A Silent Ocean Away (30 page)

“I have no idea,” Paul grunted. “You realize he went to Virginia?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t know, Paul,” his father replied, rubbing his chin, “I don’t know.”

“If it hasn’t happened by now, George will probably come home alone.”

Frederic remained silent, deep in thought as he stared into the distance. When he did speak, he was directing his attention back to the documents, lifting them from his desk and rereading them.

“I know you were upset about Pierre and my will,” he commented, to Paul’s discomfort. “But I want you to know I realize which son has remained beside me, who deserves the credit for nurturing enormous profits here on Charmantes, even in the face of our depleted cane fields. It was for this reason I placed Espoir in your hands and invested in its future. I would like to know that when I die, you will own a share of what you’ve helped to build.”

“Yes, sir,” Paul said, embarrassed by his father’s praise. “Thank you, sir.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Agatha, come in,” Frederic invited. “I would like to place you in charge of something.”

Though he knew she was pleased with his enthusiastic welcome, she eyed him suspiciously. He chuckled. “I’ve been thinking about this for some time now, but I shall need help with the details. I’m certain it will meet with your approval.” He breathed deeply, then shifted in his chair. “Paul predicts the ships will make their maiden crossing before Christmastide. Correct?”

“Yes,” Paul confirmed, though he, too, appeared apprehensive.

“This is what I propose: we plan a grand celebration on Charmantes over the Christmas holiday.”

“Celebration?” The word dropped in unison from Paul and Agatha’s lips.

“Yes.” Frederic regarded his son. “According to you, it will take
a year before Espoir is in full production. In that time, it would be foolish to forge the Atlantic with half-empty ships. I say we bring Paul Duvoisin to the public eye, set him before the world marketplace. Why not advertise to farmers—both in Virginia and the Caribbean—the availability of your new fleet, and allow these tobacco, cane, and cocoa farmers, as well as their brokers, to bid on your transport services?”

He paused, enjoying their reactions. His wife’s eyes twinkled in burgeoning excitement, while his son appeared thunderstruck.

He pressed on. “Why place all your coins on one bet? Yes, I’m certain Espoir will produce profitable harvests for years to come, but the ships may prove more lucrative in the long run. Additional vessels can always be commissioned if need be, and so much the better if that becomes necessary.”

Agatha was elated. “This is marvelous, Frederic, just marvelous! If Paul is jumping into the shipping world, men of influence must be told. And what better way than to invite them here to Charmantes for an unforgettable event?”

“Exactly,” Frederic agreed. “We shall plan a week of activities, which will include the unveiling of Espoir, the christening of Paul’s fleet, and the signing of contracts. We’ll extend invitations to well-known businessmen, brokers, and prosperous farmers both in Virginia and the West Indies. Let these landowners see what we Duvoisins have built; witness our undisputed success. Let them bid on cargo space or better still, invest in additional ships.”

“Let them long for a piece of it!” Agatha interjected dramatically.

Frederic nodded. “And then, after all the proper connections have been made, we will culminate the festivities with a grand dinner and ball.”

“Father,” Paul breathed, “what can I say?”

“I gather you approve?” Frederic asked.

“I do, but…” His words dropped off as concern for his father’s health came to the fore.

“Yes?” Frederic queried.

“Are you fit for this?”

“I’ll be fit,” he vowed. “For you, Paul, I’ll make every effort to be fit. I shall write to Larabee and Richecourt in Virginia. They can supply the names of the men we should contact in the States. After the invitations go out and the positive responses begin to reach us, I’ll rely on you, Agatha, to coordinate the other arrangements. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Absolutely!” she purred.

“Then it’s settled. My only reservation is burdening you with additional work, Paul.”

“On the contrary,” his son responded. “Espoir has fallen into its own routine, the overseers conscientious. By the end of next month, I should be able to manage its production from Charmantes, traveling there every week or so. As for this venture”—and he shook his head, still in awe of what his father had planned—“it sounds as if you and Agatha will be taking on far more than I. I’m dumbfounded, actually. This is wonderful!”

When Frederic was alone, he sighed, happy for the first time in months.

Charmaine entered the drawing room. Pierre was sound asleep, and now she turned her attention on the girls. They begged to stay up a bit longer, playing a duet on the piano. When Paul smiled her way, Charmaine capitulated. He’d dined with them for the first time in two weeks and hadn’t rushed off as he normally did directly after dinner. He’d been exceptionally charming throughout the meal, his countenance every bit as amiable now. If she insisted
the twins retire, she’d no longer have a reason to return to the drawing room once they were in bed. She’d be wise to make the most of the next few minutes.

Unfortunately, they were not alone. Agatha sat with her needlepoint, Rose with her knitting. Bravely, Charmaine crossed the room and settled next to Paul on the settee, gaining a lazy smile that widened into an intense perusal.

He relaxed into the cushions, his arm outstretched across the back of the sofa. “Now, isn’t this nice?” he whispered.

She blushed.

“I wish I were home more often,” he continued softly.

“You’re returning to Espoir in the morning?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. However, the work is progressing nicely there, the house nearly finished. It won’t be long before I can rely on my overseers full-time. Then, you’ll be seeing a great deal more of me.” He shifted a discernible degree closer. “Would you like that?”

Her blush deepened. It was answer enough. Her innocence and visible discomfiture fed a quickening in his loins. It was what he loved most about her.

Shortly afterward, Rose stood to say good night, and Charmaine and the girls did the same. Paul watched them go, then flipped open a periodical.

Agatha looked up. They were alone, an unprecedented occasion. She set her needlepoint aside and studied him. He was so very handsome, so much like his father. “Paul,” she began cautiously, waiting for him to give her his full attention, accepting the frown of annoyance he shot her way as he dragged his eyes from the newspaper. “I know you don’t like me.”

He began to object, but she waved him off. “Please, allow me to say what I have to say, and then you can respond.”

He leaned forward.

“I realize you were unhappy when your father and I wed, but I intend to make him happy, truly happy. I’ve loved him for a very long time.”

“Since I was a boy,” he supplied.

“Yes,” she agreed. “But I wasn’t at liberty to marry him then.” She bit her bottom lip, distraught. “Don’t judge me harshly, Paul. Thomas, God rest his soul, was a good man, and I loved him as well, but never as I have loved your father.”

“And?”

“And I thought perhaps we could come to an understanding.”

“What type of understanding?”

“I like you, Paul. When you were young and I would come to visit, you were always polite, always respectful—unlike your brother.” She grimaced in repugnance, pausing for emphasis. “This afternoon, I was proud to be included in these plans your father is making. I would like this enterprise to succeed beyond your wildest expectations. But mostly, I’d like your approval as I lend a hand in the coming months.”

“Agatha, any effort that contributes to the success of this event will gain my approbation. I am glad my father is getting involved again, and if this new venture gives him purpose, so much the better. Likewise, if you lend a hand in raising him out of his misery, I commend you on that as well.”

“Thank you, Paul.” Her smile was genuine—beautiful. “I’ve no doubt you will do well for yourself. You are more than just a handsome young man…” She let her words fall where they would, then stood and bade him good night.

For the second time that day, he was astonished.

Friday, August 18, 1837

B
Y
nine o’clock the children were sound asleep, and Charmaine had time to herself. She dismissed the idea of spending the remainder of the evening in the drawing room. Only Agatha and Rose would be there, and although Agatha no longer harassed her, Charmaine still avoided her. She did not need companionship that badly, so she rang for Millie, deciding to take a bath instead.

An hour later, she was finished and sat at her dressing table, working out the tangles in her damp hair. “It’s too darn curly!” she grumbled. Like so many other nights, she tossed the comb aside and grabbed her wooden hairbrush, but it failed just as miserably. She was not in the mood and abruptly sent the brush sailing, where it hit the door and dropped to the floor. Dissatisfied still, she fingered the sewing shears on the table. In the building humidity, it would take hours for the thick mane to dry. How easy it would be to clip it short. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Pushing back from the dressing table, she moved to the French doors. There she stood, allowing the evening breeze to lift the heavy locks
off her neck, her fingers absentmindedly raking through the snarls.

Footsteps resounded on the portico below. Paul was on his way to the stable. Charmaine hadn’t realized he was home and frowned at her decision to remain in her chambers. Nothing was going right. If she had known he was in the house, she’d have gladly withstood Agatha’s disapproving airs to be in his presence.

She shook her head free of the thought. He’d confounded her over the past two months: setting her heart to racing, yet remaining aloof, always flirting, suggesting he found her attractive, yet never whispering words of endearment. He had turned her world upside down, and she didn’t like it. She had always been sure of herself, not flustered and confused.

A sound from across the lawns drew her away from her musings. She looked toward the paddock. Paul emerged from the stables and walked back to the house. Evidently, he wasn’t leaving, just checking on Chastity, the mare due to foal.

She hung her head, knowing it was best to stop thinking about him. She’d come to the conclusion she was merely a distraction—someone to toy with when she was present, but easily forgotten when she wasn’t. Hadn’t he dismissed her from his thoughts each time he left for Espoir? Certainly, she didn’t plague his waking hours as he did hers. After all, she was only the governess. He had made it quite clear she would please him in bed. As for a decent proposal, it would never happen. Thus, she’d be wise to avoid him. What had Colette said?
He’s a ladies’ man
…
I’d hate to see you give your heart to someone who has no intention of returning your love.
If she didn’t heed Colette’s warning, she’d be nursing a broken heart
. Put him from your mind,
she reasoned,
forget what his kiss would have been like. Be happy you were in your room tonight
.
The less you see of Paul, the better.

A knock resounded on her door, and she invited Millie and
Joseph Thornfield into the chamber. They’d come to empty the tub and take it away. Charmaine waited until the boy had waddled off with two brimming buckets, then spoke nonchalantly to his sister. “I noticed Master Paul going into the stables, but he didn’t leave. It’s awfully late. Is something amiss?”

“He is worried about the mare,” Millie replied as she straightened from the tub, a third bucket in hand. “She’s been whinnying all evening, but it’s too early for her to foal. He’s sent for Martin.”

“Martin?”

“The town farrier,” Millie explained, then shuddered in exaggerated revulsion. “A disgusting man, who’s full of himself, if you know what I mean. Once he’s been asked to help with the horses, he makes himself right at home. I just hope he doesn’t barge in here like he did the last time—midnight it was—rousing the entire house so someone would make him something to eat.”

Charmaine had never met this Martin, but she seemed to remember Yvette mentioning him once. “I don’t think you need worry,” she said. “Surely he won’t behave badly with Master Paul at home.”

“You think not?” Millie countered. “He’s downright rude to Master Paul, and Master Paul indulges him—all because Dr. Blackford refuses to minister to horses anymore.”

Joseph returned and refilled his buckets. This time, Millie left with him. One more trip, and the tub was removed, and Charmaine was once again alone.

Thunder rumbled far off, and the drapes flapped in a hearty breeze. She closed the French doors and tiptoed into the children’s room. Yvette was sleeping ramrod straight, her thin blanket tucked under each arm. Jeannette’s linens had been kicked aside, and Charmaine drew them over her again. Pierre was nearly snoring, one fat thumb stuck in his pudgy mouth, the other hand clutching his stuffed lamb. Stroking back his hair, she kissed him on the
forehead, her love abounding as she considered him a moment longer. Then, hearing the first droplets of rain, she latched the glass doors and returned to her room.

The storm was rapidly approaching, the thunder growing louder, bringing with it a sense of dread. She turned down the oil lamp on the night table, knelt to say her prayers, and climbed into bed. Already the night resurrected memories of Colette, simulating that terrible day before her demise. Charmaine hugged her pillow and squeezed her eyes shut, awaiting the worst…

But the worst did not come. The foyer clock tolled eleven, and the storm continued to toy with them. Though it rumbled, it did not roar, as if it were purposefully holding back, circling them, waiting for the kill.

Footsteps on the staircase eased the tension. Paul was retiring. Perhaps now she’d be able to sleep, knowing he was close by and would protect her.

That comforting thought soon took wing. The heavens ripped apart, and the tempest unleashed its full fury on the house. Violent, sporadic wind drove sheets of rain into the French doors. They rattled loudly in objection. Blinding lightning lit up the room, and earsplitting thunder replied, the former rivaling the latter in its power, as if the two were fighting for the upper hand. Then, they were lashing out simultaneously, and Charmaine shrunk under the blanket, curled up and trembling, bracing herself for each explosion, frightened of the interim silence as well, a void that amplified other eerie sounds…

She attempted to ignore the rustling of clothing near her bed, but the cold, clammy hand that touched her arm was real, and she screamed, throwing back the linens to escape. Thankfully, the sound was swallowed by another roar of thunder, for there, standing next to her bed, was a quaking Jeannette and in the doorway to the children’s room, Yvette, patting back a wide yawn.

“Sweet Jesus!” Charmaine cried, clamping a hand over her bosom. “I’m sorry, Jeannette, but you frightened me.” She laughed in gargantuan relief, holding out her arms to the petrified girl, who eagerly fell into them.

Yvette moved to the foot of the bed. “You’re afraid of this storm?” she queried in disgust.

Charmaine nodded, feeling quite foolish now. “Even more than Jeannette.”

“She isn’t frightened of thunderstorms,” Yvette countered.

“No? Then why are you here?” Charmaine asked, looking down at the twin who had yet to speak.

“Someone was standing over my bed,” Jeannette whimpered, trembling.

“That’s what woke her,” Yvette added. “She didn’t believe me when I said it was you, coming to check on us.”

Charmaine smoothed back Jeannette’s hair. “Yvette is right. I did look in on you, sweetheart. I even covered you up. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

But the girl shook her head adamantly, fear sparkling in her wide eyes. “It wasn’t you. It was a ghost that ran away when I turned over!”

Charmaine gave her another hug. “You must have been dreaming, a nightmare brought on by the storm, no doubt. Come,” she encouraged, taking the lamp from her night table, “back to bed with you.”

“I wasn’t dreaming!” Jeannette cried. “I wasn’t! I saw it, and it wasn’t you. It ran out the French doors. It’s on the veranda right now, waiting for me!”

“I wouldn’t let anything harm you, Jeannette,” Charmaine averred, “but I can’t be brave alone. Won’t you help me? We’ll go back into your room together, and with the light of the lamp, you will see there is nothing there to frighten you. All right?”

Jeannette nodded tremulously, taking Charmaine’s hand. As they entered the nursery, they were buffeted by a chilling draft. The French doors were swinging on their hinges, the room at the mercy of the storm.

“Why didn’t you close them?” Charmaine demanded, placing the lamp on the dresser. But as she rushed over to the wind-beaten panels, face turned away from the pelting rain, a spine-tingling aura took hold, and she came up short. Petrified, she slammed the doors shut, slipped the latch into place, and jumped back, grateful no ghost had appeared from beyond.

Expelling a shuddering breath, she surveyed the damage. The drapes and rug were drenched. Laundering them would have to wait until morning, but she pulled a towel from the bureau and mopped up the floor.

Next she checked on Pierre. He hadn’t budged, which seemed almost unnatural. The storm hadn’t subsided. In fact, with the French doors open, it had been magnified, yet he’d slept through it all.

“As you can see, there was no one on the balcony,” she said. “I think your ghost was nothing more than those billowing drapes, Jeannette. After all, your bed is the closest to the veranda.”

The girl remained unconvinced, complaining that without a lock, the doors could open again.

“I know what will help you go back to sleep,” Charmaine announced, hoping to defuse Jeannette’s fears, “warm milk and cookies. Now, climb into bed, and I’ll go get them. How would that be?”

Jeannette nodded, but jumped into bed with Yvette. “I’ll wait here,” she whispered. In the next moment, they were snuggling under the covers together, giggling softly.

Charmaine donned her robe, then lifted the lamp. But Jeannette immediately objected, begging her to leave it, so Charmaine lit a small candle instead. “I’ll be back in a short while,” she said.

As she walked down the hallway, the flickering flame cast grotesque shadows on the far walls, feeding her apprehension. Though she was getting good at timing the lightning and thunder, she was unprepared for the first toll of midnight and nearly jumped out of her skin when the foyer clock struck the hour. “Goodness,” she scolded herself, grabbing hold of the stairway balustrade, “what’s the matter with me? I’m acting like a frightened rabbit. There is no such thing as ghosts!” Then she began her descent.

With his dressing room door slightly ajar, Paul heard the sound of footfalls beyond, a shaky voice accompanying them. He opened the door and leaned casually against the frame, admiring the lovely vision before him. Charmaine Ryan was indeed a fetching sight, even more so in her state of dishabille: hair unbound and thin robe drawn taut, accentuating her slender waist and shapely hips. She had turned into a temptress, and his mind wandered back to the night in the drawing room, some two weeks ago, when she had brazenly chosen to sit next to him. She was ready for the plucking, of that he was certain, but it was exceedingly difficult to corner her alone…until tonight. He smiled wickedly. Hadn’t he hoped for an occasion such as this? What better time than when everyone else was in bed? Yes, what better time indeed!

Although the storm had lulled, Charmaine was by no means relieved. The house was shrouded in darkness, her passage illuminated only by the candle and the erratic flashes of lightning. Beyond that, she could not shake the feeling she was being watched, though it appeared as if everyone had retired. Fear tied a knot in the pit of her belly, and she hastened past the study, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. “I was a fool to suggest coming down here.”

She began humming to blot out the creaks and ticks emanat
ing from the dark recesses of the kitchen. The haunting melody she had been forbidden to play on the piano spontaneously came to her lips, and oddly, she felt at ease, secure. Haunting, indeed! She warmed the milk without spilling it and found the cookies Mrs. Henderson had baked that morning, placing everything, including her nearly extinguished candle, on a serving tray. Then she retraced her steps.

As she emerged from the dining room, a burst of lightning silhouetted the figure of a man standing near the study doorway. Darkness instantly enveloped the corridor, and he was gone. Charmaine gasped, but the ensuing roar of thunder muffled the sound.

“
Who’s there?
” she called, praying her eyes had deceived her.

The apparition was real. Paul stepped into the circle of candlelight, bringing with him a draining relief that left her weak in the knees. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, moving closer, his hair mussed, his robe askew.

“I didn’t know anyone was awake,” she sputtered, slowly recovering.

“I heard you on the stairs and thought perhaps you were in need of company. But I can see I was mistaken.” He indicated the tray she balanced in her arms. “It was hunger, and not loneliness, that has you roaming the house at this late hour.”

Charmaine glanced down and laughed self-consciously. “This isn’t for me. It’s for the twins. They were awakened by the storm, and I thought a snack might help them fall back to sleep.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t detain you,” he said with a dynamic smile, “but I shall. Come…” He walked into the dark study.

Though his manner seemed benign, an inner voice counseled her not to follow. She went no farther than the door. “I really must see to the children. They were frightened,” she added lamely, “and if I don’t return shortly, they’ll begin to worry.”

“I’m certain they’ll survive a few moments longer,” he replied. “In fact, when you do return, you are likely to find them asleep.” He hoped his words proved true; the hour would be late when she left him. “Besides, Charmaine, aren’t you the least interested as to why I really followed you down here?”

She was intrigued, but before she could reply, he turned his back on her again and felt his way to the table with the tinderbox. There he struck the flint and lit the lamp, adjusting the wick. Its flame flared high, chasing the darkness to the far reaches of the library.