A Silent Ocean Away (21 page)

“I
did
look in on the children,” she said. “Afterward, I went downstairs. But if you want to believe the worst about me, if that eases your pain—”

She was coughing again, so fiercely she doubled over, unaware of his despair. “Colette,” he urged, his hale arm pulling her to her feet, “you must get back into bed. I won’t disturb you if you remain in bed.”

Friday, March 31, 1837

Colette’s health continued to deteriorate after her bout with pneumonia, and her absences from the nursery became commonplace. Not so today. If Colette couldn’t come to the children, the children would go to her. It was her birthday. Charmaine made all the preparations: a day’s excursion with the girls and Pierre, and a visit to their mother’s chambers after dinner, where they would
give her the locket they had picked out at the mercantile earlier that week.

Charmaine had just finished tying Pierre’s laces, when Frederic appeared in the nursery doorway. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, quickly straightening up.

She remained ill at ease with the man, their first encounter forever etched in her mind. It was a condition she’d been forced to confront on a daily basis now. Over the past month, he’d come to visit nearly every morning, as if he were attempting to make up to his children the time they’d normally have spent with their mother, that precious time that had been stolen from them.

“Mademoiselle Charmaine is taking us on a picnic,” Jeannette offered. “Would you like to come, Papa?”

“I think not. But I do have a present for Pierre. I believe he is three today.”

The little boy beamed in delight. “I am! Where’s my pwesent?”

Frederic produced a package from behind his back, and the boy quickly dove into the wrapping. He lifted from the paper a wooden ship, a replica of the Duvoisin vessels that sailed the Atlantic. Laughing, he gave his father a fierce hug. “Tank you, Papa!”

Charmaine smiled down at him, satisfied with his manners and delighted with his joy. Already he was on hands and knees pretending to sail the toy.

Yvette frowned in disappointment. “Pierre got a present on our birthday,” she remarked sullenly. “Why don’t we get one on his?”

“Would a visit to see your mother suffice?” her father asked. “I know she would love a visit from you. She’s feeling a bit better today.”

The invitation had a magical effect, Charmaine’s planned outing quickly forgotten. As they raced out of the room, Frederic
called after them. “One thing,” he lightly warned. “No jumping on her bed, and don’t forget to say ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“Of course we wouldn’t forget that!” Yvette exclaimed.

In an instant they were gone, and Charmaine was left alone with the taciturn man. He stepped slightly aside and, with the wave of his hand, encouraged her to precede him down the hallway. She did so, wondering if she had become accustomed to his labored steps, or if those steps had improved in the months she had come to know him; he did not seem to struggle as fiercely as he had before.

They found the children in Colette’s bedroom. Though the French doors were thrown open and sunlight spilled into the chamber, the room was dismal. Colette, propped among many pillows, did not look well. Large, dark circles lay claim to sunken eyes, and the smile that reached them was more sad than happy.

The children seemed unaware of the severity of her illness. Pierre was nestled beside her, Jeannette sat next to him, and Yvette stood opposite them, near her mother’s pillow, grasping one of her hands. They were innocently happy just to be in her presence.

“We are going on a picnic today,” Yvette was saying. “We can’t wait until you are well enough to come with us again!”

“That’s a lovely way to spend Pierre’s birthday,” Colette answered. “Next year, when I’m better, we’ll plan something special to do together.”

“I’m fwee!” Pierre announced proudly.

“Yes, I know,
mon caillou,
” she replied. “You are growing so handsome. Soon you will look just like your father.” She brushed back the soft brown hair that fell on his brow and drew him close for a tender kiss. “I missed you.”

“When are you gonna be better, Mama?”

“Soon, I hope…very soon.”

Frederic cleared his throat. “I didn’t hear anyone say ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“Oh yes, Mama,” they all chimed in, “Happy Birthday!”

“I’m so glad we’re visiting now,” Jeannette said. “Mademoiselle didn’t think we’d be allowed until later, but Papa knew we wanted to see you this morning.”

Colette’s eyes filled with tears as she looked from one child to the next. Then she met her husband’s gaze across the room. “Thank you,” she whispered, her gratitude rivaled only by her astonishment.

Earlier that morning, she had had a dispute with Robert Blackford, gaining nothing save a warning she not leave her bed lest he summon her husband. When Agatha had hurried off to do just that, Colette had been certain she’d be denied yet another visit with her children. But Frederic had defied them.

The children spent only a short time with her, presenting the wrapped gift Charmaine remembered to bring. She kissed each of them, savoring those they offered in return. Her eyes remained wistful after they’d left.

Frederic stepped closer and, sitting on the edge of the bed, took her hand in his. In spite of her illness, her pulse quickened and her fingers tingled.
Is he aware of the emotion he evokes?
His eyes told her,
No
.

“Thank you,” she whispered again. “They will cure me faster than any of Robert’s tonics.”

Frederic didn’t respond, the weight of his regard unsettling. “If you promise to heed Robert’s advice,” he said, “I will bring the children in to see you whenever you wish. How would that be?”

She weakly squeezed his hand. “That would be wonderful.”

He patted her hand before tucking it beneath the coverlet. With some effort, he pushed off the bed and turned to leave. “I need you, too,” he murmured.

She watched him limp from the room, blinking back tears. Though her strength was waning, his vigor was waxing. It was too late for them, she realized. In resignation, she accepted that as best for everyone concerned.

Sunday, April 2, 1837

Wade Remmen climbed the front steps and stood before the large oak doors of the Duvoisin mansion. He knocked on the door and waited, turning to survey the beautiful lawns from the height of the portico. A mere two years ago, his life had been wretched. He’d certainly come up in the world. But he wanted more. Someday, he’d acquire his own fortune and build a palatial estate such as this; then his future could mock his past.
My sister would love to be here right now
.
Someday
…The front door opened, and the butler invited him in.

George was eating heartily. He motioned for Wade to take the seat across from him and asked Fatima to dish up the same fare.

After a good portion of the meal was consumed, Wade was still pondering the reason for his second invitation to the manor. The first had come months ago—a luncheon offered in gratitude for his intervention at the mill the day before.

In all his nineteen years, Wade had never panicked in an emergency. Likewise, he never feared standing up for himself. These attributes, along with his determination to work hard, had earned him Paul Duvoisin’s respect. When the sawmill’s foreman sliced open his arm in early November, exposing the bone and nearly bleeding to death on the spot, Wade had swiftly wrapped a tourniquet on the upper limb and ordered a man to run for the doctor. After he’d sent another man in search of Paul or George, he returned to the labor at hand. The crew began to grumble, but he insisted a bit of blood wasn’t going to shut down production. When their objections grew vehement, he threw himself into the
job, ignoring them. In less than five minutes, everyone was back to work. In the end, a life had been saved, and just as much lumber milled. Paul had been pleased.

Today, Wade wondered what feat awaited him, for he knew Paul was away and George had been carrying the workload of two. His intrigue was piqued when Harold Browning entered the room and the same meal was set before him.

“I have a problem,” George finally said. “I must leave Charmantes for a couple of weeks, and I need the two of you to take over while I’m away, or until Paul returns, which I expect will be any day now.”

Harold was befuddled. “May I ask where you are traveling?”

“Virginia,” he replied tersely, closing the topic to further probes. “Now, can I count on you at the mill, Wade? You’ve handled it before. This time you’ll be in complete control for a fortnight, perhaps more.”

“As long as the men know I’m boss, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I’ll speak to them first thing in the morning,” George answered, shifting his consideration to Harold. “You’ll have the greater challenge, managing both the sugarcane and tobacco crews. Jake and Buck can take care of the harbor: warehousing the harvests, coordinating the unloading and loading of any ships that make port. With any luck, Paul will be on the first one from Europe. Once he’s home, he can take over.”

“Does Frederic know you are leaving?” Harold asked.

George leaned back in his chair. “He will soon enough,” he replied vaguely, pleased when Charmaine and the children entered the room.

“George,” she greeted with a buoyant smile. She could count on her fingers the number of times she had seen him since Paul’s
departure three months ago, and she was truly happy to find him at the table now. “What brings you home?”

Before he could answer, her attention was drawn to the other two men, who’d come to their feet as she stepped closer. She nodded to Harold Browning and then the younger man beside him. She couldn’t remember his name, though he’d dined with them once before in the fall. The hint of a grin tweaked the corners of his mouth, and she was instantly struck by his good looks, recalling Colette’s admiration when he’d departed the house last time. Tall and lanky, he was clean-shaven with a broad nose and full lips. His lazy smile reached his dark eyes. They matched the color of his hair, which was cropped short. Muscular arms and swarthy skin attested to the many hours he’d toiled under the blazing tropical sun. He was young, perhaps her age, yet sure of himself as if he were much older.

“I remember Miss Ryan,” he said as George introduced them.

George didn’t dally. “I’ve a great deal to do today.”

Charmaine watched all three men depart. She would have liked to socialize with George, but instead was left to the company of the children. Jeannette’s crestfallen expression mirrored Charmaine’s mood.

“Is something troubling you, sweetheart?” she asked.

“I wish Mr. Remmen could have stayed awhile longer, that’s all.”

Mr. Remmen and Mr. Richards,
Charmaine thought.

Thursday, April 6, 1837

Dark clouds gathered swiftly, blotting out the sun and rumbling with thunder, but the growling masses did not match the lamentations that shook Charmantes’ mansion from within. The entire household was aware of the plight of their frail mistress, who
lay near death. The pneumonia had taken a greater hold; any imagined improvement was just that, a delusion, and now Colette was fighting for her life.

Frederic was consumed with despair. He paced his chambers in broken misery, as impotent to fight his wife’s infirmity as he was powerless to heal himself. The heavy thump of one boot, the crisp click of the cane, and the sad scrape of his lame leg, could be heard without, again and again and again…He had left Colette’s bedside only a short while ago, but Robert’s hushed words continued to haunt him: “I fear she is dying, Frederic. All we can do now is pray.”

Dear God, it couldn’t be so! She was too young, too beautiful, so full of life.
No,
he admitted to himself in sour self-contempt,
the last hadn’t been true for a long time
, not since the day he had shackled her to him with manacles of guilt. The vivacious wench grew into a reserved lady. Sorrow and defeat had snuffed out laughter and fire, her once brilliantly blue eyes now smoky-gray. He was about to lose her more surely than he had all those years ago, and it was his own fault. She didn’t want to live, for he’d seen to it her life was not worth living. Sadly, there was nothing he could do at this late hour but pace and pray.

The house shook beneath the violent storm. The door banged open and was swiftly slammed shut, a mock echo of the tempest. Drenched, Paul mopped the hair from his eyes, doffed his saturated cape, and handed it to Travis.

“How was your trip, sir?” the manservant asked.

“Fine—fine!” Paul snapped. “What the hell has happened here? I return after three and a half months abroad to find the island in chaos. George is nowhere to be found. Jake Watson and Harold Browning are tight-lipped as to his whereabouts, and only Wade Remmen is man enough to suggest he’s left Charmantes al
together. But that’s insane! To make matters worse, we’re in the middle of a raging thunderstorm with little of the island secured.”

“Certainly it is nothing to fret over, sir,” Travis placated, “after all, it’s not yet hurricane season.”

Paul snorted. “Why did I expect things to run smoothly in my absence?”

“The house has been in turmoil over the past two days,” Travis attempted to explain, his voice taut. “Miss Colette is dreadfully ill. Dr. Blackford has been in constant attendance and allows no one to enter her chambers without his authorization. Even Mrs. Ward is beside herself with worry.”

Paul’s irritability vanished. The butler’s manner left little doubt to the gravity of the situation. “My father”—he demanded urgently—“does he know?”

“Everyone knows, sir, and everyone is praying, most especially the children.”

The children,
Paul thought.
They will be devastated if anything happens to their mother.
Unbidden came visions of Charmaine, but he shook off the profane musings. The dampness was seeping in. “I’m in need of a bath and a change of clothing. After I’ve eaten, I’d like to see my father.”