Forever Waiting (44 page)

“I can do it, Ma!” she complained. “We’re gonna be late!”

Lily stood, gave both sons’ coats a final tug, nodded her approval, and shooed all three out the door with the words, “No stopping along the way and come directly home after school!”

“We will, Ma!”

She sighed, then turned around, surprised to find Frederic studying her.

“You love them very much,” he said.

“Yes,” she admitted with a smile, “my pride and joy. How is John?”

“The same: still sleeping, no fever.”

“Good.” She moved toward the hearth. “Rose has already left for work. Can I make you something to eat?”

Frederic waved away the offer. “Not just yet. I’d like to talk, if you can spare the time.”

“My time is my own. Rose will make my excuses at work.”

She settled into an armchair and motioned for Frederic to do the same. When he had, he rubbed his brow, wondering how to broach the subject that had plagued him since Lily had rushed into John’s bedroom not two days ago.

“You’re quite a woman, Miss Clayton,” he began. “Again, I thank you for your hospitality—what you’ve done for my son.”

Lily smiled knowingly. “I’m also a woman of color, Mr. Duvoisin—a quadroon.” She chuckled deeply at his astonishment. “You’re surprised.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, sir, John is not the father of my children. I was a slave at Wisteria Hill, the plantation near Freedom. When John purchased it, we—that is my children, Rose, and I—became his property, though not for long. We were emancipated within the year. Your son is a good man, sir, an honorable man. If not for him, I would never have made it north, my children would have remained uneducated, not much better off than those in bondage, and life would hold little hope for them.”

“And what of their father?”

Lily bowed her head, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. “Henry—my husband—remains a slave. He was sold south nearly five years ago. I will never see him again.”

Frederic heard the despair in her voice and knew a greater dread. “You love your husband.”

Lily’s head lifted. “With all my heart.”

“
All
your heart?”

“Yes,” she averred.

A lengthy silence descended on the room. Frederic wondered where John fit into the picture. It was obvious this woman had feelings for his son. But were they deep? Or did John merely fill a void left in the wake of a family torn apart—the dismal abyss of loneliness? The possibility stirred a memory and thoughts of Hannah Fields clouded his musings. Hannah had not only filled a void; she had seen firsthand the atrocities of slavery, escaping to this very same city.
Did she and Nicholas still live here?

“I know what troubles you, sir,” Lily was saying.

Frederic was drawn back to the present. “Do you?”

“John was there when I needed him most,” she answered slowly. “But I love John as surely as I love Henry. I will always love John.”

Frederic scoffed at the assertion, and Lily raised an irate brow in return.

“I see you don’t believe me.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Clayton, but you avow your love for your husband and, in the very next breath, proclaim your love for another.”

“Is it so hard to believe a woman could love two men?” Lily’s voice cracked, her tears accumulating. “I assure you, sir, it isn’t. I know I have two hearts. One was broken five years ago. The other is breaking now.”

Frederic was dumbfounded and profoundly moved. Without warning, he thought of Colette, and everything was clear, crystal clear. “John is married now,” he pronounced solemnly, “with a son or daughter on the way.”

Lily digested the information, and her sadness intensified. She collected her emotions and whispered, “Then I pray he will be happy. He deserves to be happy. But first, I pray he will recover.”

Frederic nodded. Declining breakfast, he stood and retired.

The second day was as tranquil as the first. John remained unconscious, though he groaned now and then. His eyes would sometimes flutter open, and he’d mutter incoherently before they’d close again.

That evening, he showed signs of fever, shivering under the blankets as a sweat broke on his brow. Lily continuously applied a cool cloth to his forehead, but by morning, the fever was raging. He shuddered uncontrollably, and his teeth chattered violently. He bucked against the compresses and pulled at the bedcovers to get warm, even though Lily kept pulling them away. Frederic and Michael prepared an ice bath. They stripped off his nightclothes and submerged him in the frigid water. He cried out in agony, struggling against the arms that held him down, but the bath worked, and as they settled him back into the bed, he slept peacefully. Within hours, the fever rose again, and he began to hallucinate, uttering fragmented phrases, reliving the confrontation with Blackford and calling out for Charmaine. Michael and Frederic submerged him in the water again, and again they succeeded in bringing the fever down.

Saturday, December 8, 1838

Frederic stirred in the cramped chair next to John’s bed, the glaring sunlight streaming through the window slats, shocking him awake. He looked at John, who lay deathly still. Jumping up, he grabbed his son’s hand and gasped in relief. It was cool, but not cold. Still, John was unresponsive to anyone’s voice or touch, his breathing shallow, his face colorless.

Lily ran for Dr. Hastings again. An hour later, he examined John, then stepped out of the room with a grim shake of the head. “I’m sorry … I wish I could do more.”

Michael studied Frederic, whose eyes were dark with grief, and pitied him. So valiant an effort, and now this. Michael looked down at John, his good and generous friend. The face was ghostly white, a face the priest had seen too many times while presiding over a bedside, administering the Last Rites. It was the face of death. He thought of his daughter. She would not be here to say farewell to the husband she loved.

Michael’s eyes filled with tears. Silently, he recited the prayers for the dying, finishing with:
Sacred Heart of Jesus, pray for us
 …
St. Jude, helper of the hopeless, pray for us … Father in Heaven, restore him to us
 …

Late Evening

Frederic sat beside his son’s lifeless body. With head bent, he clutched one of John’s hands between his own, and brought it to his mouth in a fervent prayer. “Dear Lord,” he murmured, “don’t take him from me—not now!” He squeezed the hand harder as if he could infuse it with his own vitality. “I promised Charmaine I would bring you home, but not this way, Dear God, not this way!” He buried his head in the bed clothing and wept.

John looked down upon the curious scene unfolding below. His father was praying over his body, but he didn’t feel the man’s pain, only serenity.
Am I dreaming?
Someone was calling his name—not from the room, but from above and behind him. He turned slowly, and the corner of the ceiling opened wide, bathing everything in splendor. Far off, a woman was walking toward him, silhouetted against the bright light, and he shielded his eyes to better see her. She called his name again, her voice unfamiliar. Her hair was golden brown, her eyes like honey. She was plain, yet beautiful in her placid mien, and something in the way she moved reminded him of Colette. He knew she was his mother.

“John,” she breathed again. “I’ve longed to see you.”

There was a great distance between them, but his heart swelled with her greeting as if she were only a breath away. He took one last look at his father and turned back to her.

Chapter 8

Charmantes

B
ENEATH
a blackened sky and cold, steady rain, the sorrowful procession picked its way along the craggy path to the cemetery. They stood before an open grave, where Michael Andrews intoned the dirge:
Eternal rest give unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him
. The men lowered John’s casket into the deep hole, and the first shovelfuls of dirt were thrown on it. Charmaine closed her eyes and wept pitifully into Frederic’s shirtfront, his strong arms encircling her. The twins were wailing. Paul was at their side, his eyes stormy. Flanked by Rose and Mercedes, George’s head bowed farther to hide his tears, though his shoulders shook with grief. Charmaine couldn’t bear it. She was going to die, too …
Oh God, let me die, too!

She awoke, her heart pounding and her body saturated in a cold sweat. She was staring at the ceiling. It had been a dream—just a dream, yet she knew John was dead. She struggled out of bed, rolling with her cumbersome belly, but as her feet touched the floor, she doubled over in pain. She was in labor.

Elizabeth smiled at John as he approached, but oddly, the distance between them remained constant. His eyes left her face for the small child she held by the hand. It was Pierre, smiling up at him. John broke into a run and, after an eternity, reached them. He lifted Pierre and the boy flung his arms around his neck. “Papa,” he said. “Where were you?”

“Right here, Pierre,” John whispered. “I was right here.”

“We missed you! Mama and I missed you!”

John turned to his mother, but Colette smiled up at him now. He reached for her, and she stepped into his embrace. “You did well, John,” she murmured. “You righted the wrong, and now it is over.”

“Colette,” he breathed, “Colette.” He hugged mother and son tightly to him and savored her sweet fragrance. He was at peace.

Charmaine groped through the darkness to Paul’s room, hunched over with another contraction. She rapped on his door, pounding harder when he didn’t answer.

“Charmaine?” he queried when he opened to find her there. “What is it?”

Then he knew: The baby was on the way, one month early. He lifted her into his arms and quickly carried her back to her room. “Stay here, I’ll get Rose and Loretta and set out for Dr. Hastings.”

“Paul!” she called as he reached the door. He turned to face her. “John is dead. Dear God—I know he’s dead!”

He returned to the bed, grasping her hand and holding it tightly as another contraction seized her, waiting for the pain to subside. “You don’t know that, Charmaine.”

“I had a dream,” she moaned, her breathing rapid, “but I know it was real! I’ve lost him!”

“You’re in labor, Charmaine, and your mind is playing tricks on you. Now, try to relax, and I’ll be back soon.”

He left her again, beset with worry.

Marie Elizabeth Duvoisin was born not two hours later, a loud wail greeting the doctor, who arrived too late. It had been a surprisingly easy labor, especially for a first child, and Rose beamed at her prowess as midwife.

Dr. Hastings stayed until he was sure mother and child were fine. The babe was small, but quite healthy, he reassured. Her early delivery was induced by anxiety, he diagnosed, which he admonished Charmaine to subdue, lest she bring on complications. He spoke to Paul on his way out. “I hope your brother won’t be disappointed with a daughter.”

“No, Adam,” Paul murmured, “John won’t be disappointed.”

Charmaine gazed down at her infant daughter, who was already searching for a nipple. She wept, her tears falling onto her daughter’s head, a baptism of abounding love.

“Marie, my sweet little Marie, if only your father were here … ”

Leaning over, Charmaine kissed her head, the fuzz of red-blond hair, soft as down. The baby looked like John, already she looked like John, save the blue eyes, the beautiful blue eyes that opened now and then. Her tiny fist clutched Charmaine’s finger, and Charmaine brought it to her lips for another tender kiss.

Rose and Loretta bustled about the room, removing the soiled linens, shooing people away from the door. “Give Charmaine a moment’s peace. She wants to have the babe all to herself for a spell.” The twins had been awoken with all the commotion, and they were the most anxious to see the newest Duvoisin.

Marie began to fuss, letting out a fierce cry that turned rhythmic, the volume increasing. Rose quickly dropped what she was doing and came around the bed. “She wants to nurse,” she stated mildly and proceeded to show Charmaine the proper way to offer the infant her breast. The tiny lips rooted around and latched firmly onto the proffered nipple. The suckling sensation was both uncomfortable and exquisite. Together they fed a burgeoning contentment, and Charmaine was blanketed in an unfathomable peace.

When Marie fell asleep, she made herself presentable, allowing her pillows to be fluffed before sitting back into them. Twice Loretta attempted to put Marie in the cradle, but Charmaine cuddled her daughter all the closer. “No, let me hold her. I need to hold her.” Loretta nodded in understanding. Rose invited the family in for their first visit.

Yvette and Jeannette danced with delight as they beheld their niece.

“Wait until Johnny comes home,” Yvette said.

“He will be so proud,” Jeannette added.

Paul stood at the foot of the bed, admiring the tender vision. Charmaine looked radiant, bearing the twins’ comments with quiet dignity, a faint smile on her lips. He wished she were cradling his child. He loved her, he suddenly realized. If John didn’t return, he vowed to take care of her and perhaps, if she’d have him, marry her.

Sunday, December 16, 1838

Charmaine had enjoyed a wonderful birthday, as wonderful as it could be without John. Next year would be different, everyone reassured her. This year, the entire household had taken great pains to make it a happy occasion. She even felt better, nearly restored to the woman she’d been before her confinement.

Now, with Marie sound asleep in her cradle, she stroked the mane on the rocking horse. She turned to the other birthday gifts, most of them for her daughter. Charmaine didn’t mind; she enjoyed looking at the pretty little dresses and stockings. She spent the next hour or so rearranging drawers to make room for Marie’s layette. She decided to combine John’s clothing into five drawers, as there was more room in his chiffonier than hers.