The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras Page 14

  “I don’t want you to blame me for your fall,” she replied simply. “I was mad at you this morning. But I still like you.” Her eyes were large, wide and innocent. The long hair, worn loose and wavy, made her look like some orphaned waif, a fairy child. “I wouldn’t ever want to see you hurt.”

  “I believe you, Christine.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. The corners of her mouth lifted in a tiny smile. Some small light in her eyes had shifted and changed. The change was disturbing. I had seen that look earlier today, when she had become jealous of Nicholas’s attention. I shivered slightly. Something in those smoky gray eyes now reminded me of the portrait that hung in Edward’s study—the cruel-eyed portrait of her father, Racine.

  Chapter Eleven

  I wandered from the empty parlor into the kitchen where Mrs. Lividais was busy making preparations for the evening meal, even though it was so early in the afternoon that there had been barely enough time to digest the heavy noonday fare. “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

  Mrs. Lividais looked up at me with genuine surprise. I doubted Edward’s guests often offered to help her peel potatoes. She shook her head, returning to her task, her large, thick hands amazingly deft at parting the skins.

  “Perhaps you can teach me a new recipe,” I persisted. I was not accustomed to idle time. My fingers ached to do something, anything, productive. Your shrimp bisque was delicious.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “It’s something nobody can tell you, how to cook fish and the like.” She shrugged her shoulders. “You’re just born knowing or not knowing. Take gumbo, yes? It’s all in the roux. You have to get it brown enough, but not too brown or you might as well throw the whole pot away. Now, my grandmother she taught me, and her mother before her, how to measure without any of those fancy spoons and cups—just a little pinch of this an’ a pinch of that.”

  The bright black eyes watched me curiously, the heavy-cheeked face suddenly rounding into a smile. “Well, maybe there’s some things you can learn. But first you have to make yourself useful. Here, take a paring knife from the drawer.”

  “What are we cooking?” I asked, rolling up my sleeves.

  She laughed, making her short, plump body roll. Like many of the Cajun women, she had acquired, perhaps along with her grandmother’s instinctive cooking skills, a tendency to put on weight around the middle. These are just potatoes. Plain and simple. We make the fancy stuff later—the roast duck and la methatrice.”

  “La... ?”

  “An oyster loaf filled with creamed oysters. Lydia’s nephew is coming, you know. The lazy, good-for nothing man!” She smiled a little, a dimple showing at each corner of her mouth. “But he appreciates good cooking all the same!”

  “Where is everyone, anyway? I didn’t see a soul in the entire house.”

  “Edward’s out in the fields. Lydia takes to her room every afternoon. Christine’s up in her room, too. She’s being punished for letting you ride Thunder.” She rolled her dark eyes. That horse! It’s a wonder you weren’t killed, taking a tumble like that! Be careful around that girl. Christine, she’s got the devil in her! She takes after her father, that one!”

  “How did you know about my fall?”

  “Oh, Christine tells me everything. She was down here chattering like a magpie before Edward caught her and sent her back upstairs.” Mrs. Lividais laughed. “Edward, he has more trouble with her than I have with my twelve all rolled together!”

  “It’s a shame she lost both parents so young.”

  “Poor orphaned girl! I try to help Edward with her when I can. That Lydia, she’s no use at all when it comes to raising children.”

  “You say Christine takes after her father. What was Racine like?”

  A wary look crept into the hired woman’s eyes. “He was wild and reckless, like Christine is at times. That’s what I meant about them being alike. But there is a big difference between them. Christine, she causes plenty of trouble but she doesn’t mean harm. Racine, he was cruel.”

  “Did you know Christine’s mother?”

  Mrs. Lividais shook her head. “Christine was born in New Orleans. No one here ever saw Racine’s wife except your grandfather, and she was in the coffin then. She died in childbirth, you know.”

  “How sad”

  “Old Raymond brought Christine back here as a newborn babe. The mother’s family had been ruined by the war. They were glad to be rid of an extra mouth to feed, and Edward was delighted to have Christine. You see, he’d just gotten the word of Racine’s disappearance. Racine never saw his child. He was either killed or taken captive shortly after she was born.”

  “Edward seems so proud of him,” I said. “He must have been a brave man.”

  An odd look crossed Mrs. Lividais’s face. She lifted one shoulder slightly, a characteristic gesture of hers. “Yes, maybe.”

  I grinned. “Then I take it you don’t believe all of Edward’s war stories.”

  “Every man wants to believe that their son is a hero, non? I see no harm in that.” The look in her eyes was dark, reflective. “But I find it hard to believe that Racine would risk his own life to save the lives of others.” She gave a little shake of her head. “It just wouldn’t have been in his nature.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nikki was always the brave one.” I saw the same look of fondness in her eyes that I had seen in Cassa’s as she spoke of him. “If there was a bullet to be had, Nicholas would have taken it himself. That’s why something about the story of Racine risking his own skin for Nick and Pierre just doesn’t seem believable.”

  Mrs. Lividais sighed and tossed another potato into the pot. “Whatever really happened out there on that battlefield changed Nick. He came back from the war a different man. He used to laugh and smile. When he came back, he was sad and haunted. I don’t know how to explain—there was something in his eyes that had never been there before.”

  The madness. I suppressed a little shiver. “Tell me more about Nicholas,” I prompted. “I know that Pierre raised him. But who were his real parents?”

  “Nick’s father was a proud, fearless man, part Cajun and part Indian. But he liked his drink, and he had a temper. Liked his women, too. Nick’s mother could have been a prostitute or a noblewoman. Nobody knows. There’s many that fell for his father’s charms.”

  “Then Nick’s father wasn’t—mad?”

  Mrs. Lividais seemed surprised. “Who told you that?” She snorted scornfully. “That Edward! Nick’s father was much like Edward’s own brother, Pierre,” she explained. “Always in trouble with the law, but brave and loyal to his friends.”

  With a dark look, Mrs. Lividais continued. “It was that woman he married who drove Nicholas mad. The she-devil!” Skins flew as Mrs. Lividais attacked the potato in her hand. “That Elica was a witch!” Mrs. Lividais spat the words out. “And she possessed him.”

  “Christine showed me her miniature. She was beautiful.”

  “Beautiful, yes! But with the kind of beauty that kindles men’s evil passion! He should have known that there was something wrong. A woman like that appearing out of nowhere, no family, no past. And she was no young girl, either!”

  “She looks so young in her picture.”

  “She was no child. She was thirty, if she was a day. But women like her are ageless—” Mrs. Lividais sighed. “She should have stayed away from Brule. She should never have pretended to be what she was not.” The black eyes sparkled as they met mine. “Is it any wonder that Nicholas couldn’t forgive her? A man who has been deceived is a dangerous one.”

  “What do you mean—deceived?”

  “Christine didn’t tell you, then?” She leaned close to me, her dark eyes glowing with the prospect of sharing her juicy tidbit of gossip. “Elica’s mother was a quadroon!”

  “Quad—”

  “Mulatto,” she hurried on to explain. “At least a quarter Negro blood in her.” She looked me close in the eyes. “Of course, if
Nick had known what kind of blood was runnin’ through those pretty veins of Elica’s he’d have never asked for her hand.”

  “I can’t believe it would matter that much to Nicholas if he was in love.”

  “You don’t know how badly poor Nikki wanted to be accepted as part of the family. After the war, he and your grandfather Raymond became close friends despite Edward’s disapproval. For years they threw themselves into the work of restoring Evangeline. Nicholas wanted to settle down and raise a family. And then he met her.

  “You don’t have any idea what kind of a shock it must have been for Nicholas! Black just don’t marry white. Oh, they have their mistresses, the high-bred families like the Dereux. But to take a high yellow for a wife!” She shook her head. “Raymond would never have forgiven him.”

  Remembering Edward’s proud talk at the dinner table about the family’s pure French blood, I realized how scandalized he, at least, would have been. “And Nicholas knew nothing about her background.”

  “How could he? Pale as a lily, she was. And cunning! She kept the secret from him right up to their wedding day.” An involuntary shiver seemed to pass through Mrs. Lividais. “And then, Lord save her soul, he found out.

  “Yes, the very eve of their wedding he must have discovered the truth about her,” she continued in a hushed tone. “This is the way I have it figured out ... You see, someone at the wedding knew all about her secret, yes? And they must have told Nicholas. You know the rest,” she added softly, “how she died—”

  “You know Nicholas. How can you believe that he murdered her?”

  Her eyes were dark and sad as she replied, “I don’t judge him. Lord only knows he’s suffered for what he’s done.”

  “But the fire—Couldn’t it have been an accident?”

  “I’ve often wished it was so.” She turned away from me, pretending to be busy. “But I’m telling you,” she finished quickly, “there’s too many reasons for it not to have been.”

  The sound of the parlor door opening and closing, the buzz of voices that followed, put an abrupt end to our conversation. I recognized Edward’s voice, and another, a man’s voice, vaguely familiar. With a frightened look in her eyes, Mrs. Lividais began to rattle pots and pans, returning to her cooking with a vengeance.

  Curiously, I stepped toward the entrance to the adjoining room, where Edward was exchanging conversation with the visitor. I caught a glimpse of a man in a trim, brown-vested suit and rose-colored silk shirt. He turned, and I continued to stare, hardly daring to believe my eyes.

  I stepped further into the parlor. “Louise, my wife’s nephew has just arrived from New Orleans,” Edward said. “Allow me to introduce Ian Winters.”

  Ian was the first to speak, for I could only continue to gape in surprise at him. The familiar, reckless grin spread across his face. “I warned you that I’d come calling,” he said.

  Edward looked from one of us to the other, his silvery brows knitting together. “You two have met? But how could this be?”

  “New Orleans, Edward. I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Moreland on the docks.”

  “I see.” But I could tell by his puzzled expression that he did not. It was a rather startling coincidence. Brushing our acquaintanceship aside, Edward added, “Ian will be staying with us a short while.” Had I only imagined that Edward emphasized quite firmly the word “short”?

  “I am an infrequent visitor here at Royal Oaks,” Ian explained.

  “You know that Lydia always rests this time of day. She won’t be down until the evening meal,” Edward said, throwing Ian a disapproving look.

  “Oh, don’t bother about me. I’m sure Miss Moreland will keep me well entertained until then,” Ian said gallantly.

  “Well, then, I’ll leave you two alone. I’ve got work to do.” Seeming preoccupied, Edward slipped off down the hallway.

  Ian glanced down at my rolled-up sleeves. “I see that Mrs. Lividais has you busy cooking already.”

  “You step through that door, Mr. Ian Winters, and I’ll have you peeling potatoes, too!” she threatened from the threshold of the room, no longer intimidated by Edward’s presence.

  He laughed heartily. “On the contrary, I’m determined to make off with your help.” He took my arm and began to lead me away. “We’re off to the patio.” In a persuasive tone, he added, “Could you find it in your heart to make us some of your delicious coffee?”

  “No trouble at all, Mr. Winters,” she replied, obviously flattered.

  “I feel like I’m deserting you,” I said, turning back to Mrs. Lividais.

  She gave me an approving wink from the kitchen entranceway. “I teach you to cook some other day,” she said.

  In the hallway, we once again encountered Edward standing near the door to his study. As we passed by, I saw his cold gray eyes follow Ian. Then, scowling, he turned the knob and disappeared into his retreat.

  I stole a glance at Ian, wondering if he, too, had felt Edward’s chilling stare. “Edward doesn’t care for my company. Perhaps you’ve gathered that,” he said with a rueful smile as we crossed the parlor toward the patio. “But since I am Lydia’s only living relative, there is little he can do to keep me from seeing her.”

  Seeming totally familiar with his surroundings, he led the way to the sunny patio. He smiled at me from across the black wrought-iron table. “You still seem a little stunned, ma chère.” He gave a hearty laugh. “You should have seen your face when I walked in the door.”

  “It’s such a coincidence, that’s all,” I replied, still rather awed by his unexpected appearance.

  Bright colors danced in his tawny eyes, giving him an impish look. “Perhaps not as much a coincidence as you think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew you were coming,” he confessed with a laugh. “Tante Lydia sent me a message nearly a week ago about the anticipated arrival of a certain Louise Moreland!”

  “Why, you scoundrel. You knew me, then! It was me you were waiting for at the docks!”

  “Lydia asked me to keep an eye out for you. New Orleans can be a dangerous place for a young woman alone.”

  “But why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

  “Lydia forbid me. She thought you might be angry that she had sent someone to watch over you.” He leaned closer to me. “Later, I decided to keep my secret—for the sake of romance.”

  “Romance?”

  “I knew I would see you again.” He stopped talking and gazed intently into my eyes. “You didn’t think I would let you walk out of my life just like that?” he asked.

  I felt the color rise to my cheeks. “I hope you haven’t made any change in your plans because of me!”

  He smiled, showing even, white teeth. “I must admit, there would have been few plans to change. I am—you might say—a man of leisure.”

  Mrs. Lividais brought our coffee and we sipped it slowly. Ian spoke of his life in New Orleans, and I gathered that there were few soirees, dances, and grand opera openings that he missed. In turn, I filled him in on life at Royal Oaks, which seemed rather dull in comparison. Still a little embarrassed about my fall into the muddy swamp, I did not tell him about my accident on Thunder. Nor, of course, did I mention Nicholas.

  An hour passed pleasantly and swiftly. Reluctantly, we parted company as the time to dress for dinner came near. Ian’s unexpected arrival had taken my mind away from Mrs. Lividais’s talk about Nicholas. Now, in the quiet of my room, disturbing thoughts resurfaced, making a tight knot twist in my heart.

  I concentrated upon dressing for dinner in an effort to keep the unsettling talk about Nicholas from my mind. I studied my wardrobe with growing dissatisfaction. Though the high-necked jersey of pearl gray was one of my favorites, tonight it seemed almost too severe. Lydia was bound to be decked out in her usual opulent splendor. I had never worn much jewelry, but I decided to look through the little box of my mother’s things to see if I could find an attractive brooch or jeweled hairpin to brighten up
the suddenly unbearable drabness of my appearance.

  But first, my hair. I reached for the tortoiseshell brush which I had been using when Christine had entered my room earlier. I glanced down, empty-handed. The brush was not there.

  The hour was growing late! I began a frantic search for my brush, which I finally discovered pushed up behind the rose-patterned lamp. Frowning, I wondered how it came to be hidden there. After fixing my hair, I opened the vanity drawer and drew out the little black lacquer box with its frosty inlay of mother-of-pearl.

  I gasped in surprise at the tangle of feathers and beads and flowered pins that met my eye. Though I had carefully arranged the jewelry after the long ride in the trunk, it was again in total disarray. An eerie feeling came over me. The misplaced brush, the tangled jewelry. Someone had been in my room!

  I thought of the letters that Edward had given me. But there they were, still in the vanity drawer beside the jewelry box where I had left them. Nothing seemed to be missing.

  Of course! Christine! She had been curious about the jewelry box earlier. She must have crept back into my room and looked through its contents while I was downstairs. Mystery solved, I studied the shining hatpins, gaudy bracelets, the ostentatious brooches and showy feather pins that filled the box.

  I lifted a sparkling neckpiece to my throat, frowning. The amber stones were chipped and obviously inexpensive; it was most definitely a costume piece. Puzzled, I reached for the matching earrings. Somehow, I could not imagine Mother wearing jewelry like this, but then people do change. There was nothing of value in here—only the bright trifles that a young girl might fancy. I put the earrings down, suddenly sad because I had never known my mother when she had been young and frivolous. Hastily, I chose a small white pin from the box, and, after a last-minute glance at my reflection, went down to join the others for dinner.