Forever Waiting (8 page)

He still loves her
, Michael realized sadly.
After all these years, he still loves her
. “And the boy?” Michael braved to ask.

“I killed him, too,” John pronounced somberly, his voice cracking. “I killed him, too.” When he regained his composure, he told Michael the whole story.

“It’s over now,” Michael comforted. “It’s time to move on.”

“I know that,” John agreed, “and I am.”

“Then why not go back?” Michael prodded. “You are invited, yes?”

“In effect.”

“In effect? What does that mean?”

“My father invited me, which is as good as Paul inviting me.”

“Your father?” Michael asked in surprise. “So why aren’t you going?” John’s grim silence was his reply. “Are you angry with your brother?”

“No. I hope his business succeeds beyond his wildest dreams.”

“It’s your father. That’s the issue,” Michael pressed. “You still hate him.” John clenched his jaw. “I’m not going back because every time I do, there’s a disaster. It’s best for everyone concerned if I stay away.”

“But your father has invited you. That means he’s forgiven you.” “That means,” John sneered, “he wants all his guests to believe we are one big,
happy
, wealthy family—for my brother’s sake.”

“No, John. It means he’s forgiven you. I know it. I think you know it, too. He’s never invited you home before, has he?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“John,” Michael implored, “if you ever want to get on with your life, you have to face this. Do it now, while your father wants it, while he’s willing to forgive you. You may never have this chance again.”

“I don’t want his forgiveness,” John confessed acidly. “And he certainly won’t get mine.”

Astounded by the ferocious declaration, the depth of John’s prolonged bitterness, Michael shook his head sadly. “Perhaps there is more to it than you understand, John. Is it possible your father loved this woman, too?”

John snorted, repulsed by the idea. “He married my aunt not three months after Colette died, Michael. So you tell me—is that love?”

Michael inhaled sharply. The sordid story only grew worse. Even so, he rejected the obvious answer. “Perhaps you can’t forgive your father now, but you should accept
his
forgiveness,” he reasoned. “Go back for your brother’s sake—and your sisters’. I’ll warrant they will be thrilled to see you.”

John pondered Michael’s words. He thought about his last visit to the island and how dramatically his life had improved. Though Colette’s death had cut deeply when he’d first arrived, it changed nothing really. He had long resigned himself to life without her. And lately, even the pain of Pierre’s death was subsiding. Because he didn’t discount the existence of God, entertaining the belief Pierre was with his mother in the afterlife consoled him. He was beginning to step away from the past. Charmaine had been right; now he
could
think of Pierre dumping sand on his head and chuckle about it, rather than fight back tears. He knew Yvette and Jeannette would be overjoyed to see him, and then there was Charmaine. In fact, seeing her motivated him to go back more than anything else. He might even be lucky and find she wasn’t married to Paul yet.

“Where has this anger gotten you and your family anyway, John?” Michael asked. “Isn’t it time to let it go? It appears your father wants to bury it, so why not you? The future might be brighter than you believe possible.”

Suddenly, John was disgusted with the entire matter. Michael made it sound so simple. Why go through that again? “I’ll think about it,” he lied.

The priest decided it was best not to pressure him and walked to the vestibule.

John followed, dismayed and disgruntled, certain he had prodded Michael into a hasty departure. “You’re not leaving now,” he objected. “The sun will soon be setting.”

“I have a lamp in the carriage,” Michael replied, pulling on his coat, “I also passed an inn along the way. If need be, I can stop there. In either case, I must get back.”

“Would a bit more money help?” John asked, certain his friend was working himself into the grave.

“You’ve been far too generous already, and it’s better if I keep busy.”

“Busy with work or with killing yourself?”

Michael’s brow lifted. “Is it that obvious?”

“I’m surprised Marie hasn’t insisted on a bit of leisure,” John said with a twinkle in his eye, perplexed when the priest’s face went white. “Michael?”

“Marie is dead,” Michael pronounced. “I thought you knew, John. I thought everyone knew. It’s been over two years now.”

“Dead?”
John murmured, nonplussed. During his brief visits to the refuge, he hadn’t thought to ask for her, taking it for granted she was alive and well. Two years and he hadn’t seen her! He was immediately angry with himself. Was he so absorbed in his own misery he overlooked his friends? Marie had been a savior, a sympathetic confidante who had helped him through the worst times of his life—the months following Pierre’s conception and birth. “Dead,” he reiterated as the truth set in. “But how?”

“It was terrible—” Michael struggled to explain.

John shook his head, for he knew the priest, this good man, this equally good friend, had loved Marie. “Michael, I’m sorry, so sorry.”

“She was a very special woman, John.”

“Yes, Michael, she was.”

Words exhausted, they pondered the finality of death. The bleak mood was broken when John strode into the small library and rummaged through his desk drawers. He found what he was looking for and walked back to the hallway, studying the envelope in his hands.

“Funny,” he said, “Marie gave this to me years ago, and—” he looked up at Michael “—she asked me to give it to you should anything happen to her.” He gingerly extended the missive to the priest.

Michael accepted the letter, cradling it as if it were a precious gift.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

Michael broke the seal, removed the single paper, and began to read. His hands were trembling by the time he’d finished. He looked up at John, tears in his eyes. “I have a daughter,” he whispered. “Dear God … a daughter.”

Burying his face in his hands, he slumped into the nearby armchair. Now he knew why Marie had deserted him twenty years ago. He believed it was because of that one intimate encounter. For nearly six years, he’d worried over what had become of her and chastised himself for having shamed her. When she did return one bitterly cold day, she had a young girl with her—her daughter. She was married, she was happy, she told him. She and her husband had started a family. Marie kept him at arm’s length, so Michael believed her story. They never talked about what had happened between them, but he wondered if she thought about it as often as he did.

Suddenly, he was furious: furious with himself—the priesthood—God. He should have turned his back on the ministry when he knew he loved Marie. She would still be alive if he had walked away!

“Are you all right?” John asked, shaken by the man’s expression.

“I’m not certain where she is,” Michael said, his anger gone, enervation seeping in.

“Perhaps Marie placed her with a good family. She’s likely surrounded by brothers and sisters.”

Michael looked up at him quizzically. “No, John. She’s a young woman now—nineteen or twenty.”

John was surprised once again.

“I knew Marie for many years,” Michael explained. “She was orphaned and raised at St. Jude’s. I was young when I was assigned there, and she was beautiful, inside and out. It’s no excuse for what I did, but I did love her. I still love her.”

“I know that. So why berate yourself? You loved her, and she you.”

“That ‘love’ forced her into a loveless marriage.”

“Marriage?” John puzzled. “She never mentioned a husband to me.”

“She rarely spoke of her life outside the refuge,” Michael whispered. “Apparently, she chose it to spare me the shame of fornication. According to this, she didn’t want me to leave the priesthood, something she feared I’d contemplate if I had known about the baby. So she sacrificed herself instead.”

Laying the letter in his lap, Michael pressed his hands together in prayer and brought his fingers to his lips, tapping them in deep thought. “Now, what am I to do, John? Do I track down my daughter? Do I tell her I’m her father? I know she despised the man she thought was her father.”

“How would you know that?”

“She grew up at the refuge, attended Sister Elizabeth’s school. I heard many of her confessions.”

“Find her first,” John suggested, “and make certain she’s all right. You can decide about telling her the truth later.”

“You’re right,” the priest nodded, reconciled. “Marie would want that.”

Barking dogs and a rap on the door drew them away from Michael’s problem. Annoyed by the interruption, John opened it to five men staring up at him from the lawn below, their horses tethered to the hitching post at the edge of the drive.

“Good evening, Mr. Duvoisin,” said a sixth man who’d parted from the pack and stood on the porch, seemingly oblivious to the snarling hounds. “We’d like a moment of your time.”

“Concerning?” John queried.

“Two runaway slaves. We have reason to believe they are in the area and traveling at night.”

John listened, expressionless. When he didn’t respond, another man stepped forward with a newspaper clipping, which he shoved into John’s hand. John glanced down at it. “A strong buck and his woman—spotted about thirty miles south of here the night before last. Take a good look at that paper, Mr. Duvoisin, and tell me if you’ve seen any nigger fittin’ that description.”

A reward of one hundred fifty dollars was offered for the fugitive. The article gave the date of his escape, the state from which he’d fled, his owner’s name, and a description. The bounty increased the farther from home the slave was captured.

John shrugged, passing the paper to Michael. “They all look alike to me.”

The men grunted in agreement, the remark putting them at ease. The ringleader remained staunch. “We understand you’ve freed all your slaves, Mr. Duvoisin, that they work for you here. There’d be a high price to pay if your niggers were harboring someone else’s property. Best we speak with them.”

“The men and women on this plantation know better, Mr. … ?” and John waited patiently for the name.

“Reynolds,” the man supplied.

“Mr. Reynolds,” John acknowledged. “They’d lose their position here. Unlike the Yankees, I don’t fault the South for using slave labor. After all, my family’s wealth has been built on it. Freeing my slaves was a business decision, nothing more. I find they work harder because they’re paid; I don’t need a whip, and I don’t have to hire expensive bounty hunters like you to track them down. They don’t run.”

The men eyed him suspiciously, but could not refute what he said.

“All the same, we’d like to see their quarters,” the first man replied.

“As you wish,” John relented.

He descended the porch and led them to the humble Negro quarters behind the plantation house, passing Stuart’s abode first. Stuart stepped out and nodded to them. “My production manager,” John explained.

As they approached, the children swiftly abandoned their games. John singled out one cabin and rapped on the door. Brian opened almost immediately, evidence he’d been watching from the window.

“Brian,” John began, “these gentlemen are looking for two runaway slaves from North Carolina. They were spotted south of here two nights ago. Is that right, gentlemen?” They nodded. “Have you or anyone else seen them?”

“No, sir.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot take your word for it,” John said. “I’m sure these gentlemen will not rest until they have searched your home.”

The men mumbled in agreement.

“Yes, sir,” Brian answered. Stepping aside, he allowed two of them in.

The others paired off and searched each cabin. They came up empty-handed, and Reynolds turned to John. “We’re sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Duvoisin.”

John smiled. “No trouble at all. I’ll keep an eye out for your runaways.”

They trudged back to the main house and mounted up. John climbed the front steps, rubbing the back of his neck. When they were out of sight, Michael came out onto the porch. “They’re gone?” he queried anxiously.

“They’re gone,” John affirmed.

Michael still clutched the news clipping in his fist.

“May I have that?” John asked. “I keep them,” he explained, “every one of them, as a reminder of what I’m doing and why.”

Michael handed the paper over. John glanced at it and said, “Let us see if they made it to Freedom last night.”

Michael chuckled, and together, they retraced John’s steps to the cabins.

Stuart came out onto the porch again, smiling in relief.

“So, they
are
here?” John asked.

“Yes, John, since dawn, but I didn’t know you were up at the house.”

“No harm done,” John replied. “Today continues to be their lucky day. Since there are only two of them, and Father Michael will be setting out for Richmond in the morning, he can transport them to the refuge in his buggy.”

Michael nodded; it looked as if he’d be spending the night.

They slid a heavy, crude hutch off two movable floorboards, and the couple emerged from the crawlspace beneath Stuart’s cabin. Nettie gave them dinner, then prepared a bed for them, and at the crack of dawn the next morning, they were on their way. The pregnant woman sat beside Michael and did not look out of place; the advertisement had not described her and she could pass for his housekeeper. Her husband, however, was tucked uncomfortably behind the carriage seat, concealed under a blanket. Still, it was better than walking.

John wished them well and pressed some money into the woman’s hands.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, grabbing hold of his arm and cradling it to her heart. “God bless you and your family.”

“And you, ma’am,” he rejoined. He shook Michael’s hand and said, “I’ll stop by when I’m back in Richmond.”

The priest flicked the reins, setting the buggy in motion.

Saturday, March 24, 1837
Charmantes