Forever Waiting (3 page)

Paul turned an admiring eye on Charmaine. She was seated confidently on the dappling mare, handling the steed competently, unaware of his regard from astride his own mount.

The Saturdays they spent together were the one silver lining in the cloud of disasters that had befallen his family over the past months. He wanted Charmaine more than ever. Those bleak days in October had served to make her more alluring: the quiet dignity with which she bore her grief, her warmth in comforting his sisters, her forbearance to move on. He longed to take her in his arms and teach her about the pleasures of the flesh, yet he did not press her. Although there was a candor between them now, her passion lay dormant. She was still grieving Pierre, he reasoned, desire would return in time.

“How is Espoir coming along?” she asked, glancing his way.

“It’s nearly finished,” he replied, pleased with her interest. “The light will be installed in the lighthouse next week. I intend to launch some limited shipping. It’s impractical to delay until April. Some early runs will also allow the crews to become acquainted with navigating the port.” Impulsively, he asked, “Would you like to see it?”

Her eyes left the road altogether, taking in his broadening smile, white teeth flashing against bronzed skin. He was serious! “Yes, I would!” she exclaimed.

“Why not next week? We can take the girls and spend a few days there.”

He noted her fading enthusiasm, signaling her concern over an unchaperoned voyage. “I’ll ask Rose to join us and give you all an extended tour.”

Mentioning Rose did the trick; her face brightened again. “I think it’s a wonderful idea!” she said.

For the first time in weeks, she was looking forward to something.

Monday, December 4, 1837

The twins welcomed their first excursion on a Duvoisin vessel, their alacrity unrestrained. With Paul in close attendance, they took turns at the helm, though he did the work. Most of the time they were at the bow, arms extended, flaxen hair and skirts dancing in the headwind. Occasionally, the ship cut into deep waves, hurling sea-spray over her sides, startling them into squeals of delight.

They arrived by late afternoon and headed straight to the new house. Aside from Frederic and Agatha, they were the first to take up temporary residence there. The house was magnificent, constructed with the highest quality materials. Paul noted that though the main floor was sparsely furnished, many of the bedchambers were fully appointed in anticipation of the guests who would be visiting in the spring. He showed them to their rooms; the twins would share one, but Charmaine and Rose had their own. He also brought them to the master chamber suite, which was larger than Charmaine’s childhood home. She imagined the life of the mistress of this manor and, fleetingly, fancied herself in that role. But she quickly brushed those thoughts aside. Even as the governess to the Duvoisin children, she enjoyed comforts and privileges she could never have fathomed. Could she ever go back to her humble beginnings? Someday she might have to, so it was wise to stay anchored in reality.

Millie set up the kitchen, serving them a simple meal by late evening. Afterward, they retired to the drawing room, where Rose took up her knitting and Charmaine, Paul, and the twins played a game of cards, which, along with chess and checkers, they had brought for evening entertainment. Jeannette tired of the game and went to Rose, asking for a knitting lesson. With an extra pair of needles and spare yarn, Rose set up a basic stitch. Jeannette caught on quickly. After completing a few rows, she brought her handiwork to Charmaine.

“Very good!” she praised. “I think you have a knack for knitting.”

Yvette boasted she could knit just as well, and when Paul said she didn’t seem the domestic type, she pressed Jeannette to show her the stitches.

He regarded Rose. “Every night you take up that knitting, Nan. What do you do with your finished work? Nobody can use it here.”

“I send it to family in the States, and they usually donate it to the poor.”

Yvette tired of the tedious task much as Paul had predicted.

“What are you knitting, Jeannette?” he asked.

“I don’t know. What
am
I knitting, Nana Rose?”

“Why, a scarf, of course.”

“But, you don’t need a scarf, Jeannette!” Yvette exclaimed.

“No, I don’t,” she replied, “but I can send it to Johnny for Christmas!”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Rose said with a smile, “and I’ll show you how to knit his initials into it when you near the end.”

Jeannette happily agreed.

“Just make sure he knows I helped make it, too!” Yvette insisted.

“I’m sure he’ll know exactly which two rows you knitted,” Charmaine chuckled, eyeing Yvette’s loose, uneven stitches.

Friday, December 8, 1837

The weather was fair, and the week on Espoir sped by quickly. In the mornings, Charmaine and the twins worked on lessons. After lunch, Paul joined them, and they ventured out on horseback to the sugarcane fields, some under preparation for planting, others growing tall. One afternoon they passed endless stretches being cleared of vegetation. The twins enjoyed riding along the trails that bordered the fields, traveling the entire circuit connecting one to the next.

On the last day of their excursion, the weather turned brisk. It had drizzled overnight, and cold air followed the rain. After dinner, they settled into the drawing room. Paul struck a fire in the hearth to chase away the chill, and the girls sat in front of it, Jeannette with her knitting and Yvette with a book. Before long, both had fallen asleep. Paul carried them to their room, where Charmaine tucked them in for the night. When she returned to the parlor, Rose stood and announced she, too, was retiring.

For the first time that week, Charmaine was alone with Paul, and she could feel herself growing tense—a strange mixture of excitement, anxiety, and reluctance. She remained on the sofa, watching him. He was banking the fire with fresh kindling, his masculinity silhouetted by the glowing embers. She admired the play of muscle in his thigh as he crouched low to press the logs deeper into the blaze. His handsome face was striking in the orange light. He rose and moved to the sideboard where he poured two glasses of wine.

Paul inhaled as he handed a glass to her. She was lovely tonight. He hadn’t kissed her in months, and the urge to do so now was overpowering.

Charmaine blushed as he settled on the sofa next to her, his arm cast across the back of it. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body. “I don’t drink,” she said, gesturing with the glass.

“Try it, Charmaine. It’s a vintage wine. It will help you relax.”

“Very well,” she said, taking a sip. It was smooth and warm going down.

“So, did you enjoy the trip here?” he asked.

“Very much. I’m impressed. I see what has kept you busy all these months.”

“There is still much to do before Espoir will stand on its own merit.”

“With all the care you’ve taken, it will be very successful.”

“I hope so. Still, it has distracted me from other important things.”

She looked at him quizzically. He was studying her intently. “You’ll find time for those things,” she said quickly, wishing to redirect the conversation.

“I’m trying to.” His hand, warm and persuasive, caressed her cheek, found her chin, and coaxed her head back. With her face upturned, he leaned forward, his lips meeting hers. “You are lovely, Charmaine Ryan,” he murmured against her mouth. “It has been so long since I’ve kissed you, I was afraid this week would pass without the opportunity.”

His kiss deepened, and his arm slid off the sofa, closing around her shoulder. The minutes gathered, and his ardor grew, his hand stroking her hair, her shoulder, and coming to rest on her thigh. She felt feminine and desirable, yet as the sensual moment heightened, a visceral tide of resistance took hold. She pressed her hands against his chest and slowly drew back.

He looked down at her searchingly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes,” she replied, standing up and moving to the fireplace. This situation was very dangerous.

“Charmaine,” he started, coming to stand behind her. “I know you have been very sad these past two months. I had hoped to comfort you.”

She faced him. “And you have. You have been a great comfort, a good friend, and I appreciate your concern.”

“Are you in better spirits now?” he asked, not relishing the title “good friend.”

She smiled. “Some days I am. This week I have been.”

The silence between them seemed endless.

“What do you want, Charmaine Ryan?”

“What do I want?” she queried, awed by the unexpected question. “Yes, what do you want—for your future, for your life?” Was this trite banter, or was he asking how she felt about him?

Somewhere inside, she knew the answer to his question, but it was too sublime, too frightening—
too impossible
—to even ponder.

“Six months ago, I could have answered,” she replied. “Now … I don’t know.” She paused, then turned the question over to him. “What do
you
want? And don’t say me.”

“And if I did say I want you?” he asked sincerely.

“I would say that I’m flattered.”

“But?”

“What do you mean when you say you want me?”

“It means I want you at my side. It means I want to make love to you.”

“Does it mean you want to marry me?” she inquired brashly. His smile faded, and she was strangely relieved. “What does it matter, anyway?” she chuckled lightheartedly, waving away the frivolous query, intent upon soothing him. “It’s not even in the realm of consideration, is it? After all, I’m just a governess, hardly a suitable spouse.”

Marriage
 … Not exactly the subject he wanted to broach right now.
Marriage
 … Why was it so frightening? Why did he hesitate?
You will rue the day you threw away happiness with both hands
. If it weren’t Charmaine, who then?
Marriage
 … For what was he waiting?

“I don’t think of you as just the governess, Charmaine,” he replied. “You are a fine woman: compassionate, intelligent, attractive. Social mores have never been important to me, and they certainly won’t dictate whom I marry. Look at my parentage. In society’s eyes, I am less worthy than you.”

She was surprised and heartened by his words. “And?”

He didn’t have to make a commitment this moment, and he wouldn’t be lying if he told her he had considered marrying her. “And, to answer your question, I’ve never felt for any woman what I feel for you. So, yes, I would consider marrying you, have, in fact, contemplated it more times than you would imagine. But I’m a rogue, Charmaine. I don’t want to hurt you, have you grow to hate me.” He paused, still thoughtful. “Marriage, the vows, they are simple. But how can either of us be certain of our feelings years from now? Yes, I want you tonight, desire you greatly, and, yes, I love you. But I’m a man. I can’t promise another woman will never turn my eye. That is what I fear most. A pledge to love, honor, and cherish for all eternity? I won’t make such a vow lightly.”

He pulled her into his arms and his lips snatched away her reply. Slowly, her hands encompassed his back, relishing the feel of his sturdy body, the warmth of his flesh under her palms. He coaxed her back to the settee, his caresses extending to her breasts and hips, awakening sensations that teased her insides. She relaxed into the cushions, he half-kneeling, half-prone above her, his kisses growing furious, his breathing heavy and unsteady. Then he was shifting his position, pressing her farther back. As he lowered himself, she could feel the weight of his body, something hard against her thigh, and an inkling of reluctance washed over her again. She pushed onto her elbows, coming up for air.

“Charmaine … ” he murmured, his voice husky, “if you’re worried about conceiving a child, you needn’t be—”

She frowned, disconcerted. Curiously, that thought hadn’t crossed her mind, but she quickly capitalized on it. “That is easy for you to say.”

He leaned in close again. “There are ways—”

She turned her face aside, hands braced against his chest. “I can’t,” she whimpered, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Disappointed, he moved to the end of the sofa. She stood to bid him goodnight. “Don’t leave,” he said. “It’s our last night here. I won’t press you if you’re not ready. Please, come and sit with me.”

Again, she was gladdened by his words and returned to him. His arm closed around her, his hand stroking her hair, nudging her head onto his shoulder. They stayed there late into the night, talking and staring into the fire …

Christmas Eve, 1837

Charmaine and the girls spent the day decorating the house: weaving pine and holly sprigs, fastening fruit to them with string, and garnishing the balustrade, mantel, and French doors with the festive boughs.

After dinner, the family gathered in the drawing room. It was quite chilly, lending the day a true holiday air. Paul lit a fire in the hearth. Frederic invited the staff to join them, and so, the Thornfields, Jane Faraday, and Fatima settled in for eggnog and Christmas cookies. Felicia and Anna were spending the night in town with Felicia’s parents. The girls sang to the Christmas carols that Charmaine played on the piano. When she tired, Paul took over at the keyboard and entertained his sisters, who were as surprised as Charmaine to hear him play.

The twins begged to open the packages that had arrived yesterday. They were from John, the first they had heard from him since October. Charmaine acquiesced; there would be more gifts tomorrow. They dove into the wrapping, revealing two finely tailored riding jackets in royal blue, complete with tan jodhpurs, velvet riding hats, boots, and crops.

Agatha began to object to Frederic’s daughters wearing boys’ clothing, but her protests over the breeches Charmaine had sewn for Yvette last September had gotten her nowhere, so she took a sip of her brandy instead.

The package also contained a book for Yvette and Jeannette:
The New-York Book of Poetry
. A note from John was inserted like a bookmark at the page where the poem
A Visit from St. Nicholas
appeared. They greedily read the brief letter aloud, then the poem, and the letter again …