Forever Waiting (38 page)

He arrived at the southern fields not a half-hour later and cursed as he looked out over the sloping terrain. The paid help and indentured servants were milling around. Paul urged his horse forward. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“We’re waitin’ for Mr. Richards,” one man answered. “He said he’d come out first thing this mornin’ to show us what needed doin’.”

“What about Mr. Browning?”

“He took some men with him into town. They’re stackin’ the kegs from yesterday’s cane pressin’ in the warehouse.”

“So because he’s not here, and Mr. Richards hasn’t arrived yet, the lot of you don’t know what to do?” Paul growled, jumping down from the saddle.

He strode through the nearest row of tobacco plants, plucking off several dark green leaves, bending each one over, noting they were brittle. Returning to Alabaster, he pulled up and into the saddle and shouted out to all the men. “I want the remaining leaves of this entire tract gathered and bundled. Tomorrow, I want them hung in the curing barns.”

The workers began to grumble, “We went through this field a day ago.”

Though irritated, Paul knew losing his temper wouldn’t get the work done, especially if George remained absent. “I know John has shown you what to do. These leaves are ready. If they are reaped by sunset, I will grant a day off for every man here—after the harvest. For those of you who’ve paid your time, an extra day’s wages!”

A whoop of approval went up, and the men threw themselves into the toil.

Paul turned Alabaster around, intent upon locating George. He checked the mill next and found the same situation there. Unsupervised, the men were taking advantage. “Have any of you seen George Richards?” he queried in rising agitation.

“No, sir, he don’t usually drop round ’til noon.”

“Where the hell is Wade Remmen?”

“He’s normally here by now, sir, but he was feelin’ poorly yesterday.”

Paul swore under his breath. “Very well, Tom, how would you like to be in charge for the day?” When the man frowned, he added, “Double wages if you mill as much lumber as Wade usually does.”

“Yes, sir!”

Paul spoke to the other men who had gathered around. “Tom’s in charge. Follow his orders, get the work done, and there will be a bonus at sunset.”

Before Paul had mounted up, Tom was barking orders.

What to do?
He had been lax lately, and the word had gotten out: Frederic and John were gone, and he was rarely around. Had everyone gone on holiday because he wasn’t breaking his back? He had no idea where to look for George, but Wade Remmen was going to find out he couldn’t take a day off on a whim. The man was paid well to be reliable.

Twenty minutes later, he was riding along the waterfront road on the outskirts of town, where the cottages were humble. Near the end, he reined in Alabaster, dismounted, and tied the horse to the whitewashed fence that enclosed the bungalow’s small front yard. Of all the abodes along the lane, this one was the most charming, with flower boxes under the windows and a fresh coat of paint on the front door. Paul smiled despite his foul mood.

He knocked and waited. The door opened. There stood the young woman who had approached him in Fatima’s kitchen on the night of the ball.
Of course! She is Wade’s sister
. Even in her plain dress, she was stunning. “Is your brother here?” Paul inquired curtly, attempting to camouflage his surprise.

“Yes,” she said softly.

“May I speak to him?”

“He’s not well.”

“I would still like to speak with him,” Paul persisted.
It would be nice if she invited me in
.

“He’s sick with fever,” she argued. “I don’t want him disturbed.”

Paul snorted in derision. Obviously, she was lying. Her manner alone branded her guilty, for she refused to budge.

“May I come in?” he bit out, quickly losing patience.

When she protested again, he placed palm to door and pushed it aside. As he strode into the plain but tidy room—a kitchen and parlor of sorts—the young girl tracked him, spitting fire over his audacity.

“How dare you? This is our home and if you think you can barge in here because you’re the high and mighty Paul Duvoisin, you’ve got—”

Paul headed toward one of the bedroom doors.

Just as swiftly, Rebecca scooted past him and flattened herself against it. “I told you—Wade is ill! You can’t disturb him!”

“Miss Remmen—step aside, or I will move you.”

“You just try it!” she sneered through bared teeth and narrowed eyes.

She was a little vixen, but he wasn’t about to be deterred, or worse, ordered around by a sassy snip of a girl, lovely or not. In one fluid motion, he swept her up in his arms and deposited her unceremoniously in the nearest chair.

Astounded, she scrambled to her feet, but he’d already entered the bedroom.

The curtains were drawn and someone was abed. Wade’s breathing bordered on a snore. As Paul’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he could see beads of perspiration on the young man’s brow. He placed a palm to his forehead. Wade’s eyes fluttered open, and he murmured something in delirium. “He’s burning up,” Paul stated irately. “Why didn’t you summon the doctor?”

“Doctors cost money,” she defiantly whispered. “Now, please, he’s resting. You will awaken him, and then I’ll have him arguing with me as well.”

“Arguing with you?” Paul declared incredulously. “He’s delirious! I pay your brother decent wages. He can afford a doctor when he’s this ill.”

“Wade insists on saving his money.”

Paul glowered at her, and she added, “So we don’t ever go hungry again.”

The last remark brought her shame, and she turned away, glad when another knock fell on the outer door.

Paul followed her out of the bedroom, somewhat contrite. He, too, was grateful for the distraction. George was standing on the threshold.

“Where have you been?” Paul demanded.

“Looking for you,” George replied. “When Wade sent word he wouldn’t be going to the mill, I figured one of us would have to oversee his work. You left the house before me. I missed you at the tobacco fields, then I went to the mill—”

“All right, George, I understand,” Paul ceded. He rubbed the back of his neck, the day’s work less pressing than Wade.

George volunteered to fetch Dr. Hastings, and before Paul knew it, he was once again alone with Rebecca. Her face remained stern.

“You were far more fetching at the ball,” he commented with a lazy smile. “Remember—in the kitchen—when you were in love with me?”

“Mr. Duvoisin,” she responded flatly, feigning disinterest in his flirtatious compliment, “I told you my brother won’t waste his money on a doctor. Thanks to you, he has a fever. With a bit of rest, he will heal all on his own.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Yes. You see, Wade kept on working in the pouring rain last week—to make things easier for you. He caught a chill, and now he’s paying for it.”

Paul ignored her statement. “Why didn’t you tell me you had sent word?”

“I thought that was the reason you were here.” When he seemed confused, she continued, “I thought you were going to force him to work, anyway.” She bowed her head. “I love my brother. He’s all I have.”

“And that is why George is fetching Dr. Hastings,” Paul interjected. “You needn’t worry about his fee. I’ll take care of it.”

“Wade wouldn’t like that,” she argued, her head jerking up, eyes flashing again. “It would be like taking charity.”

“Miss Remmen,” Paul countered, “if your brother remains ill for days on end, I will lose a great deal more money than the cost of a doctor. Right now, I’m shorthanded. I need Wade up and about. He’s invaluable.”

She looked at him quizzically, and it occurred to him she didn’t understand. “I can’t do without him,” he explained, distracted by the sparkling green eyes that changed on a dime, speaking volumes.

Apparently, his reasoning met with her approval, for she was smiling now, the orbs even more captivating with this new expression. She was lovely.

“Would you like a cup of coffee or perhaps tea?” she offered, grabbing the kettle and swinging it over the embers in the hearth.

“That would be nice. I’d like to hear what the doctor has to say.”

Rebecca grew dismayed. “You don’t think it
is
serious, do you?”

“No, you are probably right. Wade will mend all on his own.”

She sighed, her smile returning. Then, as if suddenly shy, she began to stoke the fire. Paul sat back and watched her.

Dr. Hastings’s diagnosis was similar to Rebecca’s: overwork and a chilling rain had brought on the fever, bed-rest and nourishment, the cure. Paul told her to keep Wade home until Monday and he wanted to know if there wasn’t an improvement. Then he and George were saying their farewells.

As they turned their horses onto the main road, George spoke. “Rebecca is smitten with you.”

Paul snorted.

“It’s true! You should have seen her at the ball. I danced with her once, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off you the entire evening. If you hadn’t been so damn busy, I would have introduced you.”

Again Paul snorted. He didn’t tell George Rebecca had introduced herself.

George pressed on. “Whenever I go to the cottage, she always brings the conversation around to you.”

Paul’s brow arched, and though he tried not to, he smiled. “She wasn’t too happy with me this morning.”

“She can be a regular spitfire,” George confirmed. “She bullies Wade like no man’s business. But she is quite lovely.”

“And young—she can’t be more than sixteen.”

“Just seventeen, I believe.” He paused for a moment. “You know, Paul, a bit of a diversion is what you need—take your mind off things.”

Paul scoffed at the idea. “The last time I had a ‘bit of a diversion’ I lost the one thing that meant the most to me.”

“Maybe Charmaine wasn’t yours to find,” George replied evenly. He let the remark sink in before saying, “John will be home before long. And when that happens, you’ll be nursing a broken heart— again.”

Paul looked away. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, it is.”

Paul shook his head. “When did things become so complicated, George? I remember when we were young. Everything was so very simple. We enjoyed life, and the women were free for the picking.”

“I guess we grew up,” George supplied.

“I guess we have.”

Another knock resounded on the Remmen door. Rebecca collected herself and walked slowly to the door. Perhaps it was Paul again. She lamented his departure, treasuring the private moments she’d had with him. But when she opened it, she frowned in disappointment. Felicia Flemmings stood in the doorway. “What was Paul Duvoisin doing here?”

“My brother is not well,” Rebecca answered. “Paul was checking on him.”

“Paul is it?” Felicia asked as she pushed into the cottage.

Rebecca eyed her speculatively. She didn’t think she liked the older girl, though Felicia had tried to ingratiate herself with Rebecca from the moment she’d moved back into her parents’ home next door. Rebecca suspected it was because Wade was so good-looking. But she had allowed Felicia her visits over the past few days because the older girl was willing to divulge a plethora of information concerning the goings-on in the Duvoisin mansion, details about Paul the most interesting of all. Felicia had told her she’d quit her domestic job at the manor because she couldn’t tolerate John’s new wife, Charmaine, an opportunistic trollop, who was intent on ensnaring Paul in her husband’s absence. “I couldn’t watch it any longer,” she had complained. “Poor John!”

Poor Paul
, Rebecca had thought.

Presently, Felicia was assessing her, chuckling perspicaciously. “You have your sights set for Paul, don’t you?”

“I’m going to marry him.”

Felicia guffawed until she realized Rebecca was serious, the girl’s tight expression giving her pause. When Wade didn’t appear, she wished her luck with another flippant chuckle and promptly left.

Rebecca tucked the woman’s ridicule in the back of her mind and indulged in memories of Paul: his rough hands on her, strong arms lifting her up, carrying her … She was alone; her brother slept soundly. Intoxicated, she entered her bedroom and, with heart accelerating, closed the door.

Friday, September 28, 1838

Yvette and Jeannette’s tenth birthday dawned bright and warm. But the brilliant day did not lift Charmaine’s spirits. She left her bedchamber with a heavy heart, dwelling on cherished memories of last year. She wondered where John was and what he was doing. Did he remember what day it was? Was he thinking about their wonderful picnic one short year ago?

The girls were sad, too, making no inquiries about gifts when they reached the dining room.

Mercedes and George were there. “Why the glum faces?” George asked. “I thought everyone was happy on their birthday.”

“We don’t feel like celebrating,” Yvette grumbled. “Not without Johnny.”

“Is that so?” he queried. “Mercedes and I thought the two of you would like to try out the new saddles and tack Paul purchased for your ponies.” He was smiling now, noting their faltering sadness. “That’s right. Mercedes placed the order. And I’ve taken the day off so we can go riding.”

Sparks of happiness lit the girls’ eyes. Soon they were departing. Charmaine couldn’t join them in her condition. Instead, she sat with Rose on the portico and thought about John. Tomorrow, he’d be spending his birthday with his father …

Monday, October 1, 1838

The days melted into weeks. Frederic and Michael spent them visiting the city post office and the shipping offices, combing address listings and immigrant registers for Blackfords. Though common sense suggested the man
had
changed his name, they couldn’t be certain, and with nothing to go on, they were compelled to track down every Blackford, Black, Ford, and eventually Smith, Jones, and Brown they came across. Frederic exerted his influence on the owners of other shipping lines to gain access to passenger manifests. Not one listed a Blackford leaving New York recently, but they found a number of Blacks and Fords in the post office registry. Though it did not provide a street address, the public roll did help narrow down the neighborhoods where these men lived. Frederic and Michael passed hours scouring the streets and visiting places of business in the hopes of turning up the fugitive doctor. Even with the most remote of leads, they often waited an entire day for the resident to return, only to head home disappointed.