The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras (13 page)

I knocked upon the door. “Edward?”

“Come in,” he answered immediately. He was still sitting behind the mahogany desk. A thick, heavy ledger lay before him. He looked tired, I thought as he glanced up at me. I noticed the weary lines about his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

I’ve read these letters you gave me, and have found the contents most disturbing,” I said. “Do you know what is in them?”

“The letters your grandfather wrote?” Edward looked surprised. “No. Of course not.”

I handed the packet to him, and sat in silence as he read. He finished, rubbing a weary hand across his forehead. “You didn’t know, then, that your grandfather thought your mother had taken the jewels?”

“No. It’s come as quite a shock.” A bitter, cruel shock. “It’s not true, you know.” Grasping at straws, I added, “Christine told me last night that you thought Grandfather might have hidden the jewels somewhere himself.”

“It’s possible.” Edward’s face seemed almost gray. His eyes looked sad and clouded. The jewels were discovered missing soon after May left. Not a word was ever said against your mother. Grandfather kept his suspicions a secret, and there never was any proof. But you must admit it was quite a coincidence.”

“How could you believe that of her? My mother was the kindest, most honest person—”

“I’ve never blamed her,” Edward said with a firm set to his chin. “If my sister took the jewels, and I’ve never been completely certain that she did, then it was because she needed them. It was not an act of theft, but one of survival. She may have considered the jewels part of her inheritance—”

Tears fought anger as I battled for self-control. “That’s not good enough. I know that she wouldn’t have taken them. She was innocent. And I’ll find some way to prove it!”

“Does it really matter that much now?”

“It does to me,” I said firmly.

After a long silence, he said, “Then I’ll do what I can to help.” He opened the desk drawer and drew out a large silver key. “This is the key to Raymond’s room. It’s the one next to yours. I’ve kept Father’s room under lock and key since his death, mostly to keep Christine from snooping around. The room hasn’t been touched. It’s still filled with Raymond’s old books and paraphernalia. I found these letters in his desk. There may be more letters and papers hidden away.”

“You won’t mind if I take a look?”

“The contents of the room all belong to you now. Along with Evangeline, you are entitled to all of his personal possessions, which originally came from the old house. Most of it is junk, but there may be a few valuables.”

“Maybe we can sort through them together. All I am interested in right now is the possibility of finding more correspondence.” Edward handed me back the letters as I rose to leave. “Thank you for the key.”

Once back upstairs, I paused outside the door to Grandfather’s room. It was almost time for me to meet Christine for the promised horseback ride. Though there was time to do little more than peek inside, I could not resist slipping the key into the lock and trying the door.

I stared in at oppressive darkness. Heavy curtains filtered just enough light for me to see a dreary, airless place with dark, heavy furniture. There was a four-poster with a delicate white spread much like the one upon my own bed, a walnut chair, and an ornately carved armoire. The walls were lined to the ceiling with shelves cluttered with leather volumes. I stifled a sneeze. A strange, musty odor hung in the air—the combination of dust and old smoke. Most of the books and furnishings must have survived the fire at Evangeline.

I ventured over to the desk and looked inside a few of the drawers. Loose papers fluttered in disarray. I shuffled through old accounts and ledgers, some of them curled and scorched about the edges. The missing letter was nowhere to be found.

Even if it was in the room somewhere, finding it was going to be a considerable task. My grandfather had been something of a pack rat. Maybe later I could go through some of the books and boxes.

In the middle drawer of the desk, I found a loose picture. I stared at the pale, faded image of a dark-haired man with a little girl on his knee. My mother.

Looking closer, I could see the shadow of a house, the backdrop of roses. The gardens at Evangeline. How long ago had this picture of my grandfather and my mother been taken? I wondered who had taken it, and for what occasion? My mother wore a stiff white frock, and her fine, coppery hair was curled in ringlets about her face. Grandfather wore solemn black, which made his hawk-like eyes seem deeper, his thick brows and strong features more prominent. I don’t know how long I sat staring at the ancient photograph, feeling as if I were a part of another place and time. I peered closely at the face of my grandfather, wondering what made him look so different here from the few other pictures of him I had seen. Suddenly I knew what it was. The man I had always pictured as a stern, unhappy stranger was smiling.

With a start, I realized that I had lost all track of time. Christine was probably already waiting for me at the stables. I slipped the picture back into the drawer, then returned to my own room.

Reluctantly, I put the packet of letters away in an empty dresser drawer, along with the black lacquer jewel box. I hastily donned the riding habit that had been sent up to my room earlier. Then I hurried down the stairs, still so lost in thought that I almost collided with Lydia.

“I’m so sorry!” I gasped.

Lydia stepped back, startled. She was poised upon the stairs like some frightened bird, brushing a hand nervously through her bright hair. “Christine is waiting for you,” she said, still breathless.

“Yes. I’m on my way to meet her now. I’m afraid I’m a bit late.” I hadn’t meant to startle her. She looked small and dainty in her rustling silk like some exotic bird poised for flight. My hair pulled back, and wearing the heavy riding habit, I felt awkward beside her.

“Be sure to come back in time for dinner. I’ve a nephew coming in from New Orleans.” Lydia’s pale face was suddenly animated. “I haven’t seen him for ever so long!” It was clear to me that this nephew was someone special to her, that she was looking forward to his arrival with great anticipation.

“I’ll be delighted to meet him.” I started to pass her on the stairs when Lydia’s frail hand caught my arm. Hers was a surprisingly firm grip. “Be careful this afternoon, Louise.”

“Of course I will. After all, I’m new to riding.”

Her pretty eyes darkened. “Christine has her father’s devil-may-care spirit.” Lydia paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “She may not understand your limitations. Don’t let her push you into doing anything unsafe.”

What did Lydia mean by that warning? Was she merely cautioning me because of my inexperience with horses? Or was she trying to warn me about Christine? I was not going to let fear get in the way of either my learning to ride a horse or my budding friendship with the wayward Christine. After all, what young girl is not full of spirit and mischief?

I could see Christine coming toward me through the garden. “I thought you’d forgotten!” she called as I hurried to join her. She wore a twill riding habit and her hair was pulled back loosely and secured by a length of bright yellow ribbon.

“Shall we get started?” I asked with a rather forced enthusiasm. My spirits sank as I caught sight of the waiting horses.

Christine helped me to mount Sugar. As I climbed upon the horse’s broad back, I felt suddenly stiff and apprehensive. I grabbed the reins tightly.

“Relax” Christine commanded, leaping upon Thunder’s back. “Let Sugar take the lead. She knows we want to follow the trail.”

Christine, as Lydia had warned, rode like an expert. She kept leaving me far behind. Every few minutes she would be obliged to slow down to wait for us as Sugar and I plodded along at our slow, careful pace.

Eventually, she grew impatient and began leaving us farther and farther behind upon the trail. Once I feared that I had lost her. I got the uneasy feeling that she was doing this on purpose. I nearly cried out in sudden panic when I saw her ride out in front of me from behind a thick web of cypress. She slowed and laughingly waited for me to catch up with her.

Chapter Nine

I followed Christine down a winding trail of weeds trampled down by hoofprints, slowing only when the path came to an abrupt end at the edge of the narrow footbridge near Evangeline.

“Come on, Louise,” Christine urged impatiently. She had already ridden across the bridge and waited on the other side, the charred, skeletal outline of the old house framing her. Nervously, I guided Sugar across the haphazard scattering of loose boards high above sluggish, gurgling black water.

“Drop the reins and let the horse graze,” she instructed as I dismounted. Thunder already roamed free. “Don’t worry—they won’t wander very far.” She tugged at my arm. “Come on. I’ll show you through the burned wing of the house.”

Edward’s warnings echoed through my brain. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

Christine shrugged. “I come here all the time.”

“But what about Nicholas?”

“He won’t mind.” She cocked her head to one side like a little sparrow, turning around to regard me with sharp, bright eyes. “Besides, the house belongs to you now, not him. So what could he say?”

We stood now on the very steps of Evangeline. The charred entrance to the ruined wing yawned before us, beckoning. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious?” Christine demanded.

“Of course I am. But I still think it might be dangerous to go creeping about in there.” As I peered into the hollow, open mouth of the entranceway, my ambition of restoring the house seemed more impossible than ever. The walls were blackened and charred; the entire roof overhead arched and bulging. I felt as if the slightest disturbance might send the roof and walls crumbling down around us.

“Christine?” She had already moved ahead into the first room. Carefully, I picked my way through the rubble of the hallway, stooping low to avoid a jagged-edged, broken beam which swung over my head. Christine had taken up a sharp-edged stick and was absently poking at piles of charred debris.

“What are you going to do with the old house, Louise? Are you going to try to have it rebuilt or tear it down?”

I glanced at the ruin all around me, contemplating defeat. The place seems almost beyond repair!” Almost to myself, I added, “I might be wise to accept Uncle Edward’s generous offer before he changes his mind.”

“He’ll tear it down,” Christine warned. “And put in rice or sugar cane. Then Nicholas will have to leave. I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“He can’t stay here forever.”

Christine eyed me anxiously. “You won’t turn him out, will you?”

“Of course not. I can’t see any harm to his living here, at least until I’ve decided what to do with the house.” I smiled faintly. “Besides, so far, he hasn’t deemed it necessary to ask my permission to stay.”

“He won’t,” Christine laughed. “He’s got his pride.”

“So he has. But surely he must be a little mad to want to remain here. I’d think this would be the last place on earth he’d want to stay.”

As we talked, we moved past several empty, hollow rooms into a long, dark corridor. At the end of the hallway was a spacious room whose forlorn beauty whispered of lost grandeur. Christine paused at the threshold. “The ballroom,” she explained. “They called it the Gold Room.”

I recognized the name. Mother had spoken of the Gold Room, of the elaborate dances and parties that had taken place there in her youth. Surely not this place? Now, scorched and peeling walls clung stubbornly to traces of shiny luster like old women in tattered evening gowns. An abandoned orchestra platform huddled in the corner near the base of a coiled, sinister-looking monster of a staircase, a reptile with a broken back.

“The stairs lead up to Elica’s rooms,” Christine explained. “Where the fire started. Where she died.”

As I glanced up at the fire-ravaged walls, I wondered what frightening emotion compelled Nicholas to stay here. Was it guilt or sentiment that kept him living in the place where his beautiful bride, his bride of one day, had met such a terrible death?

“What was Elica like?” I had to know. My voice sounded thick and hollow in the gloomy atmosphere of the ruined ballroom.

“You’ve seen her miniature, Louise. But that didn’t really do her justice. She was even lovelier.” I felt a painful tightening around my heart as she added, “Nicholas said that she had a beauty no artist could ever capture.” Christine went on, as if enjoying the talk about Elica. “When he first brought her here, a few months before the wedding, she created quite a stir.”

“Why is that?”

Christine shrugged. “Iberville is a small place. New faces get talked about. Elica was so beautiful she couldn’t help but attract attention. Especially when she just seemed to appear out of nowhere.”

“I thought she came from New Orleans.”

“She was living there when Nicholas met her. But outside of Lydia, nobody knew anything about her family or her past. And Lydia wouldn’t talk about it, not even after Elica died.”

Christine’s smoky eyes clouded until they matched the dark surroundings. “Most of the townspeople didn’t like Elica. I think they were jealous. And Edward—he said that she tricked Nicholas into marrying her. I even heard him say once that she deserved to die for that”

“What a terrible thing to say!”

Christine paced the floor in front of me. “Elica should never have made friends with Brule. People are afraid of him, you know. That’s how the rumors got started. They said that she was learning from him how to work charms to keep Nicholas bewitched. Mrs. Lividais told Edward that it was Brule who helped her to trap Nicholas. I heard her say once that Elica was a witch.” Christine finished in a choked voice, “And that witches deserve—to burn.”

Christine’s face had lost its healthy glow. Coming here had not been a good idea. I knew the sight of the ruined ballroom, the empty staircase, must bring back terrible memories of Elica’s death. I should never have let her coax me into coming in here. “Let’s go, Christine” I said.