The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras (2 page)

Suddenly, a hand touched my arm. I spun around, startled. But it was only one of the street hawkers. “Please, lady?” A pretty, light-skinned colored girl with a baby strapped to her back held out a basket of candy.

“Pralines, fresh and good, m’amoiselle.”

I started to turn away. “The baby, she hungry.” I glanced back toward her. The pleading eyes filled me with compassion; she looked so young, and so burdened. Though the bulk of my money was hidden away in my trunk, I carried a few spare coins in my purse. And Uncle Edward’s young daughter would surely welcome a gift of fresh pralines from the city.

Even before I reached for my purse, I sensed that something was wrong and I felt the lightness of my shoulder. My groping fingers searching for the straps closed around thin air. My beaded bag was gone!

“Ohh—” A cry of alarm escaped my lips. My purse—gone! I turned and looked back into the crowd with growing alarm.

Stolen—or had I simply laid it down somewhere? In either event, it was lost, and there was no time to search. It was almost time for the boat to depart.

My heart already mourning the lost brooch, I moved away from the disappointed praline vendor. There would be no candy now. I was as penniless as one of the beggars. I took a few more steps toward the
Swamp Prince
when an even more terrible thought made me stop in my tracks. I had not only lost the precious brooch and my spare change—I had also lost my ticket on to Iberville! I was stranded here in New Orleans!

What a fool I had been! Oh, why hadn’t I listened to Mrs. Harrington? I stood alone, panic-stricken, penniless, and bewildered. People were beginning to board the leaky little
Swamp Prince.
All sense of adventure drained away, leaving me numb and frightened as I clutched the wilting rose. What was I going to do?

“Mademoiselle.” The vaguely familiar voice with its hint of a French accent made me turn and look up.

“Excuse me,
ma chère
, but you seem upset.” Surprise then relief filled me at the sight of the brown-haired man! His tawny eyes were lazily curious, questioning. “Is something wrong?”

I felt as if I had been drowning at sea. But now I had been suddenly tossed a life preserver. Surely he would help me! “My purse! It’s either been lost or stolen.”

He voiced his sympathy. “Then I shall help you look for it, though I doubt that it will do much good. Carnival crowds often attract the worst sort, I’m afraid. Was there anything of value?”

I started to explain about the brooch, then changed my mind. After all, what good would it do? “A small amount of change. But my ticket was in there.” I tried to keep my voice from quivering. “And my boat leaves in ten minutes’ time.” Near tears, I added, “My—my luggage is already aboard.”

“Where are you bound?”

“Iberville.”

He gestured toward the small, dilapidated packet. “The
Swamp Prince?

I nodded.

The thin mustache flickered above a white-toothed smile as he took my arm. “Then do not fear. It is no luxury boat, the
Swamp Prince.
The fare is but a few coins. I’ll get you safely aboard.”

“Oh, I couldn’t let you pay for my ticket—I don’t want to be indebted.”

“You must!” he insisted.

He was right—what choice did I have? I lowered my eyes. “You are so kind. How can I ever thank you?” I imagined myself still wandering the docks as evening approached. I remembered the rough sailors, the scarred face, the menacing eyes of the voodoo man watching me through the crowd, and suppressed a little shiver.

“Someday I’ll make my way to Iberville. And then I’ll come calling,” the stranger announced boldly, studying my hazel eyes and slightly disheveled chestnut hair with obvious approval.

Again, I felt color rise to my cheeks. “I don’t even know your name.”

The tawny-gold eyes held mine fast. “I am Ian. Ian Winters.”

“Then thank you, Ian Winters” I said.

“Will you be staying in Iberville long?” he asked as we moved toward the boat.

‘‘Yes. I’ve relatives there, waiting for me. Edward Dereux and his family. I’m so anxious to meet them.”

I thought I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, one that he kept carefully concealed. “Wait here—I’ll see to your ticket.”

He came back a few moments later. “Though I hate to let you go, I think you had better board now,” he advised as the steamship blew its throaty warning.

Once again I tried to thank him. Suddenly he took my hand, tossing the wilted rose into the water. “Remember, I’ll come calling,” he promised. “And I’ll bring you a fresh rose. So let’s not say good-bye, but
au revoir.”

I agreed, knowing full well that I would probably never see the charming Ian Winters again. With a last word of thanks,I hurried to board.

The little
Swamp Prince
was a parody of the luxurious
Josephine
on which I had made my journey to New Orleans. No bronze chandeliers, no Brussels carpet here. The boiler rattled and the single deck which held cargo and passengers alike smelled of oil. There seemed to be very few passengers. I hurried up to the railing so that I could wave to Mr. Winters.

For some reason I had expected him to wait and see me off, but he was nowhere in sight. I felt slightly puzzled, even a little disappointed.

As I stood watching the few last-minute passengers hurry to board, a strange feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. I missed my mother’s brooch. Whether it was a genuine stone or not, I had no way of knowing. But it had been my mother’s favorite jewel, and that made it precious to me. And now it was lost forever!

The nagging thought came to me that it was my own fault for taking the brooch off and placing it in my purse. But how could I have known that it would be misplaced—or stolen?

I thought back to the confusion of the crowd—the children, the beggars, the scarred man who had jostled my arm. Any one of them could have taken my purse. The idea of some pickpocket coming close enough to me to cut the strap of my bag and slip it off my arm gave me a disarming sense of insecurity. I was so grateful to Ian Winters!

The way he had appeared almost the moment I discovered my loss was certainly a coincidence. I frowned, remembering how I had first noticed him near the steamboat. Again, I found myself wondering what he had been doing there. The person he had been waiting for had never come!

Later, on the way to the carnival, had he been purposely following me? He might have seen me take off the brooch and put it in my purse. I remembered how he had brushed close by me at the flower stand when he gave me the rose. Could he have cut the strap and slipped the beaded bag from my arm then?

I recalled my very first impression of Ian Winters. A gambler, my instincts had warned. Despite his helpfulness, his fashionable clothing, and charming manners, there was something about Ian Winters that I just didn’t trust.

I checked my thoughts, feeling suddenly ashamed of myself. Here I was, entertaining the possibility that Ian Winters had stolen my purse. The same Ian Winters who had bought me a second boat ticket, not to mention the lovely rose. It seemed ungracious, to say the least. If not for him, I might still be stranded in New Orleans.

Once more, I thought of the unsavory crowd, the frightening voodoo man. The way he had looked at me through the crowd still sent shivers of fear racing up and down my spine. It was as if somehow, in some uncanny way, he had recognized me. But that was impossible!

Something compelled me to glance down below. Suddenly I saw him again! As if my thoughts had made him materialize, the voodoo man now stood upon the dock, close to where Ian Winters had been.

His skin was dark and rich, the color of black coffee. The high cheekbones, the shining baldness of his well-formed head gave him the look of a carved mahogany statue. The wind whipped at the voluminous robes, making them flutter against his bony frame. A chill crept deep into my bones as he raised his eyes and looked up at me. It seemed a ghastly smile of recognition lit his face. I tried to move, but my frozen limbs resisted; it was as if he had me under the power of some evil spell. I could only stand motionless, my aching fingers stiff upon the railing as the voodoo man stepped forward to join the other passengers. He was boarding the
Swamp Prince.

Chapter Two

“You’d better go down below, miss,” the old captain warned as he passed by, the scent of his whiskey breath giving immediate credibility to Mrs. Harrington’s gossip. “It’s going to rain sure as you’re standing there “

“I will. Thank you.”

Wary of encountering the voodoo man, I had remained alone at the railing, watching until all traces of New Orleans were swallowed up by the misty gray shoreline.

I shivered slightly in my long-sleeved dress, now dampened with spray from the river. A glance up at the sky told me that the captain was right. The afternoon sunlight had faded, taking with it the crisp, clear warmth. Clouds, dark and threatening, were gathering overhead. I would have to go down soon and join me others on the passenger deck.

I took one last look at the unfamiliar world that surrounded me. How haunted, this native land of my mother’s. An ethereal shadow world where there were no crowded streets and restless carriages. Lush foliage mingled with heavy cypress along the water’s edge. Spanish moss draped the graceful tree branches, giving them a somber appearance, like a thousand veiled women in mourning, A droplet of rain fell upon my cheek.

Steeling my courage, I found the stairway that led to the single deck that held cargo and passengers alike.

Where was he? My eyes darted about the room, settling upon a dark form in the corner. An old colored woman, head nodding in sleep, sat upon the floor near the warmth of the boiler, a basket of fruit beside her. Beyond the sugar hogsheads and sacks of mail were rows of wooden benches where the rest of the few passengers huddled miserably together. The voodoo man was nowhere in sight, though. I had seen him board the boat. He could hardly have disappeared into thin air!

Cautiously, I advanced and began to search for a place to sit. I counted only seven passengers on the benches. Nearest to me sat a young woman holding her child. Both were groggy with sleep.

Three old men, probably veterans, swapped war stories and smoke in the far corner. I moved tentatively toward the two remaining passengers, a pair of elderly ladies dressed in their finest silks and satins.

“Do join us” invited the first, her brown eyes bright with curiosity as I seated myself beside her.

“What is your name, dear?” asked the second.

“Louise. Louise Moreland,” I answered, glancing over to meet another set of probing brown eyes, this pair rimmed with silver spectacles.

The two must be sisters, I observed, taking note of the resemblance between them—the shiny button eyes, the iron-gray curls peeking out from under sprigged bonnets, the slightly hooked noses. If the one wasn’t wearing spectacles, I would have had difficulty telling them apart.

Tm Mattie, and this is Madeline,” the woman with the glasses leaned across the other woman’s seat to explain. “We’ve been to New Orleans, visiting the cemetery. Our beloved parents are buried there. We’re sisters, you see.”

So I had been correct. I remembered Mrs. Harrington’s mention of All Saint’s Day. A time when decent people remembered the dead with flowers and tears.

“We’re on our way back to Lafitte,” the first lady, the one with the softer voice, volunteered. “Next stop, thank heavens.”

I felt a slight sense of disappointment. I was hoping that they, too, were going to Iberville.

“And you?”

A strange silence filled the air as I told them of my destination.

“Have you ever been to Iberville?” I asked, curious about their unexpected reaction.

“Oh, of course!” The reflection of the river glinted off Mattie’s round glasses. She pursed her lips in a way that reminded me of Mrs. Harrington. “But not often. Desolate little place, if you ask me. Swampland. May I ask what takes you there?”

“My relatives. An uncle, Edward Dereux, and his wife and child live there.” As I spoke, I felt the anxiousness flutter in my heart. My mother’s family!

My mother had often and always lovingly spoken of her dear brother Edward, her life before the war, and the lovely plantation of Evangeline.

“Have you heard of a place called Evangeline?”

Both ladies shook their heads. I wasn’t surprised. The house would be little more than an empty shell now. Edward had warned me that, except for Grandfather’s one futile attempt to restore it, the old family place had lain empty since the war.

But that would soon change. Though I had not told Edward of my plans, I intended to restore the old family home and live there. To live in the house that my mother had loved so much had become my dream, my obsession. It had been my one ray of hope, the dream that had kept me sane and filled the empty void that had been my life since Mother’s death.

Ever since I was a child, we had planned to make the journey together. “Someday Grandfather will forgive us,” Mother had insisted so many times. “Hell realize the war is over. And then he’ll send for us.” Sighing, my pretty mother, with her sad dark eyes and thick coppery hair, would try to explain. “After all, Louise, I knew in my heart that I would lose my family when I chose to marry Jeff. It was a choice that I never regretted, though we had so little time together.” My father, a Yankee soldier, had been killed in the battle of Bull Run shortly after he had taken my mother away from Evangeline.

Even fifteen years later, on her deathbed, she had not abandoned her stubborn hope. “I always believed that Father would relent—not so much for my sake, but for yours. I wanted so much to take you there, Louise. You would have loved Evangeline—its oak and marble, its elegant rooms, the gardens of wisteria and rose vine. It is our destiny, Louise. Though we may be stranded here in St. Louis, Evangeline is where we belong.”

Fearing for my mother’s condition, I had penned a letter to her father—my grandfather. Unlike the others, this one had not gone unanswered and the long-awaited letter of forgiveness had finally come.