Forever Waiting
Authors: DeVa Gantt
Forever
Waiting
colette’s appeal
DeVa Gantt
Forever Waiting
is dedicated to
the three important men in
our
lives:
Dad, Joe, and Dave,
who encouraged the pursuit of our dream
Our patient children,
who indulged us during writing time
and are now our most ardent promoters
And finally—our artistic inspiration—“the boys”
Wherever you are, you are here . . .
We’ d also like to thank our agent, Sandy Cokeley,
for loving and believing in the work
Our editor, Lucia Macro,
for offering sage advice and giving the Colette Trilogy a second look
Our publicist, Joanne Minutillo,
for arranging many fabulous book-signing events
Esi, for keeping us on schedule, Adrienne for her selling savvy,
and the rest of the HarperCollins’s staff
It’s been a pleasure!
CONTENTS
Friday, October 20, 1837
Freedom … fifty-six miles west of Richmond, Virginia
B
RIAN
Duvoisin was black. Born on the Duvoisin plantation thirty-five years ago, he had been a slave for most of his life, that is, until the day John Duvoisin signed the document that freed him. Having no surname to place on the legal paper, John suggested he use Duvoisin. Brian agreed. Grinning, John shook his hand and called him “brother.”
At first, Brian was wary of John’s motives, but he remained on the plantation. He really had no choice. Where else in the South could a penniless, unskilled colored man go?
John emancipated many other men, women, and children that week, and his indignant neighbors swiftly dubbed the Duvoisin estate “Freedom.” Within the month, John erected an elaborately carved sign above the plantation’s main gates. Freedom it was.
John grew to respect Brian and, with each passing season, placed greater responsibility upon his shoulders. The field workers respected him as well. If John wanted the plantation to remain productive, especially when he was away, Brian was the man to have there.
Brian’s wife was also free, for John had purchased Wisteria Hill, the adjacent estate where she lived, releasing those slaves as well. At first, Brian puzzled over his wife’s emancipation; leaving Virginia was possible now. He’d gained some skills beyond the backbreaking field labor. He could travel north, take Nettie with him, earn a living, and keep a roof over their heads. Why he didn’t go, he couldn’t say, other than John relied on him.
Today, he was the only black overseer in the entire county. It did not sit well with John’s neighbors, who opposed paid Negro help. But John never caved in to the pressure; rather, he seemed to revel in the controversy, holding firm to his decision. His staunch resolve garnered Brian’s steadfast loyalty and trust. Now, four years later, the two men were close friends.
Stuart Simons was white. Though born and raised in the South, he was a Northern sympathizer, a posture embraced by his Quaker parents, who had instilled in him a deep sense of right and wrong. Because he rebuked a number of Southern viewpoints, finding employment had been difficult until he met John. Eventually, he became Freedom’s production manager.
John knew Brian needed the protection of a white man, especially when he was abroad in Richmond or New York. Therefore, John situated Stuart on the plantation to discourage his neighbors from harassing the black overseer when he was away. It proved a wise move. The first time John had left Freedom on an extended trip, there had been an incident, one easily quelled when Stuart appeared to greet the men who just happened to stop by for a “visit.”
Because Stuart had an easy manner, and because he also respected Brian, they became friends. Stuart quickly learned the workings of a tobacco plantation. He already knew the ins and outs of the shipping business, overseeing the loading and unloading of Duvoisin vessels in Richmond after the fall harvest. This year, John had relied heavily on both men, for he had been away the entire summer and fall. But the plantations rested in capable hands, so Freedom and Wisteria Hill’s harvests were the least of John’s worries.
Tonight, the two men sat at the kitchen table, discussing the year’s production. Cotton prices were down fifty percent, and although cotton was not grown at Freedom, John wasn’t going to like it. The brokers in New York were not buying. If the newspaper reports were correct, Congress had authorized the issue of ten million dollars in short-term government notes to stem the panic that was sweeping across the country.
It was thus John found them—deep in worried conversation.
Though John’s comings and goings were always unpredictable, they looked up in surprise. He’d notified them some months ago that he had traveled to Charmantes. They knew him well, having spent many a night with him after an onerous day in the fields, drinking and talking into the wee hours of morning. For John to go home, something had to be wrong. One look at his face and they knew they were right.
“Good God, man,” Stuart breathed, “you look awful.”
John grunted and slumped into a chair.
“What’s the matter?” Brian asked.
“Everything,” John chuckled wryly, “as always.”
Stuart leaned forward. “Did you see them?”
“Just my son,” John said softly, tenderly. “Colette was dead before I reached Charmantes.” Propping his elbows on the table, he drove his fingers through his tousled hair before whispering, “Pierre died a week ago.”
“John,” Stuart murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“Me too, John, me too,” Brian consoled. When the silence became uncomfortable, he asked, “What are you going to do now?”
“Try to forget … ”
“Maybe this will help,” Stuart offered, extending the paper with the rankling financial figures.
For the next few hours, they examined plantation documents, discussed the tobacco yield and production costs, shipping, the New York brokers, and the economy. John seemed unconcerned with the rumors of the dissolution of the conservative Bank of the United States and the failure of three banks in England. Stuart shook his head; the man obviously knew what he was doing.
When all topics had been exhausted, John stood up and stretched. “I’ve had enough for one night.”
As Brian and Stuart rose, he broached another subject. “You’ll be going into Richmond tomorrow?”
Stuart nodded. “I’ll be leaving at the crack of dawn.”
“Do me a favor, then, would you?”
“What’s that, John?”
“Visit Sheriff Briggs and find out if a John Ryan was ever apprehended.”
“John Ryan?” Stuart puzzled. “He used to work for you.”
John’s brow lifted in interest. “Really?”
“I believe he was being sought in connection with his wife’s death.”
“That’s the one.”
“I remember Briggs coming to the wharf and questioning the men. I don’t think he was found. Why in heaven’s name are you interested in him?”
“Locating him is important to a friend of mine and it’s important to me.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. If the authorities aren’t a help, I’ll make a few inquiries of my own around town.”
John nodded a thank you and turned to leave.
“How long are you planning to stay in Virginia?” Stuart asked.
“Aside from a trip north, you’ll be seeing more of me from now on.”
Both Brian and Stuart smiled, happy to be in the man’s company again, but reading John’s face, they knew the sentiment was not reciprocated.
The next afternoon, Stuart went directly to the sheriff’s office. Briggs seemed annoyed, grumbling something about “white trash” and that wife beating wasn’t a crime. Disgusted, Stuart realized he was getting nowhere fast. He might uncover something at the wharf. With the Duvoisin clout, the authorities might be persuaded to reopen the case. He was not disappointed. A few longshoremen had seen Ryan scrounging around for odd jobs, but his appearances were sporadic, and no one remembered exactly when they’d seen him last.
John was displeased. “Could you ask the men to keep an eye out for him?”
“Sure, John,” Stuart agreed, “next time I’m in Richmond.”
Saturday, October 21, 1837
Charmantes
Charmaine and the girls arrived in the dining room well before nine o’clock. Today was the first Saturday they would spend with their father. True to his word, Frederic was waiting for them. After breakfast, the threesome departed the manor, leaving Charmaine alone.
Yvette dragged her feet, her father’s steps quick and sure by comparison.
“What is the matter, Yvette?” he asked as they arrived at the paddock.
“Nothing,” she grumbled sullenly.
Frederic only smiled.
Gerald appeared with Spook and Angel, and Yvette perked up. “We’re going riding?”
“That and other things.”
Paul emerged from the barn with a meticulously groomed stallion.
“Papa,” Jeannette breathed in alarm, “you’re riding Champion today?”
“I intend to try, Jeannette.”
Paul had his doubts, but he’d been unable to talk Frederic out of this folly and knew it would be futile to try again now. “I ran him hard yesterday,” Paul said, “so he shouldn’t be straining at the bit today.”
“That’s fine, Paul. I might need some help getting in the saddle, though.”
Frederic swallowed his pride and endured the humiliation of mounting the horse he’d ridden countless times. He stumbled only once, his lame arm buckling under him as he pulled up and into the saddle, his chin hitting Champion’s neck hard. His eyes shot to Paul, who swiftly averted his gaze, pretending he hadn’t seen. The awkward moment passed as Frederic situated himself atop the steed. Paul secured the cane to the saddle, nodding in approbation. They were all set. Frederic breathed deeply. “Come, girls,” he encouraged, “we’ve Duvoisin business to attend.”
His smiling daughters were already on their ponies. Together, they trotted down the cobblestone drive and out the gates. “Where are we headed, Papa?” Jeannette asked enthusiastically.
“The mill.”
“The lumber mill?”
“I have a great deal of catching up to do,” he answered, “and I’d like to start by meeting the newest men working for me. Wade Remmen is first on the list.”
Jeannette was beaming. This was going to be a wonderful Saturday! As for Yvette, it would take more than a visit to the mill to please her; however, the ride was pleasant.
Paul watched them go, then headed toward the house. Charmaine was all his today. He found her in the gardens reading a book. A melancholy smile greeted him, causing his heart to hammer in his chest. He remembered the feel of her in his arms just one week ago, and he longed to hold her again, to comfort her. He sat next to her on the bench they had shared an eternity ago.
“So, Miss Ryan, what are we going to do today?”
She regarded him quizzically. “You’re not working?”
“I said we’d spend time together.”
Her smile turned sweet.
“A visit into town?” he suggested. “Or perhaps a walk along the beach?”
The mill was abuzz. Yvette and Jeannette’s eyes widened as they approached, for they had never imagined the sweaty toil here. A score of men labored with teams of draft horses, pulling long, thick logs to a central building where they would be milled. A huge waterwheel rotated briskly at the far end of the structure, plunging into a deep ravine. Planks were emerging on the other side, where they were swiftly hoisted onto a buckboard for transport to town. The screech of saws, the shouts of men, and the whinny of horses punctuated the air.
