pretended confusion.

“Da-tay…da-tay…
ta
-day is Mainie’s birfday!” Pierre happily repeated.

The kitchen door swung open, and Fatima barreled into the room carrying a cake. In unison, the children shouted, “Happy Birthday!”

Charmaine’s hands flew to her mouth. “How did you know?” she asked, missing Agatha’s disdainful scowl.

Colette smiled. “You mentioned it to Jeannette months ago during your first picnic, and she told me right away. I just hoped she wasn’t mistaken about the date, but I had no way of asking without making you suspicious.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Charmaine murmured, realizing just how much this family had come to mean to her.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jeannette piped in.

“Yes, she does,” Yvette insisted. “She has to say how old she is!”

“I’m nineteen. And I hope to share many more birthdays with all of you.”

Satisfied, the children began begging her to cut the cake.

Colette helped Pierre down from his chair, and he ran to Charmaine with a small package in his hand. “Happy Birfday!” he said, giving her a kiss.

“What is this?”

“A birfday pwesent.”

Charmaine lifted the lid to find a lovely, and certainly expensive, set of ivory hair combs within. “Wherever did you get them?” she asked Colette.

“At Maddy’s mercantile. I asked Paul to select them.” Colette indicated her accomplice.

“And you had better wear them,” he warned drolly. “It took me all morning to decide which ones would suit you.”

“Thank you,” she said, wondering how she could ever reciprocate their generosity. “Each of you must share your birth date with me. Colette?”

Yvette answered for her mother. “Mama and Pierre’s birthdays are the same: March thirty-first.”

“Truly?”

With Colette’s nod of confirmation, Charmaine looked at Paul.

“Don’t worry, Charmaine,” he said, cognizant of her motives for asking, “Fatima remembers every birthday in this house.”

Satisfied, Charmaine began cutting the cake.

Wednesday, December 21, 1836

Paul was leaving Charmantes. He was traveling on the
Black Star
, a ship that had berthed on the island yesterday and would set sail the day after Christmas. He was headed to several Southern ports: Newportes Newes, Richmond, and Baltimore, then up to New York and lastly, Britain. In his three months abroad, he would commission the construction of three ships, purchase a fourth, and hire a new crew of indentured servants to clear and cultivate his new island, “Sacré Espoir,” pronounced “Sock-ray Es-pwahr,” meaning “Sacred Hope.” When finished, he’d travel home and begin developing it. He was very happy.

Charmaine was melancholy. Though Paul promised to be back before Easter, the coming weeks would be long and empty. She was falling in love with him, a disturbing condition exacerbated by the fact that he’d kept her at arm’s length for nearly three months now. Still, she would miss him, miss his presence in the house each night, miss his easy banter, miss the times when he’d pull out her chair or hold the door open for her, miss his handsome smile that set her heart racing. If only he had kissed her, just once.

Tonight Stephen Westphal was to visit again. He, Paul, and Frederic would make final arrangements. Frederic would sign vouchers, and Paul would be set for the voyage ahead of him. Mr. Westphal would stay for dinner.

Agatha Ward seemed pleased and traipsed happily about the house the entire day, leaving Colette and Charmaine to wonder over her uncommon behavior.

In the late afternoon, just after the banker had arrived, Colette and Charmaine shared a glass of chilled tea on the front portico. The weather was pleasant, and the children were playing on the lawn, running here and there. Jeannette took charge of Pierre, mindful of his well-being. They chuckled over their antics.

When the moment seemed right, Charmaine withdrew two envelopes from her apron pocket. Both Jeannette and Yvette had written to their brother this time, and she looked to Colette for advice. “Do you think Paul would mind if I asked him to deliver these letters to John? He mentioned stopping in Richmond.”

“He will not mind,” she answered firmly, aware of Charmaine’s misgivings. “For all their rivalry, they’re still brothers and very close.”

“That is not the way it appears.”

“They’re brothers,” Colette reiterated, “and brothers often quarrel. I know I used to with Pierre.”

“Pierre?”

Colette laughed now. “My brother, Pierre. He and my mother died shortly after the twins were born.”

“I’m sorry,” Charmaine whispered.

Colette suppressed the painful memory. “He was born a cripple and unable to walk. Now he is at peace…in heaven.”

“What of your father?” Charmaine asked cautiously.

“He died when I was very young,” she answered, her voice no longer sorrowful. “I hardly remember him. My mother had a difficult time raising us. We were gentry, so my father lost a great deal of his fortune in the years following the French Revolution. By the time I attended a lady’s school in Paris, my mother’s funds were nearly depleted.”

“Why Paris, then?”

Colette grew distant. “It was near the university and offered an opportunity to meet a rich gentleman…or at least the son of a rich gentleman. You see, my brother was constantly ill, the physicians’ fees mounting. A wealthy husband could resolve my mother’s financial difficulties, perhaps foster Pierre’s cure. Or so I was told.”

“Is that why you married Mr. Duvoisin?”

Colette knew the question was coming, had encouraged it. “That was one of the reasons, but there were others. The situation became complicated.”

“He must have been very handsome,” Charmaine encouraged.

“He still is,” Colette averred, smiling now. “And I was attracted to him from the moment we met. But I was intimidated by him as well.”

The minutes gathered. “Frederic is a good man, Charmaine. He’s instilled in his sons values they don’t even credit to him. And he’s been a good husband to me. I know at times he appears gruff, but his stroke has left deep scars.”

“I realize that,” Charmaine said.

“When we were first married, Frederic restored my mother to a comfortable life. In addition, he took care of my brother and all his medical expenses. Pierre wanted for nothing that last year, receiving the best treatment the Duvoisin money could buy. And of course, he gave me two beautiful daughters…and a handsome son.”

Charmaine breathed deeply. “Did you ever love him?” she probed, sad that this woman had sacrificed herself for the welfare of her family.

“I love him still,” she said, her voice cracking. “But it wasn’t easy for Frederic after the girls were born. I was forbidden to have any more children.”

“It had to be just as difficult for you,” Charmaine reasoned.

“Yes and no,” she replied, turning away. “As I said, it became very complicated.” The subject was closed, and they fell silent.

Colette considered Charmaine and wondered when the younger woman would speak about her own past. She instinctively knew Charmaine’s recollections contained elements of pain as well.
If not today, soon.
Her musings were interrupted by a most unexpected question.

“What is John like?”

Colette weighed her answer, determined to give an unbiased opinion. “He’s an enigma—a one of a kind.”

“The good kind or the bad kind?”

Colette smiled. “That depends on who’s describing him. There are those who despise him to the core, and there are those who love him until it hurts. With John there is no middle ground. You either hate him or love him, and it’s usually in that order.”

“The men of this family certainly don’t love him.”

Colette hesitated again, as if she were looking for the right words to explain a paradoxical dilemma. “Due to my husband’s
stroke, Paul and Frederic
think
they hate John, and he, in turn
thinks
he hates them. I’m certain you’ve heard all the rumors, Charmaine. Most of them are true. John and Frederic had a terrible altercation and when it was over, Frederic was left as he is today—crippled, in mind as well as body. Paul was there, and he blames John for what happened. Unfortunately, the wound has yet to heal.”

“Why don’t you blame John?”

Colette sighed forlornly. “He isn’t to blame and was hurt as well. Everyone sided with Frederic, including me. I’m afraid John hates me for it. He harbors the same asperity that eats away at his father. They are alike in so many ways. Yet, each of them would vehemently deny any similarity.”

“Alike?” Charmaine pursued. “How so?”

“Their charisma, their self-assuredness, the manner in which they assess a person. Once John passes judgment, he rarely changes it, and more often than not, his assessment is correct. Heaven forbid if his judgment is damning. There is all hell to pay, and hell is a sight more lenient than John’s sharp tongue. Frederic is the same way—uncompromising to a fault.”

“Do
you
like him?”

“Who? John?” Colette laughed. “Look at my daughters, Charmaine. They’d have my head if they heard me say otherwise. But when I first met John, I despised him.” She grew thoughtful, her eyes cast beyond her surroundings as if she could see across time. “Someday,” she said softly, “you will meet him and understand what I mean…Just remember, Charmaine, you hate him first.”