The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras Page 8

  “Toward the end, your grandfather would come out and sit for hours right in the spot where we are sitting now, and he’d stare out at that old, broken-down ruin of a house. And sometimes, Louise, he’d cry.” With unexpected compassion, she added, “It—it was just enough to tear your heart out!”

  “That’s about all I can tell you about him,” she finished with a shake of her head. Her dark eyes grew smoky as she added, “He was a gruff old man, but he gave me candy, and I—sort of liked him. I think he liked me, too.”

  “Is that so odd?” I asked with a slight smile.

  She narrowed her eyes. “None of the others like me,” she said, and I could tell that she was dead serious. “Not Lydia, not Edward.” She shook her head emphatically. “Especially not Edward. He tries to spoil everything for me!”

  “Oh, I’m sure you are wrong!” From what I had seen, Edward doted on her.

  “I think he wishes that I had been a boy. To replace Racine. Have you seen that portrait of him yet?”

  I shook my head. I had not yet been in Edward’s study.

  “I’ve already told you he was a great hero. Great-gran and Edward, they used to like to talk about Racine and the brave things he did.”

  “I’ve heard much about Racine already, but very little about your mother, Therese.”

  “There’s no portrait of her. She was light-haired and fair. Not like me. I take after my father, I guess.” Christine shrugged. “None of the people here really knew Therese. She and Racine met during the war. Therese never came here, you know. She stayed with her own family until I was born. When she died at childbirth, Grandfather brought me here so Edward could raise me. By that time, Racine had been killed in the war. Grandfather probably thought it would make up to him for losing Racine.”

  “I’m surprised your mother’s family didn’t object to him bringing you here.”

  “The war had impoverished them. I would have been just another mouth to feed.”

  “Do you miss not having a mother?” I asked quietly, thinking for a moment about my own loss.

  “Oh, but you forget I do have a stepmother. Even if she is young enough to be my sister!” Christine’s laughter seemed on the verge of tears. “Lydia always says to me, ‘ Try to think of me as your mother.’ But can you imagine it? Something tells me that she might sorely resent a girl approaching her fifteenth birthday calling her Mama.” She added, laughing harder at the atrocious thought, “Or even worse, Grandmere!”

  Suddenly tucking my arm in hers, she burst out joyously. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Louise. Well have such fun together. First there’ll be Christmas, and then the Mardi Gras. Well go out riding every day! And maybe, someday, well slip off to Evangeline and go hunting for the jewels.”

  “Jewels?”

  “Surely you know about the lost family jewels! Why, I grew up hearing about them, even looking for them. The ‘war jewels’ Edward calls them, because they were first discovered missing right after the war. There was a ruby pendant, your great-great grandmother’s wedding ring—” She began to list them off on her fingers. “Diamonds and rare sapphires, too! Some think they may have been stolen, but Edward says that your grandfather might have hidden them in the old house on purpose when he knew the Damn Yanks were coming.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, sorry, Louise.”

  “The war is over! And, my child, do you realize how many rumors about lost treasure have been spread about since? Why, I heard about a man who threw a platter of solid gold into the Mississippi’ River. But tell me, how many platters of gold have ever been found?”

  “But this is true!” Christine insisted. “The jewels really do exist.”

  The talk of lost jewels made me think fleetingly of the lovely amethyst brooch that had belonged to my mother. Could it have once been part of the missing collection? I quickly erased the thought of it from my mind. There was no use brooding about what was gone. Like the platter of gold at the bottom of the Mississippi, it was lost to me forever.

  The fountain in the middle of Edward’s garden was upon a gentle, sloping ridge which gave a clear view of the dark, skeletal remains of Evangeline. I thought about Grandfather and Nicholas working so hard to restore the old house—how devastating the fire must have been to both of them. Dreams turned to-ashes. I imagined my grandfather, old and crippled, sitting here in this same spot, and a deep sadness came over me.

  A pale light danced upon the thin, snake-like ribbon of water that separated the two houses. Somewhere within the old house, someone had lit a lantern. Nicholas?

  A vision of the handsome man with his unusual, dark-flecked eye filled my mind. Grandfather might have lost Evangeline, his link with the past, but Nicholas had lost his wife, his future. Why did he choose to remain alone in that ghastly place? What torment, what memories must haunt him!

  “You think Nicholas is mad, don’t you?” Christine accused, a spark of brightness glittering in her wide gray eyes.

  “He doesn’t look or act crazy. But why else would he stay? What other explanation is there?”

  Christine’s eyes shone like smoked glass in the darkness. “He’s waiting.”

  “Waiting?”

  “For her to come back”

  “Wh-what?

  “It’s simple. Nicholas believes that when Mardi Gras night comes around again, Elica’s spirit will come back to him.”

  Surely it couldn’t be true! And yet I remembered Nick’s anger this afternoon when Edward had mentioned tearing down Evangeline. Later, Nicholas had promised to help me restore the old house, but only if I agreed to wait until after the Mardi Gras!

  Was it possible that he really did believe her ghost might return? And was that why he had agreed to help me—so that Evangeline could remain undisturbed until then, a shrine for his dead wife?

  The light from across the water suddenly disappeared, plunging the swampland in between into darkness. The sky and the trees around us grew darker as evening gave way to night. The silence was broken only by nightbirds rustling in the tall, drooping masses of deep-green foliage. “We should be going in,” I said.

  Christine’s voice was thin and strange in the darkness beside me. “Do you want me to tell you about that night?” she asked.

  I knew, without explanation, which night she meant. Mardi Gras night, the night of the fire.

  Silently, I nodded.

  “It had been a grand wedding, and everyone was getting ready for the masquerade ball ...” Christine began. She told the story as if it were some fantasy or fairy tale, as if it had nothing to do with real life. “I was a princess and Lydia was a Spanish queen, and, of course, Elica wore her wedding gown. Oh, what a gown! She was so beautiful that night, Louise, with her hair all pinned up and wearing all that lovely white silk and lace!

  “Your grandfather had hired an orchestra and there were ices and sweet cakes and glass bowls filled with wine. Oh, Louise, it started out such a perfect evening. My first masquerade ball, and I was so excited!

  “The music was playing and Edward even let me dance! He was courting Lydia at the time, and it made him—well ... different. I was waltzing with Nathan when I—I saw Elica climbing the stairs. I followed after her as soon as the dance ended. I wanted to talk to her alone, to wish her happiness, for I hadn’t had a chance to speak to her all evening. When I got to the upstairs chambers, I knew that something was wrong.”

  Her eyes glowed in the darkness, as if reflecting an old, still-remembered horror. “I opened the door to her dressing room and clouds of black smoke came out. The draperies were on fire! The smoke was everywhere. It was in my eyes, my nose, my mouth. And then I saw her lying there on the floor—so still. And the fire kept coming closer!”

  Christine stopped, biting down on her slender hand to stop the sudden flow of tears. “My dress caught fire! I—I remember stumbling out to the top of the stairs. There was screaming from down below. Someone was grabbing my arm, forcing me down upon the carpet to beat out the flames. I’m not su
re who it was because of the smoke and because everyone was masked. I tried to tell them about Elica-I tried!”

  She shuddered, letting her hands drop restlessly to her lap where the fingers twined anxiously together.

  “Christine, surely you don’t blame yourself. There was absolutely nothing you could have done!”

  “You don’t understand,” she replied quickly. Her eyes, as they looked up into mine, were huge and luminous, shining in the darkness like a startled kitten’s. “Elica wasn’t alone. Someone was in the dressing room with her.”

  “Someone—?”

  “I saw a man near the burning draperies.”

  “Who?” I demanded. “Christine, did you see his face?”

  She shook her head. There was too much smoke. All I could see was a dark form. I couldn’t make out his features.” She was shivering now, as if with cold. “The others don’t believe me. They say that I was frightened, that it was only my own imagination. Edward says that nobody could have gotten out of that burning room alive.”

  A gentle breeze whipped past us, ruffling her loose, dark hair. The small face was wide-eyed and innocent, like that of a young child’s. I suddenly wanted to reach out to her, to cradle her in my arms and soothe away her fears.

  “Your grandfather believed me,” she said unexpectedly. “He’s the only one.”

  “Wh-what?”

  Biting at one ragged fingernail, she confessed, “I’m so confused, Louise. I know it wasn’t my imagination. Someone was there! I’ve had dreams since that night, Louise. Terrible dreams. Sometimes I dream that it is Nicholas’s face that I see through the flames. His face, only all twisted and ugly. And the eyes—the eyes aren’t his at all. And then, sometimes, it is the Devil himself that I see, and not Nicholas at all. A demon from hell, all painted and—”

  “Hush, Christine.” I reached out suddenly and hugged her to me, alarmed by the chill of her skin. “It must have been terrifying to see someone die like that! Especially someone like Elica, who had so much to live for! You wanted to help her, but you couldn’t. It’s only nightmares that are haunting you now. Can’t you let them go?”

  “Louise.” She broke away from me. Her voice was thin, barely a whisper in the darkness. “Even though he was acquitted, they all think Nicholas murdered her. Edward, Lydia—all of them!”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I heard them talking on that horrible ride back to Royal Oaks the night of the fire. Edward and Lydia—and your grandfather. I was bundled up in the back of the carriage and they thought I was asleep. I heard Edward say to Lydia that Nicholas had found something out about Elica just before the wedding. Something terrible. A dreadful secret that made him want to hurt her.” With a voice that trembled with sheer anguish, she asked, “Louise, do you think that it could be true?”

  Chapter Seven

  The dream began pleasantly enough. In the fantasy world of my own creation, I descended a long, winding staircase, gliding gracefully, as if my legs carried no weight or substance.

  I was still Louise Moreland—and yet I wasn’t. Silk and crinoline rustled with my every movement. Glancing down, I saw that I wore a deep-blue ball gown cut daringly in the front. A strand of heavy jewels glimmered against my throat.

  A gathering waited at the base of the stairway. I could hear the muted whispers now. Beautiful women bowing their heads behind fluttering fans to murmur, “Here she comes. Just look at that dress! My, isn’t she lovely tonight?”

  Near the entrance to the shadowy parlor, a man in formal attire waited. It made no difference to me that his features were blurred, indistinguishable above the finely cut jacket and stiff, white cravat at his throat. I knew who he was—the man of my desires—tall, dark, and so devastatingly handsome. Nicholas.

  I hurried down the stairs to where he stood waiting to take my arm. It was then that the pleasant dream shattered into fragments of nightmare madness.

  Bright lights seemed to explode all around me; my nostrils suddenly filled with the thick, acrid smell of burning wood. The staircase behind me had burst into flames!

  With screams of terror, the crowd of people about the stairway scattered. But Nicholas was waiting for me. I could see his face beyond the haze of smoke, the dark-flecked eyes, the slightly flaring nostrils, the sensitive lips. He held out his hand to me.

  I tugged at his arm. “Come on, Nicholas. We must get out of here!”

  He did not move. I turned, horror-stricken, to look into his eyes. It was not Nicholas who stood before me now, but a madman with twisted features and terrible, glowering eyes. One hand still held mine in a death grip. In the other hand he carried a burning torch.

  “You’ll burn with me this time, my love. You’ll burn!”

  “No!” I shrank away from his touch as he reached for me, trying to pull me farther inside the burning house. I could feel strong, clutching fingers clawing into my scalp as he snatched at my hair, winding locks of it about his rough hand, pulling me toward him. His face bent over my own, so close that I could almost reach out and touch its deathly whiteness.

  Distorted features wavered in the firelight as his mouth sought mine. His face was changing. Before my very eyes, it had transformed into the head of some terrible monster! No trace of Nicholas, no trace of humanness remained. A demon from hell held me fast, struggling to drag me into the licking flames of the burning house.

  I cried out, pleading mercy. The thing that had been Nicholas stared down at me, a malevolent smile fixed upon its blood-red, grinning mouth. No part of the face moved except for the eyes which gleamed dark and then silver, dark and then silver, glittering with the terrible light of madness.

  “No!”

  I closed my eyes tightly to block out the horror of that devil’s face. Still writhing, struggling to get away, I became aware of the softness of the mattress beneath me, the froth of the foamy pillow at my head. A dream! Thank God, a dream! Through half-closed lids, I peered up and then shut my eyes again very tightly. The face was still there!

  Wake up, Louise! I scolded myself. Once more, I blinked my eyes open. I was alone. I sat bolt upright on the bed, now fully awake. Such a vivid nightmare! I trembled in my thin gown as I recalled how that face, that hideous, disembodied face, had seemed to hover over my very bed! Had I only imagined that I had heard a quick rustle of motion just before I opened my eyes? Where had the nightmare ended and reality begun?

  I thought I heard a sound coming from the hallway, a shuffling sound. I listened, wide-eyed and alert, pinching myself with a fingernail just to make sure that this was not another extension of the nightmare. It came again, the slow, steady padding of feet upon the thick oak floor. In the darkness, I struggled to quell the agony of fear. Was I dreaming still? How could I be dreaming and yet be so keenly aware of the cool draft whispering through my damp, tangled hair, the sharp, reassuring sting of pain that my digging nails were still making upon my aching wrist?

  A stab of terror raced through me. What if the last part hadn’t been a dream after all? What if there had been someone here in my room, standing over my bed? And now, that unknown presence was returning—

  I caught my breath sharply, waiting as the footsteps halted just outside my slightly opened door. Then a worried voice whispered through the crack. “Louise?”

  “Y-yes?” I felt my tension slowly subsiding as a figure in a long, flowing robe stepped into the room. I strained my eyes in the darkness as the lovely woman in her satin dressing gown swept nearer. It was Lydia.

  “I thought I heard you cry out,” she said. She moved to light the lamp near my bedside. “Is something wrong?”

  What could I say? That I thought I had seen some grotesque monster hovering over me as I slept? A creature with the face of a demon? Why, she would think I was mad! Only a short time ago I had been scolding Christine about letting her nightmares become too real to her. And here I was, shivering like some frightened child myself. Hastily, I reassured myself that the dream had no doubt been brought
about by Christine’s talk. In my sleep, I had been living her frightening story about the burning house, the man who stood by the blazing draperies, a man whose face kept changing—

  “A nightmare,” I confessed finally. “A new house, a strange bed—”

  “Will you rest now? I have some drops that work wonders—”

  “Oh, no thank you,” I replied, remembering Christine’s mention of Lydia’s weakness for laudanum. “I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s chilly in here.” The light from the bedstand illuminated her pale lilac form as she stepped over to close the window. I noticed a spark of restlessness about her movements, the same flightiness that I had sensed just before her peculiar outburst downstairs in the parlor. The fancy porcelain doll of Edward’s was stirring to life once more.

  “The nights can be deceptively cool, especially this time of year....” Her voice trailed off. She remained by the window, staring out into the darkness. Though my room afforded a breathtaking view of the gardens by daylight, I was certain that little or nothing could be seen in the black of night. Yet Lydia stood watchful and alert, as if waiting for some strange sound or happening to break the stillness.

  “It’s the house,” she said suddenly. “Evangeline. Even in the darkness, I can feel it waiting, watching over us—”

  “Christine tells me that you were at the masquerade the night of the fire.”

  She turned toward me, her smile rueful, greenish eyes shining in the darkness. “Yes.” She paused for a moment as if suddenly lost in memory. “I knew Elica in happier times,” she said finally. “Ah, New Orleans! Just down the river, and yet it seems so far away—” Lydia seemed lost in a world of her own, reliving those better days. Was she regretting her marriage to Edward, which had taken her away from the city life?

  I was curious about how Lydia came to be married to my uncle. I wanted to penetrate that glossy, doll-like facade of hers to find out what lay beneath the surface.

  “Please sit with me a while, Lydia.”