Forever Waiting (17 page)

She stepped back as the waltz ended, thankful he misinterpreted her crimson face. “It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” he remarked, leading her to the French doors. “I’ll get us something to drink.”

She welcomed his departure, for she needed time to compose herself.

Frederic stood on the sidelines of the huge hall watching Charmaine Ryan dance with John. He was intrigued when she’d returned to the ballroom on his son’s arm. They were drawing a lot of attention, the room abuzz with speculation. He studied Charmaine’s expression, one he’d never seen when she was around Paul, and he understood why that relationship hadn’t progressed these many months.
She is in love with John
.

Pondering it now, Frederic realized he’d often thought of the governess and John as a couple. It had started the first time he’d seen them together, the day Agatha had ruthlessly spanked Pierre, that day when he’d been acutely aware of Colette’s presence in the house. Then there was the twins’ birthday, when he observed John helping Charmaine onto the dappling mare. And the night when Yvette had been gambling at Dulcie’s; Charmaine’s eyes had flown to John for protection, not Paul. He’d never forget those terrible days when Pierre lay dying, the untold hours they’d spent at his bedside, or Charmaine’s compassion for John afterward, her heartfelt tears over his suffering. And only a week ago, her face had brightened with unabashed joy when John returned.

A glimmer of hope heartened Frederic as he watched them now. For the first time in ten long, dismal years, John looked happy. The cynicism John had worn like a badge was gone. Frederic closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer that his son had finally found someone to call his own.

“So, Mademoiselle, you’ve rejoined the festivities,” Paul commented politely as he came to stand before her. The strains of the next waltz filled the room. “May I have this dance?”

Charmaine nodded charily. John was still off getting drinks, and she knew she could not turn Paul down without embarrassing him. He took her hand, and they walked to the center of the dance floor. There, she stepped into his embrace, not daring to look up. Instead, she cast her eyes aside, noting the scrutiny of many of the guests.

Anne London could hardly conceal her ire when she caught sight of the couple. First Mercedes, now this!
Charmaine Ryan I have underestimated you. You have beguiled not only John, but Paul as well. What is this game you are playing?

Throughout the evening, Anne had itched to reveal all concerning the rewriting of Frederic Duvoisin’s will and John’s abolitionist activities. But her father’s warning forced her to glumly hold her tongue. Charmaine Ryan had been the least of her concerns. She was a servant girl, riffraff. But here she was—her gown breathtaking, her loose hair a mass of gorgeous curls—squired by John to this high-society affair and dancing with Paul, blushing in his arms! It was time to intervene. Her father hadn’t forbidden gossip about the governess; so that was where she’d start. Then, she’d throw caution to the wind and use her experience with men to make Paul forget the woman.

For a few minutes, Charmaine and Paul danced in painful silence. She did not feel the thrill of being in his arms as she had so many times before.

“It didn’t take you long to make other plans for the evening, Charmaine.”

His words stung. “I didn’t make other plans,” she countered. “John invited me to join him, and it only happened a short while ago.”

She caught sight of Mary Stanton watching amidst a bevy of matrons.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were angry, Charmaine?” he asked, drawing her eyes back to him.

“Angry? About what?”

“Obviously you are getting even with me by returning on John’s arm.”

“Getting even?” she asked, his reasoning beginning to register.

“Because of what happened with Agatha and Anne—to give me a taste of rejection. Isn’t that it?”

“No, that is not it!” she refuted, offended he would think her so petty.

Paul chuckled derisively, inciting her more.

“I was not angry, but I
was
disappointed. John saw that, and invited me when he realized I would miss the ball.”

“John is very good at stealing other men’s women,” he replied, his voice low so only Charmaine could hear. “Do you want to be his next victim?”

Her temper flared, but she resisted the urge to tear away. Instead, she looked him straight in the eye, mustered a pleasant voice and said, “He wouldn’t have been able to steal me tonight if you had brought me here yourself.”

“Then you
are
angry,” he rejoined, his minor victory dissatisfying.

“I’m angry now.”

They danced the rest of the waltz in icy silence. Paul watched her return to his brother, who was waiting with two drinks.

“You look annoyed, my Charm,” John commented as he handed her a glass.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied.

“Why? Because he scolded you?” John quipped.

“I told you, I don’t want to discuss it.”

“You should have given him a piece of your mind, Charmaine.”

“No! I refuse to make a scene here. This event means too much to him.”

“He didn’t seem too concerned about that,” John scoffed derisively. “He’s very fortunate you care.”

“Paul has been very good to me,” she retaliated. “Although you might not understand it, John, I care for him very deeply.”

He relented. Best to drop the subject, though her words “care very deeply” were perplexing. She hadn’t accepted Paul’s proposal, so what did she mean?

They had danced nearly every dance, and now they were in the lush gardens, where they’d stolen away from prying eyes. George couldn’t stop kissing her. How John had managed to coax Mercedes down to the ball, George could only wonder, but whatever he did, George thanked him now. This was the most exciting night of his life. He bent low to kiss her again. On Monday, she’d return to Richmond. He didn’t want her to leave, for he loved her so. “Mercedes,” he murmured in her ear.

“Yes … ?” she whispered, hugging him close.

“Will you marry me?”

Her embrace quickened. “Yes! Oh yes!”

“May I have this dance with the lady?”

John turned to Geoffrey Elliot, who had tapped him on the shoulder, his avid eyes on Charmaine. “Is your name written on her dance program?” John rejoined.

“Well—actually—no.”

“There is your answer.” John prodded Charmaine into the steps of the next reel, leaving an insulted Geoffrey alone in the center of the floor.

The next dance was a quadrille. Charmaine squared off with George, and Mercedes with John. Charmaine had thought no one could be as happy as she, but George’s eyes twinkled brighter than ever before. As the music died down, Rose once again stepped in and coaxed her grandson away. Charmaine laughed as George tried to keep pace with his wiry grandmother.

Throughout the evening, John had been the perfect gentleman. Like a debutante, Charmaine stole admiring glances at him: his height, the fine tailoring of his jacket, the lamplight playing its color-game with his hair. She was oddly exhilarated when his warm hand lightly brushed hers or their shoulders touched when they sat side by side.

The ballroom was dreadfully hot, and many guests lingered close to the French doors where the air was cooler. Exhausted, Charmaine took a seat close to the doors. John stood nearby, four gentlemen conversing with him. They were embroiled in a debate that, by Charmaine’s estimation, had been ongoing over the past week. They could not bend the radical’s mind, their discussion spiraling, touching upon an array of current events: the new president (Martin Van Buren), the dissolution of the Bank of the United States, and inevitably, the slave question. Though the men talked about these subjects with absolute gravity, John remained jocular, his bemusement growing proportionately with their anger. One stalwart Virginian nearly screamed the word “traitor” in his face when he maintained he welcomed protectionist tariffs on foreign imports. Though detrimental to shipping, they would fuel manufacturing in the North and benefit his investments there.

“Well, why should tonight be any different?”

A sandpaper voice caught Charmaine’s ear. She turned slightly to find two plump, middle-aged women six feet away, heads tilted together, eyes on John.

“You know, the Palmers were in New York on business last February and he actually had the audacity to bring that quadroon woman along with him to the dinner party thrown by the Severs. Sarah Palmer told me the woman was a slave on his plantation, but he freed her a few years ago and brought her to New York.” The woman smiled smugly. “We all know what
she
did to earn
her
freedom!”

The other woman manufactured a scandalized expression. “I’ve heard whenever he’s in New York, she stays with him at his house. It is common knowledge she is his—his—”

“—mistress,” the second supplied.

Charmaine was stunned, and her eyes went to John. His futile conversation had taken its toll; he was shaking his head.

“I wonder if his mistress in New York knows he has one here!”

“And the governess of all people!” the first woman exclaimed. “I can imagine the lessons she’s taught his sisters!”

Both women shared a hearty laugh at Charmaine’s expense, indifferent that she was now looking at them, their heads bent close together, though she caught snippets of their continued abuse. “White trash … what can you expect? Imagine, someone like that being hired to such a position?” Their eyes condemned her, while their remarks cut deeply into her dignity.

John’s tender voice drew her away from their flagrant condescension. “Pay them no mind, Charmaine.” Then he spoke loud enough for the women to hear. “They’re two cows who haven’t been touched by a man in decades, and they’re jealous because you are young and beautiful.”

Their mouths dropped open in apoplectic indignation, but they didn’t dare utter another insulting word.

Paul found a moment’s peace in the cool kitchen, a breeze coming through the open back door. Fatima wasn’t there. She was working from the cookhouse behind the ballroom tonight. For as long as he could remember, this was his favorite place to go when he was frustrated. Although it was Fatima’s territory, she never shooed him away. She’d been feeding him since he was old enough to beg for her cookies, and understood his moods. So, when he came in search of solace, she’d pile a plate high, pour a glass of milk, and set them on the table before him. Then, she’d turn back to her chores: the potatoes that needed peeling or the dough that needed kneading. In her deep, melodious voice, she’d hum a pitch-perfect tune while she worked, a yearning, soulful strain.

The soothing elixir of childhood memories did not have an enduring effect. Aggravated, he flung himself into one of the chairs, cradling his aching head in his hands. He’d been stupid yesterday, and he’d played the lout tonight. Damn!

Suddenly, he sensed somebody watching him, and he lifted his gaze to the door. He was thunderstruck by the girl standing there. Straight black hair framed the loveliest face he’d ever laid eyes on. Thick, dark lashes hooded her extraordinary green eyes. She stepped into the room, revealing a body that rivaled her face. She was young, more than ten years his junior, he surmised. He wondered why she hadn’t caught his eye before. It was impossible not to notice such a comely lass. He stood, uncomfortable with the way she silently assessed him.

Rebecca hadn’t expected to find him here; in fact, she was certain she wouldn’t find him at all. Now, as she had so often dreamed, they were in a room together, alone, and she was tongue-tied.

“Are you lost?” he asked, the question reverberating foolishly off the walls.

“No,” came a husky alto voice.

“Then what can I do for you? Perhaps you are hungry,” he suggested, his hand sweeping about in indication of the room.

“No.”

The short response left him wondering if she had spoken at all. For all her beauty, she was odd, standing there staring at him. If she were the daughter of one of his guests, why hadn’t he seen her before? She must be one of the Caribbean guests who were lodging at Dulcie’s, her skin near tawny from the tropical sun.

“I can’t say I remember meeting you, Miss … ?”

No answer.

“To which family do you belong?”

“None,” she finally replied, her voice mellow and sensual. It did not match her youth. “I mean, I’m not one of your formal guests. My brother brought me. He is in your employ.”

“Your brother?”

“Wade Remmen.”

“Ah, yes,” Paul murmured, the light beginning to dawn. “Our impressive Mr. Remmen. I had forgotten he had a sister.”

His mind continued to work. What was it now—two years or three—since the indigent siblings had stowed away on a Duvoisin vessel? Amazing, the generosity of time. Or was his memory of a wide-eyed, half-starved, filthy girl deceiving him? “And what might your name be, Miss Remmen?”

“Rebecca.”

“A lovely name,” he commented gregariously, comfortable now the conversation had begun to flow. “And what brings you to my kitchen, Miss Remmen? Have you a complaint you would like to bring to the cook?”

“I came to see you,” she answered simply, much to his astonishment.

“To see me?” he reiterated. “I don’t even know you, Rebecca. What could you possibly have to say to me?”

“I love you.”

He laughed outright at the ingenuous declaration, the naked honesty that nevertheless gave him pause.
What the hell is this? An adoring adolescent pouring out her heart and soul?
He groaned with the thought of her tagging after him now, appearing at inopportune times, as if her ardent proclamation gave her that right. Well, there was an easy way to deal with this. “You love me.”

“Yes.”

The green eyes shone brilliantly in the lamp-lit room. If she weren’t so young, he’d taste the fruit right here in the kitchen, but he was certain she’d never been with a man. If she had, she wouldn’t be standing here laying bare her feelings. He preferred an experienced wench, anyway.

“And what do you intend to do about this?” he asked, commencing a stroll along the perimeter of the room.