Forever Waiting (5 page)

“He can come if he likes,” her father answered in earnest.

Unconvinced, she added, “It wasn’t his fault, Papa. He loved Pierre.”

“I know he did, Yvette, but there is more to it than Pierre.”

“But you’re better now!” she said. “Why do you still hate him?”

“I don’t hate him. He is my son.”

“So why won’t he come?”

“Because he is very angry with me.”

“But why?” Jeannette asked searchingly.

“I made many mistakes with John and did things that hurt him terribly.”

“What things?”

“Things you are too young to understand,” he replied, “things that are difficult for me to explain to you.”

“Then why don’t you apologize?” Yvette offered. “That’s what Mademoiselle Charmaine tells us to do when we’ve made a mistake.”

“It is not that easy … ” Frederic faltered.

“Yes, it is!” Jeannette chimed in. “I have an idea, Papa. You can write him a letter and tell him you’re sorry. We can help you write it, can’t we, Yvette?”

“Yes! We’ll make it the best apology ever! And you can invite him to come to Paul’s celebration, too!”

“Come, Papa, let’s find some paper!
Please?
”

“Perhaps you are right, my dear daughters,” Frederic mused. “Very well, let us see what kind of a letter we can write.”

With tears in her eyes, Charmaine left her room, thanking the heavens above and praying John would receive the invitation with an open heart.

Later that afternoon, Frederic’s letter sat atop others on the table in the foyer. Agatha noticed her husband’s scrawl as she swept by, and she scrutinized the address. She was not pleased he was writing to his errant son.

Bending closer to the mirror, Paul fumbled with his cravat. The sun was fast setting, the pier glass cast in shadow. Travis should have arrived long ago to light the lamps. He’d do it himself, but the tinderbox was nowhere to be found, so he swore at his reflection and ripped the atrocious knot apart again. A man shouldn’t have to suffer the nonsense of proper attire after a full day’s labor. He had spent most of the afternoon in the cane fields, his intervention urgently needed when a press broke down and half a tract of produce was in jeopardy of being lost. That catastrophe had forced him to abandon his outing with Charmaine, but both problems had been easier to deal with than his tie. Irritated, he leaned into the mirror again.

Travis eventually arrived.

“Where have you been?” Paul gruffly inquired.

“With Mr. Westphal.”

“Damn! Is the man never late?”

“No, I’m afraid not, sir.”

The butler was about to say more, but thought better of it, stepping up to the ill-humored Paul with arms extended. “Allow me, sir,” he offered, smiling when Paul’s arms dropped to his sides. “What you need, Master Paul,” he mused as he worked at the cravat, “is a wife to see to tasks such as this.”

Paul snorted. “Travis, if I take a wife, it will not be to dress me.”

The man blushed. He would never get used to the ribald remarks of Frederic’s sons. To Travis, they would always be the lads he chased after to keep out of such trouble. “There,” the steward sighed, “that should do it, sir.”

“Thank you,” Paul praised, patting the knot, satisfied with his reflection.

“I think you should know, sir, the mistress is with Mr. Westphal.”

Paul shrugged. “Better if she talks with him first. Then he’ll be free to speak with my father and me without interruption.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is my father, anyway?”

“He arrived back quite late with the girls, sir. I’m to see to him next.”

Paul grunted. He suddenly thought of Colette, and how little his father had relied on Travis that first year they were married.
A wife
 …

He left his dressing room and, with head down, walked straight into Charmaine. Catching her in his arms, he set her from him with a stern frown. He apologized curtly and descended the stairs quickly, leaving her puzzled.

Much to his relief, dinner was relaxed. All his hard work was coming together. Following the meal, he spent over two hours in the study with his father, Agatha, and Stephen discussing the arrangements for the monumental spring event. The invitation list had been finalized, guest transportation and accommodations planned, and the week’s expenses estimated.

The clock struck eleven, and Agatha noted Stephen and Frederic shared her exhaustion. The financier’s tie had long been loosed, dinner jacket doffed, waistcoat unbuttoned, and now, in the dim library light, he stole a yawn as Paul leaned forward to scribble some last particulars. Her husband had closed his eyes more than once in the armchair where he now reclined.

“Paul,” Agatha interjected, gaining the man’s regard, “perhaps you should continue this tomorrow—” she looked to the banker “—I fear our guest is growing weary.”

“Tomorrow would be fine,” Stephen concurred wholeheartedly.

Paul had lost track of the time. It
was
late. “Forgive me, Stephen,” he apologized, setting down his quill. “I’ve forgotten this is not as exhilarating for you.” He stood and went to the door. “I’ll see to it that your carriage is brought to the portico. Would you like an escort home?”

“That’s unnecessary. I doubt I shall encounter any highwaymen.”

Everyone but Frederic laughed. “I’ll say goodnight, then,” Frederic said.

Agatha was pleased when Paul and her husband departed. She grabbed the banker’s jacket and helped him slip it on. Gathering his belongings, she walked him into the foyer. “Stephen, you mentioned contacting Mr. Richecourt.”

He nodded.

“When you do, could I trouble you with a favor? You’ve done one of this kind for me before.”

“Miss Ryan again?” Stephen queried with cautious interest.

“No, she is insignificant. This concerns John. He’s been spending a great deal of time in New York. He said as much months ago, before Pierre’s tragic accident. Perhaps you could bring your influence to bear on Mr. Richecourt to find out exactly what his transactions are in the North. I’m concerned over these bank accounts he’s been closing out, and I’m afraid my husband has been more trusting than wise.”

Westphal nodded in disdain. “I’ve thought the same thing myself, but wouldn’t presume to say so to Frederic. John is—”

“You needn’t expound,” Agatha interrupted, patting his hand in understanding. “Rest assured you will be compensated for your efforts.”

“I’ll see what I can find out, Agatha. Goodnight.”

Agatha’s smile turned radiant. “Goodnight, Stephen.”

He stepped out onto the portico to await his carriage.

Saturday, January 20, 1838

Yvette had a plan. She was going to discover where her stepmother went every Saturday afternoon and why she went alone. Naturally, there were obstacles to surmount: she’d have to get around her father, and she’d have to pick a day when Charmaine was off with Paul. Today was that day. Frederic was planning to take them to the harbor. So, when Charmaine set off for town after breakfast, Yvette complained of a stomachache and asked to stay home in bed. Frederic acquiesced, leaving her in Rose’s care. She went straight to her room, pulled on her nightdress, and lay on her bed with her knees pulled up to her chest. She heard Frederic and Jeannette leave in the carriage. When Nana Rose came in to check on her, she pretended she was asleep. She was starving by lunchtime, but she dared not show up in the dining room. Nana checked in on her again around two o’clock, bringing some toast, tea, and a fresh pitcher of water, soothing her when she pushed the tray away, moaning her stomach still hurt. She closed her eyes and pretended to doze again. She heard Rose step softly from the room, pleased with herself. She still had the knack, completely fooling the woman. Rose would not return for another two hours. Perfect! She could be out and back without anyone ever knowing she was gone.

She jumped up, pulled on her breeches, and shoved her hair into Joseph’s cap, which she’d lifted yesterday. She could pass for a boy from a distance. She tiptoed from her room, dashed down the staircase behind her father’s suite of rooms, and darted furtively out of the house toward the stables. It was a blustery afternoon. Thankfully, all the stable hands were off to town, except Gerald, who was napping in the tack room. She saddled up Spook and led him out of the stable, noting the chaise awaiting her stepmother, the horse already harnessed and tied to the fence. Pulling up and into her saddle, she set her pony into a trot, passing quickly through the main gates. When she found a spot alongside the road with heavy underbrush, she dismounted, led Spook into the concealing thicket, and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, she heard the rhythmic beat of hooves and the squeak of a buggy coming up the road. It passed her hiding spot, and she saw Agatha plying the whip to the horse’s back. When it rounded a bend up the road, she scrambled from the thicket and jumped back onto Spook, in pursuit until she caught sight of the chaise again. She followed at a safe distance. About a mile farther, it turned onto the thickly wooded road that led to Father Benito’s cabin. Yvette was surprised.
Why is Auntie visiting Father Benito?

Yvette held Spook back as Agatha alighted and entered the priest’s abode, carrying a leather pouch. Yvette tied Spook to a tree behind a copse a good distance away and approached the cabin surreptitiously. There was a window on one side, a pile of wooden crates and scattered refuse below it. She climbed the crates and peered in. The window was closed, the voices inside muffled. The curtains were also drawn, but she could see the priest’s kitchen and living area through the slit. Agatha and Benito were engaged in a heated dispute, Agatha’s rigid posture betraying her anger. Yvette held her breath, straining to hear. Benito took the pouch from Agatha and opened it. Jewels sparkled.

Suddenly, the pile of crates teetered, caving under and spilling Yvette onto the ground. She clambered to her feet and ran to the outhouse, taking cover behind it. She prayed Benito wouldn’t think to look there. She stole a peek around the corner and saw the priest walking around the cabin, stopping at the toppled crates. Agatha was behind him. He looked around, casting his gaze up to the road. He eyed the woman suspiciously.

“It must have been the wind,” Agatha theorized. He considered her again, then retreated, slamming the cabin door behind him. Agatha left.

Certain the priest was peering out his window, Yvette crept deeper into the woods, picking her way through brambles and underbrush and arcing around to Spook. Once she’d led him safely to the road, she kicked him into a gallop, frowning when she realized she didn’t have her riding crop. It couldn’t be helped; she’d dropped it along the way and would have to complain about misplacing it the next time she went out to ride. All told, she’d been gone just over an hour and was back in bed when Rose came in to check on her again, exclaiming the nap had helped. She felt much better now and was hungry for dinner.

Sunday, January 28, 1838

Paul snapped the portfolio shut. He and his father had spent two hours poring over Charmantes paperwork, and he was of a mind to pass the rest of the day in a leisurely manner. He’d arrived home late last night and, because he’d been on Espoir for the better part of the week, had promised Charmaine and his sisters at Mass this morning that he’d spend the afternoon with them. Time was getting on.

“There is one thing more,” Frederic said as he stood to leave.

Paul eyed him thoughtfully. His father seemed anxious. “Yes?”

Frederic hesitated. “I’ve invited John home for your celebration.”

“What?
In God’s name, why?”

“Jeannette and Yvette requested it.”

Paul ran a hand through his hair. “He won’t come,” he said.

Frederic was disheartened. “You are likely right, though I hope he does.”

“For the girls’ sake,” Paul supplied.

“And mine. I’d like to make amends, even at this late date.”

“It wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault.”

“It
was
my fault,” Frederic refuted. “He loved her, Paul, more deeply than I wanted to believe.”

Paul scoffed at the idea, but Frederic’s earnestness gave him pause.

“Pierre’s death put everything into perspective,” Frederic continued, “everything. It was easier, safer, to discount John’s feelings. But in so doing, I made this place a living hell for everyone—including you. You were forced to choose sides, which undermined the camaraderie you once shared with John. I should never have stolen Colette from him.”

“And Colette had no say in the matter?” Paul threw back at him.

Frederic’s eyes hardened, but he didn’t respond.

Exasperated, Paul exhaled loudly. “I don’t understand. He’s had months to stew over this tragedy. That’s all it was—a terrible tragedy. And now you unleash Pandora’s box? If he decides to come home, it won’t be to make amends.”

“We shall see. All I ask is we try to move forward—as a family.”

With his initial anger spent, Paul accepted his father’s plaintive plea and was moved to remorse. “Very well, Father. I’ll welcome him home. I just hope John accepts the invitation for what it is.”

Wednesday, February 9, 1838

Agatha had been holding interviews in the study for two days now. Since early Monday morning, a steady stream of villagers had made their pilgrimage to the manor in the hopes of securing one of the fifteen positions that would be available here and on Espoir during the weeklong festivities in April. An inside glimpse of the Duvoisin mansion was as much a motivation to make the nine-mile trek as the employment opportunity, for even those whose names did not make it into the mistress’s little book smiled as they left.

Yvette and Jeannette stole away from the nursery many times during those two days, observing the strangers in the foyer or those walking up the drive. They conjured games, wagering over which ones would be selected.

Travis escorted one after the other from entrance hall, to drawing room, to library. The few that gained Agatha’s approval were ushered into the ballroom, where they met with Jane Faraday or Fatima Henderson. The rest were released and walked to the portico, where they lingered before heading back to town.