Forever Waiting (12 page)

“When you’ve worn out getting angry at it,” John quipped.

George chuckled again, and Richecourt’s assistant joined in.

Though the latter had never met John before, he’d heard talk of the man’s acerbic wit. He was quite funny.

Scratching the back of his head, John turned mischievous eyes to the young lawyer. “Who’s your friend here, Pitchie?”

“This is our most promising junior associate,” Richecourt offered, ignoring John’s gibe, “Geoffrey Elliot III.”

“There are three of you?” John exclaimed, eyeing the younger man.

Geoffrey extended a hand to John, still chuckling in camaraderie. “My father was Geoffrey Elliot II.”

“Ah, that explains it: if at first you don’t succeed … ” John shrugged. “Are you the one who consigned two shiploads of sugar here when my export broker took ill last January?” he continued, leveling his gaze on Elliot while ignoring Paul’s deepening frown.

“Why, yes, I am!” Elliot replied proudly.

“And where do you suppose those boatloads of sugar came from, Geoff?”

Momentary confusion washed over Elliot’s face as John shook his hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Idiot,” he declared merrily. “What else are you promising at, Junior?”

Elliot’s face dropped in injured astonishment. “Why—I’m a lawyer. I’m a graduate of William and Mary—I’ve—I’ve—I’ve—”

“Yes—yes—yes?” John asked unimpressed, the devil in his eyes.

“Mr. Duvoisin!” Elliot rejoined angrily, his back stiffening. “I warn you now, I am not Mr. Richecourt! I’ll not tolerate name-calling. Do so again, and I’ll not hesitate to remonstrate you!”

“Mr. Idiot,” John cut in, “I don’t question your ability to remonstrate or reprobate. I’m concerned with your ability to contemplate and concentrate. And while you ruminate on that, this will make you fulminate: tell me, do you ejaculate when you mastur—”

“We get the idea, John,” Paul cut in sharply, averting his face from Elliot as he crossed the room; he didn’t dare look at George, who was howling hysterically. Instead, he turned to Richecourt. “Welcome to Charmantes,” he greeted, once he could speak without laughing. “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll ring for refreshments. No doubt you’re weary from the journey.”

As they found seats, Paul turned to the bell-pull, casting murderous eyes upon John, who smiled sheepishly back at him. Elliot glared at John in utter disbelief, his face beet red, but he didn’t dare open his mouth, lest he be cut down quickly.

John is in rare form today
, Charmaine thought. She wondered why he called Mr. Richecourt “Mr. Pitchfork.” There had to be a reason.

Richecourt summarized the business matters he would address in detail later on in the week, then eyed John, who lounged in an armchair, thumbing through a magazine, his booted legs propped on the low table. “John,” he called, “Geoffrey has prepared some important documents at your broker’s request.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Geoffrey jumped in, composed and ready to begin anew, “and I will personally bring them back to Richmond. Mr. Bradley needs them posthaste if he is to finalize agreements before others step in to undercut your price.” He placed his valise on the table and fished out a thick stack of papers, a quill, and a bottle of ink. “Here, I can show you where to sign.”

“Leave them with me, Geffey,” John replied, “I want to read them first.”

“I assure you everything is in shipshape order, just as your broker specified.” He dipped the pen and extended it to John. “Now, allow me—”

“No, Geffey, I’ll read them first,” John insisted, “lest I end up shipping ladies’ undergarments to West Point instead of tobacco to Europe.”

Elliot’s face reddened again.

The twins came skipping across the porch, petitioning Charmaine to take them into town to fetch their dresses. When she agreed, she caught Geoffrey Elliot’s interested gaze on her. “We’ll have to take the carriage,” she said.

Yvette nodded, then turned to her brother. “Johnny? Will you come, too?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” he agreed, happy to disengage himself from the pompous Geoffrey Elliot III. “Will you show me your dresses?” he asked. “Or will you hide them away until Saturday?”

“We’ll show you!” Jeannette exclaimed. “They came all the way from Paris! Stepmother ordered them for us last fall, but we’ve grown since then, and Mrs. Thompson had to make quite a few adjustments. I can’t wait to try mine on!”

“And what of Mademoiselle Charmaine? Will she model hers as well?”

Paul’s eyes shot to Charmaine. He had yet to see the expensive finery.

“Why?” Yvette questioned.

“I want to see if it meets with my approval,” John replied.

Paul’s scowl darkened, and Charmaine’s cheeks burned, knowing the twins waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, John only chuckled. “I’ll ask Gerald to ready the carriage,” he offered, tossing the magazine onto the table.

“But, Mr. Duvoisin,” Geoffrey objected, “what about your contracts?”

“Don’t get your knickers twisted, Geffey,” he called over his shoulder, already out the door, “or there won’t be a Geoffrey Elliot IV.”

Paul watched as Charmaine and the twins followed, disconcerted by the expression on Charmaine’s face. She looked pleased. He’d seen that expression a few times already this week, and he didn’t like it— he didn’t like it at all.

John heard the twins’ voices as he climbed the stairs, and he strode to the open bedroom doorway to say goodnight. He was surprised to find his father there, sitting on Jeannette’s bed, telling them a story about a gentleman pirate, Frederic’s father, Jean Duvoisin II.

Apparently, he was tucking them into bed. Perhaps this transformation Charmaine had talked about yesterday
was
real.

“Did he truly steal ships and plunder treasures?” Jeannette asked.

“He always claimed he did,” Frederic chuckled. “But I think he exaggerated a bit for my sake. What he actually did was look the other way when pirate ships entered Charmantes’ coves. They found safe haven here, and in return, they didn’t attack my father’s merchant ships.”

Frederic looked up to find John standing in the doorway. They hadn’t spoken since Saturday afternoon, and he didn’t want the week to go on like this, cringing again with the memory of Saturday’s dispute. If the mood remained strained, John would leave for Virginia as soon as Paul’s gala ended.

“Come in, John,” he encouraged with a smile. “I was telling Yvette and Jeannette about their grandfather.”

“He was a pirate!” Yvette exclaimed as John hesitated and then stepped across the threshold, settling on the end of her bed.

“So I’ve been told,” John replied mildly.

Frederic’s eyes danced. “And your brother is following in his footsteps,” he declared, looking pointedly at John and gaining all of their quizzical regards.

“He is?” Yvette queried.

“First of all, he’s named after his grandfather. Jean means John.”

“But Johnny is not a pirate, Papa,” Jeannette reasoned.

“He
is
— of sorts.”

Again, Frederic’s gleaming gaze met John’s raised brow.

“But Johnny wouldn’t smuggle diamonds and gold,” Yvette countered, certain her father was telling a tall tale. “He’s already rich!”

“There are other things to smuggle besides treasure, Yvette,” Frederic replied. “But let us save that story for another night. It is time to turn down the lamps.”

Despite their protests, he leaned heavily on his cane and rose from the bed. He doused the light and kissed them goodnight. He and John stepped into the hallway together.

As John turned toward his own chambers, Frederic called to him. “John, we have guests arriving during the week, brokers from Boston and New York. I’ve been told you suggested they contact Paul.”

“I did,” John nodded.

“Since you know these gentlemen, would you be willing to entertain them at the celebration Saturday night? I understand tensions run high between Southerners and Northerners these days, and I want everyone to keep a level head. I thought I’d have them at their own table with you seated there.”

“That’s fine, Father,” John said.

Frederic hadn’t moved, and John knew he had more to say. Finally he spoke, his voice earnest. “I’m glad you came home, John. I wasn’t spying on you, and I didn’t ask Westphal to get that information. I was as astonished as you.”

“My aunt has been very busy, then. I’m not surprised. She has always hated me. I deserve it now, but I didn’t when I was a child.”

Frederic nodded. He thought about asking John to reconsider his request to be taken off the will, but stopped short of broaching the topic. He knew John had made up his mind, so he turned toward the stairs instead. “Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Father.”

Tuesday, April 3, 1838

John rose early, but not early enough. His sisters were not in the nursery. He turned from the doorway, but had a change of heart and stepped into the room.

Unlike last night, all was peaceful. He was alone, alone with his memories. He crossed to Pierre’s empty bed and sat gingerly. He caressed the pillow, remembering the last time he sat here.

Charmaine was three steps into the children’s bedroom before she realized John was there. Embarrassed, he stood and turned away, wiping at his face with his forearm. She wanted to cross the chamber and comfort him, but knew he wanted to bury his sorrow, not reopen the healing wound.
Most times it’s easier to cry than to laugh
. Now she understood, truly understood.

“We are going for a stroll. Would you like to come along?” she offered.

“No,” he rasped. “I’d rather be alone today.”

Charmaine hesitated, then turned away, leaving him to his mourning.

Wednesday, April 4, 1838

Charmaine grabbed the doorknob and pushed into the study, coming up sharply as she found herself in the midst of a meeting between John, Edward Richecourt, Geoffrey Elliot, and another man she did not recognize. All three men shifted in their seats as she entered, conversation suspended, their eyes fixed on her. She, in turn, regarded John, who lounged in the large desk chair, his elbows propped casually on the armrests, one booted leg crossed over his knee, and Jeannette’s cat in his lap. Fleetingly, she thought he was angry, perhaps at her, for barging in so unceremoniously.

“I—excuse me,” she stammered and began to back out of the room, groping behind her for the doorknob.

John’s voice cut across her apology. “Miss Ryan, where are my sisters?”

She was stunned by his formality, the annoyance on his face.

“They are with your father. I had some time to myself.”

“You mean leisure time,” he corrected tersely.

“Yes,” she capitulated, still taken aback.
Is this meeting confidential?

“Miss Ryan, you are not paid for leisure time. So, since you have nothing to do right now, I will find something.”

Charmaine stood dumbfounded. Was he Agatha in disguise or was he showing off in front of the lawyers? Maybe he was out of his mind.

“Come, sit beside me.” As he leaned over to drag a chair nearer the desk, the cat leapt out of his lap. “Here is a pen and paper. Take notes on our discussion.”

He couldn’t be serious! She didn’t know whether to frown or laugh.

“Come now, Miss Ryan,” he pressed, “time is marching on.”

He
was
serious, but she was too stupefied to reply. As she settled into the chair and took up the pen, she began to simmer. He
was
showing off!

John introduced her to the stranger, one Carlton Blake. He was good-looking and tipped his head, smiling suavely at her. He was about the same age as John, and she surmised he already knew John from the States.

Edward Richecourt resumed the conversation, and Charmaine was transfixed with this talk of prices and exports, supply and demand, contracts and deals, and she found herself enjoying this eye into the Duvoisin’s world. She tried her best to take notes, but her pen struggled to keep pace with the issues that bounced back and forth, and changed on a dime. She wondered why John needed her there, noticing he’d taken up a quill as well.

As Carlton Blake turned the conversation to Midwest shipping via the Erie Canal, Charmaine became aware of John’s eyes upon her. She was wary of meeting his gaze, but the caramel orbs were warm now as he reached over nonchalantly, took her sheet of paper and looked over her notes, his chin poised upon thumb and forefinger. He tucked her paper under the one he’d been writing on and passed both sheets back to her. She looked down at his sloppy scrawl.
How long do you think it will take Geffey to ask me if I’ve signed his papers yet?
Her eyes flew from the paper to Geoffrey Elliot to John, whose face was expressionless as he listened to Mr. Blake. Charmaine read the next line.
I think Mr. Blake is enamored of you, my Charm. Perhaps I won’t invest with him after all
. She smiled and looked at John. His eyes were trained on her, as if daring her to laugh first. Feeling a tickle bubbling forth, she looked down at the paper again.
Mr. Pitchfork has to relieve himself, but he’d rather sit there and hold it than ask to be excused
. Charmaine stole a sidelong glance at the man, who was squirming in his chair. She giggled, gaining the stoic stares of all three men, the room suddenly silent, save her laughter echoing off the walls. Highly embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the paper, dramatizing great interest in it.

“Miss Ryan,” John commented coolly, “is something amusing? Perhaps you’d like to share it with us?” He leaned cockily back in his chair.

“Only your handwriting,” she responded smugly, lifting the paper as if she fully intended to hand it to Carlton Blake. “Perhaps your guests would like to see it. I think they’d agree.”

“No,” John countered, snatching it away. His eyes sparkled with admiration. “That won’t be necessary. They’ve seen it before. May we proceed?”

“Certainly. Do excuse me.”

She retrieved her paper and pretended at note taking, realizing now she’d been duped, John’s stern demeanor bolstering the success of his prank. She looked at him again, but he’d turned his attention back to his associates. She eyed the paper in front of him, and noticed he’d written yet another line meant for her eyes only, the sheet tilted in her direction so she could read it. His last message held the promise of long-denied distraction:
If I can finish my business with these gentlemen today, I will take you and the girls on a riding excursion tomorrow
.