Decision and Destiny (23 page)

“On the contrary, my Charm. Most times it is easier to cry than to laugh. Laughter is a hard-won, diligent effort. It must be refined day in and day out to bar despair and ruin. Only then can one subsist—”

“Did you love her?” she whispered, too late regretting her blunder. Already his eyes had hardened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked—”

“Don’t apologize,” he snapped. “I shook on our pact.” He chuckled hollowly. “That particular question, however, is becoming quite tiresome. Pierre asked the very same one not ten minutes ago.”

“And your answer?”

“What do you think I said to a boy inquiring about his deceased mother?” he replied caustically. “Of course I loved her. She was, after all, my ‘stepmother.’”

He closed the conversation as swiftly as he turned his back on her.
So much for honesty
. But even in the lie, she glimpsed the truth.

Paul bathed quickly; Stephen Westphal was due within the hour. Much as he’d have liked to postpone the meeting, the banker had flagged him down in town, maintaining his proposal could wait no longer. It was time to bring Espoir’s construction phase to a close and her commercial phase to a beginning. With the first ship arriving any day now, Paul needed to cement ocean routes, buyers, and sellers. To that end, Westphal had worked tirelessly for him, his Stateside business connections invaluable, thus the reason for this evening’s meeting.

Paul entered the drawing room. It might as well have been deserted, for John stood solemnly at the far end, studying something through the French doors, while the banker fiddled with the starched collar that pinched his reddened neck. “Good evening, Stephen,” he greeted.

The man’s regard bespoke undying gratitude, as if he’d just been raised from the depths of hell. “Paul,” he returned, jumping to his
feet, arm extended for a hearty handshake, “I didn’t realize how early I was.”

Paul moved to the liquor cabinet. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I was delayed at the cane fields. We’re still cleaning up after Thursday’s storm.”

“Of course, of course,” Stephen nodded.

“May I pour you a brandy?” Paul inquired over his shoulder, his eyes going fleetingly to his brother, who already held a glass.

“That would be wonderful,” Stephen answered, “if it isn’t any trouble.”

Paul considered John again. “Couldn’t you offer our guest a drink, John?” he inquired sharply.

John turned. “It’s not mine to offer. Not yet, anyway.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. Obviously, the two men had exchanged words; the question was, what had John said? Agatha’s assertions played heavily in Paul’s mind. John’s behavior toward Westphal could be a preview of what was yet to come, disaster right around the corner if potential investors and business partners were led to believe his brother was undermining him.

Agatha entered the room and showered the banker with exaggerated salutations. “Stephen, it’s been too long! How nice to have you as our guest!”

“Agatha, I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”

John winced, muttering, “He’s easy to please.”

Paul fought the mounting tension. Much as he’d like to tell John to run off and play with the children, a vulgar retort came to mind, and he knew his brother was not above voicing it.

“Will Frederic be joining us?” Stephen asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Agatha stated. “He asked me to extend his apologies.”

“I’m sorry he cannot be with us.” The banker’s eyes shifted to John. “Your nephew mentioned a family gathering the other night. Might I presume Frederic’s health has taken a turn for the better?”

“In fact, it has,” Paul interjected charily. “This Christmastide conference was his idea. He’s assisted in every aspect of its preparation, his advice and know-how as invaluable as the funds he’s supplied. None of us would be where we are today if it weren’t for him, now would we?”

“I’ll drink to that,” John mordantly agreed, raising his brandy glass.

Paul cast him a murderous glare before suggesting they sit down. “Dinner will not be ready until seven, so we have a bit of time to get started.”

Agatha settled into an armchair, but Stephen moved to the desk, unfastened the straps of a leather portfolio, and withdrew some papers. “First, the invitation list,” he said, handing it over to Paul. “Those are the men you should invite: farmers, investors, and brokers. The farmers will provide the cargo, and of course, the investors will be critical as the business expands, but it will be the brokers who bid on your cargo space. If you’re to commission additional ships as you’ve indicated, these men, especially the wealthier farmers, could certainly provide the finances. That would, of course, be contingent upon your success. Most would be interested in a long-term return, say, over a five-year period.”

Paul looked over the names, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. If only half these men came in December and a mere quarter invested, the cornerstones of financial success would be laid, and he, Paul Duvoisin, the illegitimate son of the renowned tycoon, Frederic Duvoisin, would be on his way.

“I recommend Williamson, Brockton, Carroll, and Farley,” Westphal was saying. “They own some of the largest and most lucrative plantations in the South, and are always seeking alternate carriers. Every year their harvests increase, so I suggest you approach them directly. They usually deal with Hiram Gimble. His brokerage is well known, his success due to his bidding clout. If these farmers gain a vested interest in your shipping line, then I’m certain it would
affect how they negotiate with Mr. Gimble, bringing their influence to bear, so to speak.”

Paul embraced the clever proposal, reveling in the excitement of making his first business deal, the delectable fruits of years of labor.

“These men will indeed be invited, including Mr. Gimble!” Agatha chimed in, her face alight in voracious anticipation, as if the strategies being discussed couldn’t be executed quickly enough.

Paul concurred. “But once I’ve finalized this list, we’ll need to meet again and discuss these men in greater detail. Some of the names I know well, but the ones you’ve just mentioned I’ve only heard in passing.”

“They’re all cotton farmers.”

Paul faced his brother, who had spoken from the settee where he now reclined. “You say that as if it’s a problem, John.”

“In the short run, no. Potentially, yes.”

Paul weighed the remark. “Do you care to expound, or must I pay you, like you do Yvette, for more information?”

“You’re paying Stephen,” John returned glibly. “Perhaps he can tell you.”

Stephen bristled in unmasked aggravation, his hand going to his waist. “If you’re trying to trivialize my knowledge, John, I am the first to admit I am not an expert in farming. I
am
a banker, however, and common sense dictates the men with the largest bank accounts know the most about commerce.”

John considered Westphal’s monologue for a moment, head cocked, legs extended and crossed, one hand clasped over the other in his lap. “No wonder you doubt my observation. I don’t bank with your establishment.”

“This conversation is ridiculous!” Agatha expostulated. “Why do you listen to him, Paul? He’s trying to distract you. No, worse—undermine you! I don’t trust him! You should make him leave!”

Paul ignored her. Much as he hated to admit it, he was curious. “What is your point, John?”

Agatha jumped up. “Paul!”

“Auntie,” John cut in coolly, “sit!”

Paul did not intercede. Furious, Agatha bit her tongue and sank back into her chair. Then, realizing she was obeying the command much as a dog would its master, she straightened, pretending at grooming her skirts.

“I concede all the men you mentioned are well-established cotton farmers,” John proceeded. “But is cotton the only product you want to ship? Cotton isn’t in demand this year. In fact, prices are quite low. Next year, that might change. But the risk always remains high when you place all your coins on one bet.”

Westphal took further offense. “Cotton is more than fifty percent of the market. In addition, Williamson, Brockton, Carroll, and Farley afford cargo contacts from regions other than Virginia. Should blight damage the tobacco harvest—or a hurricane, even—Paul would have a second crop to fall back on. Even so, he wouldn’t be dealing in cotton alone. The other farmers on that list harvest tobacco, and his Caribbean contacts would be supplying sugar.”

The man smiled smugly, and John knew he had devised his reasoning as he spoke. “Ingenious.”

Paul frowned. “What else, John? There’s something else.”

“There are rumblings of a war. It may not happen next year, it may not happen in ten years. But do you really want to take that chance? Throw all your money and hard work into Southern commodities alone?”

“Don’t tell me you’re preoccupied with this war talk, too? I can’t believe this explosion is just around the corner as so many claim.”

John shrugged derisively. “I’m surprised you’re so indifferent about it. Now, I know all of this speculation is coming from
nasty-no-good John, but isn’t it just common sense to have all the facts before making a decision? This slave business will not go on forever. The Negroes have had enough of it. Nat Turner proved that in ’31. Perhaps invention will beat confrontation to the finish line, but a war almost happened last year. What are you going to do if all of your ports of call are blockaded? Remember, you’ll be labeled the Southern sympathizer, so your standard won’t be welcome in New York or Boston. Then what are you going to ship, and to where are you going to ship it?” He sighed and shrugged again. “Just a little insight from someone who’s been on the mainland for ten years now and knows what the talk is from day to day, in the North as well as the South.”

Paul settled into the desk chair, eyes trained on his brother. John’s rationale made a great deal of sense, but could he trust the source? John would enjoy seeing him fail at this costly undertaking. “If what you say is true, surely it doesn’t bode well for you, either. After all, you’re a tobacco farmer and a Southern shipper. So, what are you doing about it, John?”

“Come now, Paul, you’ve bucked and complained over the changes I’ve instituted over the last few years. Anything else shall remain unspoken, all in the spirit of fair play.”

“What are you driving at, John?”

“I was not privy to any of the plans you were making here and on Espoir before I came home in August. In fact, there was a concerted effort to keep it all a secret from me.”

John looked pointedly at Stephen Westphal, who squirmed in his seat for the second time that evening. “What I did find out, I had to coerce out of father’s solicitous solicitor, Mr. Richecourt. What I don’t understand is:
why?
But, since you felt it necessary to leave me out of the equation, two can play at that game. I’ve been quite generous in giving you this bit of advice.”

Paul rolled his eyes, unmoved. “You know very well why I prefer to leave you out. You’ve alienated all of influential Richmond
with your sharp tongue, and when it’s not that, it’s your rebellious behavior. You released all of your slaves, without Father’s permission, when the rest of the South has been struggling to preserve its right to keep them. And you’re telling me about good business decisions? Does it make sense to throw away free labor? And don’t sermonize about slave degradation. They can be treated civilly and still be slaves. And what about the people you associate with? They’re barely fit to walk the face of the earth, let alone move in the circles of proper society. Edgar Allan Poe. Really! Then you wonder why I don’t want you involved in this?”

John leaned forward, placed his empty glass on the table, and smiled. “Nevermore.” He stood and strode to the open doorway, turning back as he reached it. “Go ahead and listen to Mr. Westphal, Paul. I’m sure he knows much more about all this than I do. I’ll see if dinner is ready.”

Paul stared at the vacant archway, then faced the banker. “I’m sorry for that disruption. If you don’t mind my asking, Stephen, what did my brother say to you before I arrived? I hope he wasn’t insulting.”

“It was nothing,” Stephen countered with a gracious wave of his hand.

“Nothing?” Paul probed, unconvinced. “Was there some sort of dispute?”

“It was my own fault. Let us not speak of it.”

“No, Stephen. You should tell me,” Paul insisted, determined to get the details of a discussion that could have serious repercussions on his interests. “I’ll take the matter up with my father, if need be. John has no right to insult a guest.”

“No need to upset your father, Paul. For some reason John assumed Frederic had invited me to the house. He sarcastically lamented my daughter wouldn’t be interested in him once his name was removed from the will.”

Agatha jumped in. “You must take these remarks from whence
they come, Stephen. I’ve learned to ignore anything my nephew has to say. But speaking of Anne, you must supply her address. She must attend our affair this winter. After all, what will the event be without a sophisticated, cultured young woman to grace its festivities?”

Stephen lit up with the suggestion.

Paul, in turn, considered the invitation, appreciating the prospect of Anne London’s presence on Charmantes. For all of his brother’s assertions to the contrary, John must have encouraged the Richmond widow at some point, thus fanning her forwardness. He pondered the panorama ahead. If John had succumbed to Anne’s charms once, he could be vulnerable again, and how would the naïve Miss Ryan feel about him then? It was just the insurance Paul needed, should John remain on Charmantes.

“What about John?” Stephen questioned worriedly, as if reading Paul’s thoughts. “I don’t think he’ll be pleased—”

“It is not
his
invitation,” Paul cut in smugly, “it’s mine.”

Stephen brightened again. No doubt his daughter would be pleased to meet Frederic’s other handsome, soon-to-be-wealthy, bachelor son.

Sunday, October 1, 1837

Charmaine finished changing out of her Sunday dress and into her everyday apparel. The girls shouted to her from the other side of the closed door. “We’re done! Now may we go down to the stable to see our ponies and the kittens?”