Decision and Destiny (7 page)

“I see,” she replied with a chuckle.

“I’ll take them down to breakfast if you’d like to rest for a while.”

He shouldn’t be interfering.
Charmaine cringed. Paul might still be eating. “That won’t be necessary,” she replied a bit too adamantly, then quickly added, “but, thank you all the same.”

“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t take them down to breakfast?”

“No,” she lied, not wishing to kindle
his
suspicions. Would she now be forced to effect a balancing act between Paul and John? She groaned inwardly. “I couldn’t possibly impose on you again this early in the day. Of course you’re welcome to join us. It is just that the children are my responsibility.”

“Yes,” he pondered aloud, but his knitted brow indicated doubt.

“He’s so beautiful!” Jeannette exclaimed, petting the colt’s sable coat.

“Not beautiful,” Yvette countered, “handsome. Johnny, do you remember Rusty?”

“Yes,” the man answered, throwing a saddle over Phantom’s back. “Why?”

“Remember how you taught Jeannette and me how to ride him?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“It’s a shame he died, because we never go riding anymore. All the other horses are too big for us, and Mademoiselle Charmaine doesn’t know how.”

“So they are,” John agreed, securing the saddle straps.

“If only there was another pony…”

“What are you hinting at, Yvette?” he asked, turning to study her. “Are you hoping I’ll purchase one for you?”

“Oh, could you, Johnny?”
she cried, her face transfused with excitement. “Two would be nice! One for me and one for Jeannette.
Please?
”

Jeannette’s face mirrored her sister’s, and John couldn’t help but
smile. “We’ll see,” he said, taking hold of Phantom’s reins. “Now, step aside. I’m off to town. I have some business to take care of at the bank.”

“Do you really have to go on Saturday and so early in the morning?”

“I’m hoping to inconvenience the clean Mr. Westphal into opening his bank before nine. If I time it just right, I may catch him in his nightgown and cap.”

Jeannette and Yvette sniggered.

John had just reached the stable doors when Charmaine and Pierre appeared. She carried a letter she’d written to Gwendolyn Browning the day before and, realizing John was leaving for town, bravely asked him to post it.

“What is this?” he chuckled. “You’d entrust me with so
personal
an item?”

Instantly, she regretted her impulsive request. “I’m sorry I asked!”

“Just a minute,” he laughed again. “There’s no sense in storming over nothing. Let me have the letter. I’ll see it gets to the mercantile intact.”

Her eyes shot daggers at him, for he never missed an opportunity to bait her, but he was further entertained as he took the correspondence from her hand.

The morning wore on, and the children grew cranky. After lunch, Charmaine suggested a nap. Though Yvette objected, in five minutes, even she was sound asleep. Charmaine picked up the discarded vampire book and tiptoed from the room. She’d return it to the library and choose another for herself.

The study was occupied. John sat at the desk with his head buried in his hands, so deep in thought he was unaware of her presence.

“Sir?” she queried.

He came up immediately from his contemplation, but quickly
averted his gaze, wiping a forearm across his eyes. They appeared glassy, red even, undoubtedly the result of his restless night. She wondered whether the strange events were still on his mind.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“Sir?” he mimicked, finally looking at her. “I thought we’d dispensed with that formality last night. I prefer John.”

“Very well,” she replied guardedly, recalling Paul’s warning.

“I returned from town two hours ago,” he said, “but I’ve yet to see our resident ghost, Joseph Thornfield. Does he only come out at night?”

“Why do you want to see him?”

“I visited the bank on his behalf this morning, and I want to give him this account voucher before he complains I stole his money.”

“A bank voucher?” Charmaine asked in astonishment. “Have you placed his dollar in the bank for him?”

His expression turned cross. “For safe keeping.”

“Of course,” she nodded, smiling buoyantly now.

“You think I’m being too lenient with the lad, don’t you?”

“Oh, no, sir. I mean, John.”

She was laughing at him, and he didn’t like it. “Are you here for a reason, Miss Ryan?”

She considered the book she held and sobered. “I’m glad you were lenient with Joseph. Yvette is a different matter.”

His frown deepened. “Yvette? Why?”

“You may think she’s clever, but her escapades are getting out of hand. After her mother’s death, I indulged her. Her precocity was preferable to lethargy, and her antics had a positive effect on Jeannette. They were smiling again. But lately, she’s lost all sense of decorum.”

John snorted. “I’d be more concerned about Jeannette.”

“Jeannette?”

“Yes, Jeannette. She’s far too good, far too kind. Unlike Yvette,
who’s learned to stand up for herself, who will never be manipulated, Jeannette is a sweet innocent who might easily be destroyed one day.”

Charmaine’s bewildered expression gave him pause; he hadn’t meant to say so much. “Yvette was born into money,” he quickly added. “She is playing the part of a little rich girl.”

The final remark chafed Charmaine. “A
spoiled
little rich girl,” she corrected defensively. “Her mother would not approve. Colette demanded good manners of all three children, grace and charity taking precedence over wealth. Yvette respected that, responded to her mildest of reprimands.”

John’s eyes turned dark. “Each to his own opinion, Miss Ryan. But I hold it is wiser to be bold than meek.”

Monday, September 4, 1837

John sat slumped in one of the study’s large leather chairs and fiddled with one of Pierre’s blocks, lacing it through his lean fingers, waiting for Paul, who held his position behind the huge secretary, to finish speaking. His brother had requested this meeting last night, but John had brushed it off until the morning, saying he was too tired and would be up before seven. Thus he sat, the early riser, if not the serious businessman Paul expected him to be.

“That is the state of our financial affairs. Any comments?” Paul looked up from his ledger, instantly losing his patience. “What are you snickering at now?”

“You, Paulie. You take this all so seriously.”

“You’re damned right I do—”

“I don’t know where Father and I would be without you,” John interrupted blithely. “In the militia, perhaps.”

“You sit there and laugh, but this is not some trivial game to be scoffed at. You’re in for a rude awakening someday. By then, it may be too late. Don’t come crying to me when you find a fortune has slipped through your fingers.”

“Whose fortune, Paul? Father’s or mine?”

“You know when Father dies it’s all yours.”

“The only fortune I’m worried about is mine, the one I acquired on my own.”

“On your own?” Paul scoffed. “Beyond your salary, I think you’re overlooking all the other conveniences Father’s shipping, plantation, and good name have afforded you in making your
own
fortune.”

“I’d have been a fool not to take advantage of them,” John replied in kind, “but Father’s enterprises benefit from my charity as well.”

“Charity?”

“Let’s start with the staples I ship to the island on a regular basis at no charge: feed, flour, corn, tobacco—”

“Grown on Duvoisin land, John, land that has belonged to the family for three generations—”

“And farmed by workers whom I pay out of my own pocket. I haven’t been reimbursed for that.”

“That is your own folly!” Paul bit back. “You weren’t forced to free your slaves. The land could be farmed for a pittance of what you pay your tenants!”

“Yes, Paul, my folly and my conscience.”

“Conscience?” Paul snorted in derision. “Since when has conscience concerned you? They’re only slaves.”

“Yes, Paul, they’re only slaves. And Cookie is only our cook, and Buck only your foreman. You’ve never been to a slave auction. If you had, you’d be revolted, and you certainly wouldn’t abide such degradation, free labor or no.”

Paul exhaled. The argument was moot. He’d learned long ago, starting with Colette: the abolitionist could never be persuaded to think logically.

“Never mind, John. I’ve not called this meeting to debate with
you. Obviously, we view things differently. You, of course, know that and have led me far from the point.”

“I didn’t know there was a point to all this rambling.”

Paul ignored the remark. “The island is short of supplies. For all your so-called
charity,
we haven’t received a shipment of staples for months now.”

“You must be mistaken. Before I left for New York, I left instructions at the Richmond warehouse that your last order be shipped no later than mid-April. I couldn’t have spelled it more clearly—”

“Well, no such packet arrived.”

“—if I had drawn a picture for them.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me that was the vessel with the missing invoices!”

“Missing invoices? I don’t handle the paperwork.”

“No—you only draw on it!”

John chuckled. “Now, Paul, don’t lose your temper over a harmless joke—”

“
A harmless joke?
Is that what you call it?”

“When did you lose your sense of humor, Paul? You’re no fun anymore. Anyway, you received the supplies, so why the scolding?”

“Because, dear brother,” Paul snarled between clenched teeth, “I sent the vessel back to you!”

“Back to me? In God’s name, why?”

“It was your confounded mess. I don’t pay my crews to dig through holds, break open casks, and take inventories!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The ship arrived here, all right, via Liverpool, with a cargo for Richmond. Your incompetent captain insisted that—under your orders—he stacked our supplies at the very back of the hold, instead of off to one side. Once he took on the European wares, our casks were buried!”

“I don’t give loading instructions,” John replied. “Stuart does, and he knows what he’s doing, so the mix-up must have occurred in Britain.”

The response was sincere, and Paul surmised the new captain had been pressed to weigh anchor and leave port, so to save time he’d cut corners and ordered the European goods loaded haphazardly.

“The British invoices were legitimate,” John continued, scratching the back of his head, “and the casks for the island were marked with the Duvoisin crest. So between the European invoices, your original order, and the crest on the barrels, how difficult could it have been to locate your cargo?” John’s deep chuckle erupted into a hearty guffaw. “And you sent it all back!”

“It isn’t funny, John!”

“Yes, it is!” he averred, wiping a tear from his eye. “Tell me, Paul, were you wearing trousers or a skirt the day you made that decision?”

Paul’s face blackened. “Laugh all you like, John, but you couldn’t have been happy when the ship returned to Richmond. In the end, it was your loss.”

“What loss? I wasn’t in Virginia to receive the ship. I was in New York.”

“Jesus Christ!” Paul exploded. “Do you realize what that means?”

“Yes,” John snickered, “either the cargo is sitting in my warehouse losing market value—which doesn’t affect me, since I wasn’t selling it, anyway—or, Stuart figured you didn’t need it, and put it up for auction. That brings in money I hadn’t counted on. If I were you, Paul, I’d pray it’s stored in the warehouse, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”

“Damn it, John, your bright idea for these new shipping routes is just not working! Now, you’re going to set this matter right before the day is out!”

“And how do you suggest I do that?”

“You are going to write to Edward Richecourt and have him arrange another shipment of the staples we need, straightaway. No stops in New York or Baltimore, no stops in Europe. It’s leaving Richmond and coming here directly, within the month, with accurate invoices. And from now on, I want a dedicated packet running a Charmantes to U.S. circuit at least once a month.”

“
Edward Richecourt?
That stiff ass wouldn’t know the first thing about handling this,” John replied. “I’ll take care of it my own way. But since I’ll have to pull a ship off its normal route, I’m going to charge all the associated expenses to the island’s account, not mine. And if you want a dedicated bark running half-empty between here and the States, weighted down with blocks my crew will have to load and unload for ballast, why not use one of
your
new ships? That way the family business can benefit from your charity, too.”

“Just be about it, John. I’ll see to it you’re paid.”

John stood to leave, but Paul stopped him. “I’m not finished yet.”

“No? What more could you possibly have to say?”

Paul ignored the gibe. “I’d appreciate your help while I’m on Espoir, looking in on operations, especially the tobacco. We’re new at it.”

“Why in the hell did you plant that?” his brother continued in the same vein.

“I don’t know. Now that I’ve seen all the additional work it has caused me, I wish I’d gone with cocoa instead. But that’s neither here nor there. Harold, Wade, and George handle day-to-day production well enough, but Charmantes requires capable—practiced—hands. Things always run smoother when I’m around.”

“Then can you really afford to place her in my
incapable
hands?”

“I never said you were incapable, John, just bent on irritating
me. You have more authority than George if a crisis erupts, which always seems to happen when I’m away.”

“Don’t worry, Charmantes will be shipshape when you return.”

“Good,” Paul nodded, feeling at ease for the first time that morning.

Then he remembered something else. Despite Charmaine’s request he leave well enough alone, he forged forward. “There’s one more thing, John. I’d like to talk to you about the children.”