The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras Page 16

  He rose from the desk and moved over to the closed door of the small room that adjoined his study. “Come on, Louise, Ian—” He gestured for us to follow. “As long as you’re here, I’ll show Louise my collection.”

  The room he led us into was a museum of sorts, with glass cases of antiques and gun racks filled with muskets, rifles, and armory from long-dead wars. Hanging on the back wall in an even row were four incredibly gruesome faces.

  Edward stepped forward to place the mask on the fifth and only empty peg upon the wall. “There. Back where you belong.” Though one mask was but a grinning skull; another, the bloody caricature of a dead man; the one that Ian and I had just returned; was by far the most lifelike, the most hideous of them all.

  Edward turned back toward us. “Thank you for returning the mask to me, Ian,” he said, his voice so low that it seemed almost strangled. “I certainly wouldn’t want it to get out of my hands.”

  “Why? Is that mask the one Christine found in the old house after the fire?” Ian exclaimed, his voice rising with excitement. “The one there was such a to-do about? No wonder Lydia—” He gazed upward to the wall where the face with its twisted features and crimson mouth stared down at us with empty eyes. “I’ve heard about the voodoo mask, but I’ve never really seen it.”

  Edward turned away as if unwilling to speak. But Ian was already saying, “Christine found the mask in the old house after the fire, didn’t she, Edward?”

  Edward nodded gravely. “It was lying facedown near the stairway in a heap of ashes.”

  “Strange thing about it was that no guest invited to the Mardi Gras ball could remember seeing anyone wearing a mask of that description,” Ian added. His tawny eyes locked with mine, curiously gauging my reaction.

  “Then how do you suppose the mask got there?” I asked, my voice growing thin.

  Edward shrugged. “Who knows? Some believe it was dropped by an uninvited guest fleeing the fire.”

  “The oddest part,” Ian said, “is that Elica swore she saw an evil face hovering over her in a dream, shortly before the wedding. She described it to me as the face of a demon. It seemed to be accusing her, warning her not to marry Nicholas. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Elica was inclined to be superstitious. Of course, she consulted Brule, who told her it was some kind of voodoo manifestation. He begged her to call off the wedding because if it.”

  A strange look flickered across Edward’s face. “How much better it would have been for all of us if she had listened!”

  Ian gave a short, dry laugh. “She probably did see such a creature hovering over her bed—only a flesh-and-blood monster! Nicholas must have donned this mask to frighten her away. And then when that failed, he wore it as part of the process of murdering her. And once she was dead, he discarded it near the stairwell, expecting it to burn with the rest of the house.”

  “Chances are, well never know whether Elica’s death was an accident or—” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.

  “Murder,” Ian finished for me.

  “Ian, please!” Edward admonished.

  “Just let me ask you one question. Do you believe in voodoo, Edward? Do you really?”

  “Of course not,” he replied stiffly. His face was gray, ashen.

  “Neither do I.” Ian crossed his hands over his chest. “Brr—I’m getting a chill.” He glanced over at me. “And you’re absolutely shivering, Louise.”

  “The rainstorm the other night has brought a dampness into the air,” Edward said. “I’ll have one of Mrs. Lividais’s girls light the fires.”

  * * * *

  Back in my room, the first sight that met my eyes was the contents of the jewelry box, which still lay strewn across my bed. As I heaped the tangled jewelry back into the box, my eyes scanned the bright beads and feather pins, coming to rest upon a comb of bone ivory. A few strands of hair were still wrapped around some of the teeth. Strands of thick black hair. I felt a slight shiver go through me. Though my own hair was dark, my mother’s had been fine and coppery, the color of autumn leaves.

  The strands of hair were darker than Christine’s. They were black, like a raven’s wing. I felt a small tremor of fear tug at me as I remembered the miniature of Elica.

  Suddenly, I could imagine Elica’s ghost in my room, adorning her phantom form with feather ornaments and combing her long black hair.

  An eerie thought crept into my mind. What if Elica had somehow survived the fire? Nicholas could be hiding her at Evangeline! That would certainly explain his strange behavior. Could it have been Elica’s face, hideously scarred and disfigured, behind the mask the other night? A jealous Elica who had slit the binding of my saddle?

  I scolded myself for my vivid imagination. Elica could not have survived the fire. Hadn’t her body been discovered in her room by the burning draperies? A little shiver swept through me. Unless it had not been Elica’s body, but someone else’s. After all, who could identify a body charred beyond recognition, as hers must have been?

  Where had such ghastly thoughts come from? Elica was most certainly dead. And I did not believe in ghosts! But then where had the dark hairs on the comb come from?

  I glanced down at the jewelry that seemed so unlike my mother, the dark strands embedded in the ivory teeth of the comb. What if the box and jewelry had belonged to Elica instead of my mother? That seemed a more logical explanation for the strands of dark hair. But if the jewelry box belonged to Elica, then why had my grandfather sent it to me?

  The missing letter from my grandfather might explain that. But my chances of finding it seemed unlikely. I slipped the comb back into the black lacquer box and closed the lid. As I put it away, the empty place in the drawer where the packet of letters Grandfather had given me had been caught my eye. Now, even those were gone. If only I could find them, maybe I could read through them again and discover some clue I had missed.

  I thought of the nervous way Ian had acted when I had come across him in Grandfather’s room. I remembered how he had appeared to be reading something that he had carefully slipped from my view. As I had stepped into the room, he had pushed a dark object, a small book or ledger, discreetly out of sight. Now I wondered if the book in his hand had not been concealing my missing letters. Maybe I should go back and see if the letters were hidden inside the book.

  The yellow glow from the gaslit hallway danced upon the gloomy walls of Raymond Dereux’s room as I stepped back inside. Bathed in eerie light, tapestries of foxes chasing rabbits jumped to life. I closed the door gently behind me, throwing the room into darkness except for the pale sheen of moonlight from the half-opened draperies of the large window that overlooked the gardens.

  My heart gave a startled leap. It was almost time to meet Nicholas. Anxiously, I peered out of the window into the darkness below. A tree grew close to the high-arched pane, trailing its tangles of vine all the way to the ground. I gazed through waxy green leaves, searching for Nicholas’s form near the distant fountain. I could just make out the gargoyle’s hideous profile as it crouched with spread wings in the moonlight. Trees and dark bushes crowded all around the fountain, but there was still no sign of Nicholas.

  I would have to hurry. I passed the empty desk, refusing to look at the carved wooden chest upon the marble top where the frightening mask had been hidden. Swiftly, I made my way to the massive bookshelves. I knelt upon the floor near where Ian had been. My hands groped into the darkness, reaching beyond the thick leather volumes to try to discover the thin object that Ian had shoved so quickly out of my sight.

  After a few moments of futile groping, my hands closed triumphantly around a slim, dark volume. I turned it over in my hands, curiously inspecting the faded lines of an elaborate, gold-embossed dragon upon the cover. The scorched binding gave away the fact that the volume had survived the fire at Evangeline. I shook the fragile little book gently. Holding it by the spine, I gingerly ruffled the brittle pages, but no letters fell out.

  Disappointed, I wondered if I
had been mistaken about Ian being the person in my room. Perhaps he really had become bored with Edward’s talk and had wandered upstairs in search of some entertainment. But why the secrecy? Again I recalled how he had hastily shoved the book out of my sight. I smiled at the thought that the book in my hands might be slightly risqué.

  Again I studied the cover, but the gold-embossed tide was so worn that I could not make out the faint words. Curiously, I opened the book, then nearly dropped it in surprise as familiar, spidery handwriting caught my eye.

  A journal. My grandfather’s journal! With trembling hands, I opened the book to old dates and entries. The first few pages were singed and yellowed, the writing dull and blurred.

  Unable to contain my curiosity, I crouched as Ian had done, and began to read.

  The first few entries of the journal were dated close to a year ago—from the later part of 1879 to just before Mardi Gras of 1880. Though the pages had been torn and smudged by ashes, the entries were fairly legible.

  December 1879: Why did she return? She knows she is not welcome here. Oh, what can she be trying to prove? Surely it is not revenge she wants after all these years! Doesn’t she realize that it can only end in unhappiness—for herself as well as Nicholas?

  I started at the sight of Nick’s name. I could feel my pulse hammering against my throat as I read on; Poor, wretched fool, so much in love that he cannot see the hatred in her eyes, the contempt she has for him, for our entire family.

  A sick feeling tightened in my stomach as I continued to read. Perhaps she has just cause to hate us. But why can’t she bury the past along with Racine? Why can’t she trust that the path I’ve chosen was best for all involved?

  It was obvious that he was writing about Elica. But what did Racine have to do with her? He had died years before she came to Evangeline! Perplexed and confused, I read on:

  January 24 1880: I think he knows now. He was writing about Nicholas, of course. Has she revealed her secret to him? Why? Yet, how else could he have found out? Nobody could have known her true identity except me!

  Whoever Elica was, whatever secrets she had hidden, Grandfather had known about her all along! Yet, how he had known remained a total mystery. There was so much I didn’t understand. The next few pages were blank. Then I came across another entry in February, a few days before the Mardi Gras last year. The words were scrawled hastily as they had been in my missing letter, as if the writer were almost afraid to put his thoughts down on paper.

  February 26 1880: I must talk to her tonight. Before the wedding. Before it is too late!

  Fear thrust its icy hands upon my shoulders, making an involuntary shiver race down my spine. What had my grandfather meant by too late?

  What could it all mean? I put the thin volume down, my thoughts spinning with question after question. My heart cried out for denial, but the answers seemed as clear to me as if they, too, had been written down. Grandfather had known that Elica was in danger. And he had suspected that Nicholas meant to kill her!

  I felt a dizzying sensation, the rushing of blood to my brain as I thought of Ian lurking in the corner, journal in hand. How much of this had Ian read? Had he read it all, or was he planning to come back for it later? Did I dare to take the journal, or should I put it back where I had found it?

  I glanced out of the window, startled to see Nicholas’s dark form pacing below near the fountain. The heady excitement I had felt all day at the thought of meeting him was turning rapidly into dread. Before, there had only been doubts, suspicion, conjecture. Now I held in my hands what seemed like written evidence that he had murdered his wife! I stared down at his dark shape, wrapped in the heavy black cloak, and for the first time, I was afraid.

  Nicholas was still waiting for me beside the fountain, no doubt growing impatient. I turned back to the journal. Dried, yellowed paper fluttered like the brittle wings of some ancient insect as I flipped quickly through blank, yellowed pages. The journal appeared to have ended.

  I slipped back to my own room and put on a wrap. I stood for a moment, staring at the journal, harboring the thin thread of hope that I had misinterpreted what I had read, that Nicholas might be able to explain. Once more, I thumbed through the yellowed pages, and the breath suddenly caught in my throat at the sight of more pages darkened with faint, spidery penstrokes. There were more entries! But I had no time to read them now.

  I did not intend to confront Nicholas with the journal before I had a chance to read it all. Yet the thought of the missing letters made me reluctant to leave it in my room. I slipped the little book into the pocket of my coat, where it would be safe until I could read the rest. I would go out and meet Nicholas now. I would pretend that nothing was wrong.

  As I reached the bottom of the stairway, I saw that the door to Edward’s study was ajar. A kerosene lamp burned upon the desk, illuminating the portrait of Racine. A draft from somewhere deep inside the room made the tiny flame curl and dance.

  A banging sound came from inside the study, making my heart leap and pound. Without warning, the door to the little adjoining room where Edward kept his mask collection had suddenly slammed shut.

  “Edward?”

  No voice replied to my call, yet I knew that someone was in the little room beyond the study. I thought of Nicholas waiting restlessly for me outside. But some instinct told me to have a look inside the study. I felt the presence of an intruder, sensed that something was wrong.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and peered into the little room that harbored Edward’s bizarre collection of masks. A flighty gust of wind tugged at my clothes and hair. The window was wide open.

  Disbelief, then a sense of horror gripped me as my gaze moved from that open window to settle upon the wall just above where Edward’s mask collection hung. Between the grinning skull and the bloody face of the dead man hung an empty peg. The voodoo mask was gone!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nicholas was sitting upon the stone fountain base, waiting for me. The spread wing of the crouching gargoyle threw part of his face into shadow, making his features blurred and indistinguishable—all but his eyes, which gleamed like quicksilver in the moonlight. Wrapped in his dark cloak, he seemed at one with the elements, the restless night.

  “I thought you’d decided not to come,” he said. The cloak swirled about him, making him appear taller in the darkness as he came forward to meet me.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” The ominous words I had read in Grandfather’s journal sent a ripple of fear through my heart. I was reluctant to meet his eyes, afraid that because of my secret knowledge I would find him changed, transformed.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He drew closer still, and a smile lit his dark eyes. No evil stranger, but Nicholas, the same Nicholas who I had grown to like and trust. The smile faded as he studied my face. “You look troubled, Louise. You must tell me what is going on in the house.”

  “Lydia’s nephew, Ian Winters, arrived this afternoon,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, as if nothing serious was wrong.

  “I know the man.”

  “And the packet of letters from my grandfather that Edward gave me—the ones I was going to show to you—have disappeared from my room.”

  A shadow crossed his face. “Do you think Ian took them?”

  “I don’t know. But this evening I caught him snooping around upstairs. It seems uncanny, my meeting him in New Orleans, and then having him appear at the house so soon.”

  A dark brow arched in surprise. “Ian was in New Orleans?”

  “Yes, I met him soon after I came off the steamer.” I explained to Nicholas how Ian claimed Lydia had sent him to watch over me.

  “I don’t trust him,” Nicholas said shortly.

  “Neither do I. But he’s not the one trying to frighten me away. My fall on the horse occurred before Ian had even arrived at the house. And he couldn’t have been the one wearing the voodoo mask.”

  “Voodoo mask?” A bright, disturbing gleam flicke
red in Nicholas’s eyes. “What are you talking about, Louise?”

  The breath caught in my throat. How much did I dare tell him when he might be the one behind it all? “My first night in the house, I saw this face in what I thought was a dream.” I could not still the slight tremor of my voice as I described that ghastly face peering down at me, the twisted features and blood-red, evil mouth.

  “When I saw the Mardi Gras masks in Brule’s cabin, I realized that the face I had seen in my nightmare was strangely similar to the ones that he had carved. That’s when I began to wonder if what I had seen had been a dream, after all.”

  “This evening, when I encountered Ian in Grandfather’s room, we discovered the mask. It was hidden in an old wooden chest. The face was exactly the same as the one that I saw in my nightmare. Only it wasn’t a nightmare—it was real! Someone put the mask on to frighten me—the same person who cut the binding on my saddle. Christine said she saw someone out by the horses when we were at Brule’s cabin, but she didn’t get a good look at them. It could have been either a man or a woman.”

  Nicholas’s skin seemed suddenly pale beneath the tumbling darkness of his hair. He must know the mask, recognize it as the one discovered in the ashes after the fire.

  “Where is the mask now?”

  “Ian took it back to Edward’s study. Only, Nicholas, it’s gone!”

  “What do you mean?” His voice was tense with alarm.

  “When I passed Edward’s study, I heard the door to the small room slam. The window was open and the mask was gone.”

  I saw his jaw clench and tighten. “You must go back inside, Louise. It is getting dark. I will walk you as far as I can without being seen.”

  I studied his face in the moonlight, the taut skin over high cheekbones, the strong set of his wary muscles. My voice, startled, frightened, was little more than a whisper. “Do you know who took the mask?”

  “I have my suspicions.” The hot glow of his eyes made my knees feel weak and trembly.

  “Who, Nicholas?”