A Silent Ocean Away (34 page)

The day was still in its infancy when Charmaine carried her breakfast tray upstairs. Her steps were slow and burdened, lack of
sleep making the prospect of a full day with three healthy children wearisome before it had truly begun.

She gritted her teeth when she found the nursery vacant, angry the girls had disobeyed Paul’s instructions. Her morning was already spoiled, and she could thank John Duvoisin for that, too. Her meal would once again have to wait; she must find the children before Agatha did. Her head was pounding and her eyes still burned, conditions she was certain she would never shake off as long as John Duvoisin was around. But damning him would not locate her charges.

She headed toward the north wing, assuming perhaps they had gone to Rose’s chambers. Sounds from inside the room adjacent to her own, a room unoccupied, challenged that assumption. She stopped and listened—no talking, just a soft rustling. She knocked on the door. The rustling intensified, then nothing. She rapped on the door again and called out: “Yvette, Jeannette.” No answer, just the sound of scurrying footfalls. She called out again. “Are you in there?” Still, no reply. She pondered momentarily what to do. Perhaps it wasn’t the children. Jeannette would not have held silent. And yet, anyone else would have responded. Hence, she opened the door.

A gust of wind rushed past her, swirling around her legs and taking up her skirts, sweeping a ream of stationery off the nearby desk and raining its many sheets on the immaculate floor. As she stepped into the empty chamber, a second gale burst through the French doors, taking more paper to wing. Now she had a mess to clean up.

She closed the door to stem the stiff breeze and set to work. There were scores of blank sheets. Slowly, she straightened and replaced them. She abruptly stopped. There was a letter here—a very wrinkled and worn letter. Charmaine recognized the hand immediately, and her heartbeat quickened. It belonged to Colette. She
quickly placed the three pages in order and gasped when she found the first sheet.

John stood before his father, seething.

“Why don’t you sit down, John?” Frederic offered.

“I won’t be staying long,” came the rigid reply.

Frederic exhaled. “Welcome home.”

John snorted, further revolted by the false greeting. “I see Colette’s painting still hangs in the center hallway, Father. When will you be commissioning the artist to paint your third wife’s portrait?”

Frederic received the heavy sarcasm evenly. “You’ve seen Agatha?”

“Right after I found out about Colette’s death,” John answered virulently. “Not one slap in the face, but two! Tell me, Father, couldn’t you wait for Colette’s body to turn cold before you took another wife?”

“My marriage to Agatha has nothing to do with Colette.”

“You amaze me, Father. I think I’ve left a cripple behind, but look at you: you’re up and about, a veritable newlywed! Poor Paul, he thinks you can’t withstand another confrontation with me, but you
have
withstood two young wives, the last of which gave you a real run for your money. And here you are, only four months after Colette’s death, working on wife number three!” He shook his head in theatrical astonishment. “You must be slipping, though. Agatha’s rather old. I would have put money on the new governess
catching your eye. She’s more in line with your taste for virgin flesh, isn’t she?”

If Frederic had hoped John’s journey home was for any reason other than continuing where they had left off four years ago, he was mistaken. With his prayers for the morning swiftly desecrated, his heart took up a new beat, and his blood began to boil. And still John was talking, his words ruthless and baiting.

“Or could it be you’re ready to admit you’re too old for someone as young and fetching as Miss Ryan?” He paused for a moment, pretending at thought. “No, that can’t be it. You still have all that money to spend! And any young, impressionable maiden would salivate at your feet if you wagged that fortune in front of her, wouldn’t she?” He paused again, placing a fist under his chin as if the problem were too perplexing to figure out. Then, he lifted a finger in mock comprehension. “I know what it must be! Paul has laid claim to her and you wouldn’t dream of interfering. After all, he’s your shining star.”

Frederic had heard his fill. “You’ve come home to insult me, is that it?”

“Not quite,” John denied. “I came home because Colette wrote to me. You were aware of that, weren’t you?”

He relished the fire in his father’s eyes and eagerly pressed on. “She feared for the children. Now, let me see, what were her exact words? Ah yes: ‘If your father cannot put his bitterness behind him, the only love the children will have when I am gone is that of their governess and Nana Rose.’ But here’s the problem: Rose is terribly old, their governess is a little trollop falling all over Paul, and then there’s you, the father they never see—the bitter one. Such a happy family, isn’t it? Oh, but I forgot, now they have a stepmother. Won’t she make their lives just wonderful?”

“That’s enough!” Frederic ground out, his jaw clenched and twitching.

John smiled wickedly; he’d gained the desired result. “How does it feel, Father, to know your wife wrote to her
stepson
to request his aid in supplying the children with the love and affection they’d never get from you?”

“I am not surprised she wrote such a letter, John,” his father fired back. “She’s played you for the fool more than she has me.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Let us just say I was married to her for nine long years and came to know her in ways you can’t hope to imagine.”

John resisted the urge to deliver a hammering blow to his sire’s face. Instead, he damned him silently, a hatred unmatched, then turned away and escaped the room, slamming the door behind him. Agatha stood in the hallway, a tight smile of victory on her lips. John contemplated striking her, but curbed that weakness as well. With blood pounding in his ears, he headed for his chambers.

“Some things never change,” Frederic mumbled as he slouched into the armchair. “When will I accept that?” Burying his face in his hands, he massaged his brow. He had an excruciating headache.

Charmaine’s hands were trembling as her eyes flew over the letter.
Why had Colette written to John, especially after the way he had treated her?

She quickly folded the sheets and placed them back on the desk. But they unfolded slowly, inviting her to read on, and she glimpsed the date at the top of the first page: Wednesday, March 8, 1837—exactly one month before Colette’s death!

The penned endearment shouted up at her—
My dearest John
—words reserved for a loved one. According to Paul, Colette had suffered at John’s hands, and Colette had said John was angry with her.
Dear God
, Charmaine murmured, unable to attach reason to
it. Then again, Colette would have put aside rancor to make peace, to convert the demon with temperance.

Charmaine picked up the letter again, her eyes falling to the first paragraph, drinking in phrases not intended for her eyes.

George? The gossip was true! He
had
traveled to Virginia! The letter must have been extremely important to warrant the abandoning of his duties these many months. Charmaine continued to read, this time in the middle.

Suddenly, the hallway door banged open, and John stormed the chamber, grabbing hold of the rebounding door and slamming it shut with such force the walls vibrated. He was halfway into the room before he realized she was there, her loud gasp breaking through his violent thoughts.

What is she doing here?

And then he knew: clutched to her breast was a letter—his letter. This unsavory act was the last straw, and he exploded. “How dare you sneak into my room and rummage through my drawers for what you could find?”

Charmaine was too terrified to speak, her slackened jaw quivering. She was guilty of violating his privacy, and nothing could exonerate her.

“I’m waiting for an answer, demoiselle!”

“I—I’m sorry!” she sputtered, bursting into tears.

The letter slipped to the floor, and her legs propelled her forward. She didn’t get far. He caught hold of her as she skirted past, jerking her around to face him.

“Not so fast!” he snarled. “Why are you in my room?” He gave her a hard shake, his hands like vises biting into her flesh.

“I’m sorry!” she sobbed, writhing against his brutal fingers. “I didn’t know it was your room!”

Although her contrition was convincing, a torrid torment roiled in his heart, making it easy, satisfying in fact, to vent his wrath on this wench, who was digging herself into a deeper hole of dubious conduct every time he ran into her. Perhaps she wasn’t the vicious, manipulative Agatha Blackford Ward, the new Mrs. Frederic Duvoisin, but she was a conniving Jezebel all the same.

“You expect me to believe that?” he chortled insanely.

“I was looking for the children!” she cried.

“
In my desk drawer?
”

She wrenched one arm free, but his fist yanked the other painfully higher. “You’re hurting me!”

“Just as I suspected!” he sneered demonically. “You have no answer!”

He pushed her away, and she fell backward into the bed, sitting with a thump, massaging her throbbing arm. Although tears smudged her cheeks, her eyes were suddenly dry. They flashed with hatred, hatred for this man, another “John,” who was so much like her father. He had just sealed his fate. From this moment forward, their discourse could never be civil. He was a dog and would forever remain so. No matter Colette had written kind words to him, trying to reach his blackest of souls. But Charmaine was not Colette, did not have the fortitude to selflessly forgive.
Experience had taught her such attempts at peacemaking were futile. With jaw set, she pushed off the bed.

John didn’t falter under her display of courage. The moment she moved, so did he, checking her escape. “Now,” he growled icily, “I want the truth from you, or you’ll have more than a sore arm to rub when you leave this room!”

Charmaine shivered momentarily, but the embers of hatred had been stoked, and its fire eclipsed her fear. “I’ve told you the truth. I was searching for the children. I heard noises coming from inside this room, but when I called to them and they didn’t answer, I assumed they were up to some mischief. That’s when I opened the door. A draft blew the papers to the floor. I was merely picking—”

“Behind closed doors?” he demanded incredulously. “Do you take me for a fool, Mademoiselle? I placed that letter in the desk drawer. So tell me, Charmaine Ryan, how did the wind manage to blow it from
that
spot?”

Charmaine fleetingly puzzled over his declaration and dismissed it as swiftly as she thought:
The desk drawer? Colette’s letter was not in a drawer. He’s hell-bent upon venting his anger, and I’ve become an easy victim.

John perceived her confusion, her partial innocence, and his temper cooled.

“I’ve told you the truth,” she hissed, squaring her shoulders. “Let me pass.”

“You’ve lied.”

“I haven’t lied, but I can see the truth makes little difference to the likes of you. Go ahead and strike me if you must. I’m sure it will be the victory you’ve been seeking all morning.”

Stung by the accurate remark, John hesitated, then stepped aside.

Charmaine was shocked and could not move.

“Well,
my Charm
…” he drawled obsequiously, the mock endearment of her name a slap in the face. “What keeps you from departing? Perhaps you are awaiting my leave?”

She stiffened, then raised her chin and dashed around him. As she reached the door, she threw a defiant glare over her shoulder, but the gesture offered little satisfaction, for he responded by bowing low like a courtesan showing great respect for a noble lady.

Once free, she was overcome by blinding tears and collided with George just as she reached the nursery. “Charmaine?” he queried. “What is the matter?”

She struggled to pull away until she realized who he was. “George! You’re home!” Then she sobbed harder, luxuriating in the safety of his arms.

“There, now,” he soothed, taking courage to stroke her back. “It’s all right.” He had only seen her in this state once before, and he wondered what could have upset her so. Then, as if struck by lightning, he knew.

Charmaine shyly lifted her head, wiping dry her cheeks. “I’m sorry, George,” she laughed self-consciously, “I didn’t mean to cry on your shoulder.”

“That’s all right,” he countered. “What are shoulders for, anyway?” Then the levity was gone. “Would you mind me asking why you were crying?”

“It was nothing,” she lied, averting her gaze.

“Nothing but John,” he mumbled.

Astonished, her eyes shot back to his face. “How did you know that?”

“I just know. What did he say to upset you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She seemed about to cry again, so he refrained from pressing
her for details. “You would be wise to avoid John for a while. He’s come home to sad news. I’m certain he’s not taking it well.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked charily. “Are you defending him?”

“John is like a brother to me. He’s not a bad man, just a troubled one.”

“I’m sorry, George, but I’m afraid I’ve seen the real John Duvoisin, a side he’d never show another man—that of the devil!”

George willed himself not to smile, having heard similar sentiments many times before. “Very well.” He sighed. “Just stay away from him.
Far
away.”