Forever Waiting (55 page)

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he pronounced solemnly.

She stared at the fiery diamond a moment longer, felt the weight of it. She looked up into John’s happy eyes, the delight born of her astonishment sparkling there.

It was her turn. She slipped off the plain, loose band she’d worn around her index finger and reached for his hand. “With this ring, I thee wed,” she choked out, as she pushed the ring over his finger, tears evident in her voice.

When she was composed, Michael proclaimed, “You may kiss the bride!”

John pulled her into his arms and brushed his lips across hers. Then he buried his face in her wild locks and savored the fresh scent of her.

She hugged him close. “I can’t wear this ring, John Duvoisin!” she murmured heatedly near his ear. “It is huge and very heavy!”

“Then I will have to find another young lady who will,” he whispered back, squeezing her the harder. “I love you, Mrs. Duvoisin. That ring is only a small token of my love and affection.”

“I love you, too!” she averred.

Someone coughed, and Charmaine realized they had prolonged their embrace beyond the realm of decorum. She broke away, but John kept a possessive arm around her shoulder, and together they received the congratulations of all those in the chapel.

She was conscious of the ring all day, its size alone making it impossible to ignore, and her fingers rotated it continuously. At dinner, John caught her studying it, her fingers splayed upon the linen tablecloth. “Do you like it?” he asked.

“No,” she breathed, looking at him beseechingly, “I love it. But it wasn’t necessary, John. All I’ll ever want is you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know that, my Charm.” He nodded toward it. “Read the inscription.”

She hadn’t thought to look inside the band. She removed it and read the writing there. Once again, her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll always be your charm, as long as you’ll have me.”

“Forever,” he whispered. “I’ll have you forever.”

He grasped her hand and brought it to his mouth, his titillating kiss sending wisps of pleasure up her arm. He read the look of longing in her eyes. “Later, my Charm,” he promised, setting her heart to a rapid beat. “Later … ”

Having cleared the altar of the final wedding feast, Michael headed to the dining room for dinner, crossing through the ballroom and into the foyer. For the first time since his arrival yesterday, all was quiet there, and he stopped for a moment to study the portrait of Colette Duvoisin, the painting that had given him pause the moment he had first stepped into the mansion yesterday.

So this was the woman who had started it all, her pulchritude unrivaled, precisely as John had told him. He was so deep in thought he didn’t hear Frederic’s approach until the older man was standing beside him.

“She was very beautiful,” Michael said.

“Yes,” Frederic replied. “In a few more years, my daughters will look exactly like her, especially Yvette.”

This surprised Michael. Frederic smiled now. “Personality plays a great part in one’s looks. Yvette is more like her mother than her sister will ever be. Colette was full of fire and very vocal about her beliefs and crusades. She would have approved of your work, Michael.”

Before Michael could ask him what he meant, footfalls echoed from the hallway. Frederic turned slightly to regard John.

Michael considered both men. The mending kinship was fragile and, he feared, easily broken.

Frederic’s eyes returned to the magnificent portrait. “I think I shall have the canvas taken down,” he commented.

“No, Father,” John breathed, “don’t remove it. I feel secure knowing Colette is watching over us.”

The remarkable declaration intensified in the sudden silence. Frederic broke the aura. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something in the chapel,” he murmured and walked away.

John watched his father disappear through the archway, staring after him pensively.

Michael permitted John his faraway thoughts. “Shall we go in to dinner?” he finally asked.

“You go ahead,” John replied, never looking at him. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

The light of the joyous day was waning, and in the chapel, the shadows lengthened. The stone enclosure was cool, and Frederic lit the candles on the altar. He edged into the front pew and knelt. Burying his face in his hands, he offered a prayer of thanksgiving. His prayers had been answered. When his Maker called him home now, he could go to Him in peace—clear of conscience. He had done everything within his mortal power to atone for his many mistakes and sins.

He lost himself in the quiet sanctuary, the consuming peace here, and opened his heart and soul, inviting Elizabeth’s and Colette’s guiding presence.

A hand came down on his shoulder, and his eyes lifted to John, standing behind him. He watched in surprise as his son settled next to him. They sat for many minutes without speaking.

“Thank you,” John murmured, fighting the moment’s reticence.

Frederic turned to find his son’s earnest eyes locked on him.

“I would be dead if you hadn’t been there for me.” John sighed deeply. “When you had the seizure, I left you for dead. I didn’t care if you lived or died. I
wanted
you to die. After everything I did to you, you could have—
should have
—left me for dead, too. I didn’t deserve to have you stay by my side.”

Frederic looked back at the altar, struggling for words. “Thirty years ago, I abandoned you, John. Even though you were innocent and vulnerable, I abandoned you.” He swallowed hard. “I was there in New York because I love you, John. No matter what you had done to me, I wasn’t about to abandon you again.”

Another lengthy silence took hold.

“I saw Pierre that night, Father,” John whispered. “I saw my mother, and I saw Colette. I was with them.” He looked at Frederic again. “They are in a peaceful place. Mother wants you to know she loves you still. And Colette … she loves you, too.”

Frederic turned tear-filled eyes to the altar. “I loved her, John,” he rasped.

“I know you did, Father. I know you did.”

Frederic could say no more.

John rose and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, held it there for a moment, then turned and left.

The dinner table was voluble and animated, filled to capacity. Only the head and foot of the table remained vacant. John eventually joined them, followed a few minutes later by Frederic. Each in his turn smiled at Charmaine, and she wondered where they had been. Now all twelve chairs were occupied. John and Frederic were quickly drawn into various conversations, often talking across the great expanse to each other. Charmaine sat back, overwhelmed by the wholesome banter of a loving family.

How many dinners she had passed in her parents’ home on tenterhooks, fearing her father? Even when she lived with the Harringtons, she had always yearned for a family of her own. Here it was before her now: a boundless feast. Her mother’s presence was strong, and she bowed her head in renewed thanksgiving. At long last, peace and love reigned under this roof.

When the table was cleared, everyone migrated to the drawing room. Even John, who had rested again after their wedding ceremony, insisted on joining them. As additional chairs were pulled from the study, Michael sat on the piano bench near John.

“This pianoforte is similar to the one you have in New York,” the priest commented.

“It’s identical,” John said. “I purchased both from the Bridgeland and Jardine Company when they were first introduced five years ago. Perhaps you’ve heard of them?”

When Michael shook his head “no,” John continued. “The sound of this particular piano is powerful and brilliant. The manner in which it is strung heightens that quality, making it a far superior instrument to the pianofortes manufactured a decade ago. I was quite taken by the demonstration they gave and, once I’d played it myself, immediately ordered four.”

“Four?”
Michael queried. “You purchased
four
?”

John chuckled. “One for New York, one for Richmond, the other for the plantation, and the fourth for here. It was quite a feat to secure it on the ship. But it did make for an interesting welcome when I arrived here. I thought my sisters would enjoy learning to play, and thanks to Charmaine, they have.”

Frederic joined the conversation. “John is quite an accomplished pianist himself. It was the one thing at which he excelled when I sent him to university.”

“I’ve heard him play,” Michael remarked, unmindful of John’s snicker. “Unfortunately, I’ve always interrupted him.”

“Well, then,” Frederic said, “perhaps he’ll perform something for all of us now. That is, if you feel well enough?” He regarded his son, his eyes filled with pride.

Yvette and Jeannette moved closer and took up the petition, “Yes, Johnny, please! You used to play for us all the time. We’d love to hear something now.”

“What would you have me play?”

“Anything!”

“Something special!”

“Why not play the piece you composed?” Frederic suggested.

John’s eyes turned turbulent, and he looked to Charmaine. She was chatting with the Harringtons.

“I … I don’t think I could,” he hesitated.

Frederic read his misgivings. “It would please me to hear it, John.”

John scratched the back of his neck, then acquiesced. Frederic and Michael found vacant chairs. Yvette sat in her father’s lap. Jeannette grabbed Paul and Rebecca’s hands and pulled them into the gathering, then settled next to Frederic, who patted her head as John began to play.

The opening chord echoed, and all banter ceased, eyes turning to the man at the piano. His fingers traveled the familiar path across the keys, resurrecting the melancholy rhapsody. Pouring out his life and soul, John played, arpeggios rising in a frenzied fugue, turbulent and discontent, effete and hopeless, surrendering at last to a tender, tumbling cadence of bittersweet yearning. Then a sweet, new melody rose from the despair, a delicate strain that wed the somber with the bright, the harmonious threads amplifying in a reverberating crescendo. Then it ended: a triumphant, solitary chord.

Someone started clapping. John raised his head and turned slowly around. His eyes traveled to Charmaine, who sat spellbound. He winked at her. It had been accomplished; he’d found the resolution to his composition.

“Johnny,” Yvette broke in, “I didn’t know you wrote that!”

Charmaine was astounded.
John … of course, John had composed the piece!
Why hadn’t she guessed it? But more important, when was she going to realize he would never cease to amaze her?

“You didn’t know your brother was so talented, did you?” Frederic asked his daughter.

“Yes, I did!” Yvette countered, eliciting everyone’s laughter.

The merriment died down, but Frederic remained pensive. He hugged Yvette and Jeannette close, giving each a tender kiss atop their heads. He could feel Colette’s presence close by and savored the poignant moment.

John stood and crossed the room, drawing Charmaine out of her chair. She, too, was thinking about Colette.
I hope you were listening
,
my dear friend
. A distant memory answered:
Perhaps your touch is exactly what the piece needs … bend the masterpiece … possess it, as it has possessed you … then, when your love is the music, the harmony will be perfect
. Colette had been speaking of John. Colette knew; somehow, she knew!

Looping her arm through John’s, Charmaine allowed him to lead her from the room. They strolled along the front terrace, where it was cool and quiet. When they were opposite the ballroom, they stopped, and John leaned back against the balustrade. Charmaine stepped into his embrace.

“That was beautiful,” she murmured.

“You’ve made it so, my Charm,” he answered, studying every inch of her face, stroking her cheek with his hand. He pulled her against him and kissed her tenderly. “I love you, Charmaine, more than you’ll ever know.”

Rebecca trembled as Paul led her into his suite of rooms, closing the door quietly behind them. The day had been overwhelming. Now here she was with him, on her wedding night. She felt giddy and intoxicated, but mostly frightened. The grandeur and sophistication she’d experienced today were a world apart from her servile background, all of it quite intimidating. As the day had progressed, she began to question her foolhardy belief that she could ever live up to the role she had coveted for the past three years. She turned to face her husband, anxiety written on her face.

“What is this?” Paul queried with a chuckle. “You’re not suddenly afraid of me? This isn’t the wench who scarred me for life, is it?” He rolled up his shirtsleeve, extending his wrist toward her so she might see the bite mark she’d left there three weeks ago.

“I could never be afraid of you. But this house—” she indicated the lavish room “—and your family—who they are—all the things they know and own and can do! I was stupid to think I could fit in—that I was old enough to fit in. I don’t even know how to read and write!”

She began to cry and Paul felt a painful twinge in his breast, his love for her fierce and daunting. He went to her and pulled her into his embrace. “Rebecca … Rebecca … ” he murmured into her hair. “You have made me so happy! You’re honest and strong and proud. You’re not afraid to stand up for yourself.”