The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras (22 page)

Who was the “he” Grandfather referred to? Was it Nicholas, Ian, Edward? From the entry, I could only gather that, until a year ago, my grandfather had sincerely believed my mother responsible for the missing jewels. Then something must have happened to make him change his mind. It was obvious that Grandfather distrusted a man who was close to him. I read on, hoping that the he would reveal the unnamed man’s identity, hoping that it would not be Nicholas’s name I saw.

Sept 9: She still has not replied. Have sent Christine to town with the package. Could trust no one else.

The package—he must be referring to the black lacquered box of costume jewelry. Had Grandfather hidden something of value in there? Something which had been stolen before it was even sent to me?

Sept. 20: Am weaker now. Could barely get out of bed to take my morning walk. Have done all that I can. Will write once more to Louise. My last hope. The guardian, Louise. The guardian—”

There it was again—mention of the guardian. But what on earth could it mean? Did he refer to a person or an object? I turned the page, but the writing had stopped. This must have been Grandfather’s final entry before his death. I rubbed a hand over my tired eyes. Then I glanced down at the journal that still lay upon my lap.

The pages seemed to open of their own accord—open to an entry in the midst of the blank pages that separated the old part from the new. I scanned this single, unexpected passage. There was no date. Only hastily scrawled words. Words that seemed to burn into my very soul.

Who could hate a child,?
the sprawling ink marks demanded.
And yet, I can see it in his eyes, the growing obsession, the burning rage that has become such a part of him. I see the madness returning. Dear God, I fear for her life. I fear for her life!

Madness. The word brought back echoes of that terrible laughter out there in the garden—that hollow, mindless, lunatic’s laugh I had heard.

Who could hate a child?
The words continued to haunt me, to fill me with a numbing, all-encompassing horror. Elica was going to have a baby! Elica, pale as a lily, yet legally a woman of color. And the child, the innocent child—

Had Nicholas taken her life and the life of his unborn child to keep Elica’s secret? If so, what kind of a monster was he?

A part of me could not, would not, believe it of him. The Nicholas I knew was understanding and compassionate. Could he be two people living in one body, one kind and loving, the other evil and sinister?

Journal still in hand, I stepped over to the window. The skeletal shape of Evangeline stood stark and forbidding against the moonlight. Was it guilt that compelled him to live in that ruin of a house, a self-imposed penance for the terrible crime he had committed? Or was he, as others believed, simply tottering upon the brink of madness?

The evidence against him was mounting. He had been nearby when my accident upon the horse occurred. I had told him about the letters in my room—now they were gone. Shortly after I had shown him the journal I had been attacked by a person wearing a dark cloak and the voodoo mask.

How could I believe in him? According to the damning journal, he had not only stolen the missing jewels but had murdered his wife. Yet, here I stood remembering the unexpected gentleness in his eyes, the comforting feeling of his strong arms surrounding me.

Gentleness in the eyes of a killer! I laughed aloud, the sound echoing bitterness across the room. Anyone reading the journal would take the words written there as absolute proof that Nicholas had murdered poor Elica. And here I was, still doubting, still trying to find reason to believe in him.

Quickly, I turned away from the window, feeling a gnawing hunger in my heart, a longing, an emotion that left me frightened by its very intensity.

“I’m not free to love you—” His words came back to haunt me, making me wonder once more if Elica was still alive, if he was hiding her in the old house. Or was I grasping at straws? Was my love for him causing me to find any reason to exonerate him from guilt, even to the point of raising his dead wife from the grave?

I loved him! I knew it as surely as Mother must have known that she loved the Yankee soldier, Jeff Moreland. And I believed in him. No matter what I had heard, no matter what had been written in that dark journal.

I knew then that I was not going to let Ian or anyone else get their hands upon the journal. And there was no place I could hide it where it would be safe. It would have to be destroyed. With one quick motion, I tossed the journal into the fireplace. Silently, I watched the flames rise up to lick and curl about the yellowed pages, erasing forever the words that had been written upon them.

Frantic tears blurred my vision as I looked with tortured eyes toward the dark shell of Evangeline. “Nicholas, my love,” I whispered. Who was the most insane, I wondered, he or I?

Chapter Fifteen

The Christmas holidays passed quietly. We had no visitors except Ian, who still stayed on at the house. On Christmas day, Mrs. Lividais cooked a huge turkey and later the family exchanged small gifts in the parlor. I was touched by Christine’s handmade gift to me, and surprised by Ian’s expensive one. The delicate needlepoint must have taken Christine’s impatient fingers many long hours to make, while the dainty white silk gloves from Ian seemed far too extravagant.

Surely, I only imagined that Ian was paying special attention to me. Yet, every evening at dinner, I found him taking my arm, and whenever Lydia played the piano in the parlor, he made it a point to sit by my side, entertaining me with compliments and small talk. If he were trying to court me, his efforts were in vain. I cared for no one but Nicholas.

I had not seen Nicholas since the night I had shown him the journal, the night the robed figure in cape and voodoo mask had attacked me in the garden. Even on this crisp, cold morning in mid-January, I could not walk the garden path without feeling a deep sense of emptiness in my heart at the thought of him. I still could not believe that he was the one who had attacked me.

Just beyond the fountain where Nicholas and I had met that night, I encountered Christine, in riding habit, on her way to the stables.

“Where are you going, Christine?” I asked.

She merely shrugged and smiled, “Wherever the wind takes me.” Considering me for a moment, she added with a distinctly challenging look, “Why don’t you come along?”

I shook my head. “After what happened to me last time, I’m not sure I ever want to ride another horse again!”

“Oh, everyone takes a fall now and then. Even me,” she added with a wry grin. “Besides, if you don’t make yourself get back on a horse soon you’ll never ride again!”

The weather was so warm, so inviting after the cool, rainy spell. “If you come, well go ever so slow and careful,” Christine persisted.

For a moment I hesitated, thinking about the fall into the muddy swamp that could have ended in my death.

“Edward says ‘lightning never strikes in the same place twice’,” Christine added wisely.

I had to laugh at her frankness. “I hope you’re right,” I said.

Christine’s face lit up with surprise. “Does that mean you’ll come with me?”

“Yes, if you’ll wait long enough for me to change into my riding clothes.”

“Oh, Louise! I’m so glad. I’ll get the horses ready,” she called, hurrying away with quick, lively steps. “Meet me back at the stables.”

I returned to my room, where I changed into the stiff, rather uncomfortable riding habit that Camille had carefully mended for me. For just a moment, the sight of the torn leather filled me with misgivings, but I quickly brushed them away.

On my way downstairs, I saw Lydia reclining upon the chaise in the parlor. She returned my greeting with indifference, as if she barely took notice of me. A scattering of magazines lay about her, but she was not reading. Her eyes, strangely vacant, stared off at an empty place upon the wall. I remembered Christine’s talk about her fondness for laudanum. What troubled the lovely woman so much that she felt driven to seek escape?

Lydia caught sight of my riding habit, and her eyes focused fully upon me, suddenly alive and frightened. “You aren’t going out riding with Christine again!”

Feeling an absurd need to prove to her that I wasn’t being foolhardy, I parroted Christine’s words about lightning never striking twice. “I’ll be careful,” I finished lamely.

Lydia shook her head slowly, sadly. “Someday you’ll learn not to trust her—not to trust any of them.” She turned her green eyes away from me, back to the wall. She was still sitting motionless, lost in some private dream world as I found my way to the door.

The air was warm, with only the slightest hint of a breeze. A perfect day for riding. Christine was waiting, horses saddled and ready, near the stables. Before mounting Sugar, I reached down subtly to check the saddle binding and reins, not satisfied until I made certain that they were firm and solidly attached.

Christine’s quick eyes missed nothing. “I don’t blame you,” she commented with a shrug. “It only makes sense to be cautious.” Her voice lowered. “I always am.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember my telling you that I had an accident on Thunder shortly before yours?”

I nodded.

“Well, I’m no fool!” Her smoky eyes met mine. “I know it wasn’t any accident.”

“What are you saying, Christine?”

“Someone tampered with my saddle, too, just the way they did with yours.”

Was Christine telling the truth, or was this just another bid for attention? “Who do you think would do such a thing?” I asked.

She gave a little shrug, as if it no longer mattered. “I don’t know.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

She tossed back her head saucily. “No. Why should I? They wouldn’t believe me.” With uncanny perception, she added, “You don’t even believe me, do you, Louise?” She climbed upon Thunder, threatening to storm away down the trail. Then, as if reluctantly remembering her promise, she waited as I carefully mounted Sugar.

“Where are we going?” I asked as our horses trotted side by side down the trail that led away from the stables. Christine stayed close by my side, but she did not answer.

A short, vigorous ride took us to the water’s edge. I felt the tightness in my heart returning as Evangeline came into view. The boards groaned wearily beneath us as we crossed the narrow bridge into the wild, tangled weeds of the garden. Christine stared up at the ruined specter, spellbound. She seemed to have a morbid fascination for the place and the man who lived here. I should have known the ride would end here at the foot of Evangeline.

An eerie sensation gnawed at me as I studied the profile of the ruined house—
my
house. A crumbling, broken place, and yet it bore its scars proudly. From this angle, it looked almost habitable. But another glance made all illusion of hope vanish.

Shattered windows watched like accusing eyes as Christine dismounted and began to walk toward the house. Reluctantly I followed, afraid of encountering Nicholas again. A glance at the stables told me that his carriage was gone. I moved to join Christine, who rested upon an old stone near the collapsed gallery, glad that she had not entered the house.

“I wish I could have seen Evangeline in its glory,” I sighed wistfully, finding a spot to rest near Christine. “It must have been a beautiful place.”

“Edward’s silly Royal Oaks doesn’t even compare,” Christine said.

I looked up at the high walls. “I can almost imagine what it must have looked like before the fire. Those huge columns and grand entranceway—it must have been a spectacular sight.”

“Oh, it was! The walls are dark now, but once they were a brilliant white,” Christine said. “And the gardens—you should have seen them!” She pointed a finger toward the sagging gallery which cast its sad shadow upon us. “That walkway used to go clear around the house. On a summer night you could look down and see the roses all in bloom.”

I remembered the photograph of my grandfather and mother against a backdrop of blooming rose vines. I closed my eyes, imagining. This, and not the pitiful shell before me, was the place that my mother had so lovingly described.

“Oh, Louise, I wish you could have seen the gardens! In the middle of it all was a huge, bubbling fountain surrounded by the prettiest of roses.”

“Are you talking about the same fountain that is in the gardens at Royal Oaks?” I asked Christine.

“Yes, but it was pretty then, especially at night when you couldn’t see that winged creature’s ugly face!”

“Where was the fountain?” I asked curiously.

She giggled. “Well, if it was still here, we’d be soaking our feet in it right now.”

For the first time, I noticed that the stones on which we sat formed a rough semicircle. Though the roses had long since disappeared, our feet rested in a slightly depressed area which might have, at one time, been the fountain base.

“Louise, now that the fountain is yours, maybe Edward will let us get it running again. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“What a wonderful idea! I’ll have a talk with Edward,” I promised with heartfelt enthusiasm. If he agreed, I would restore the old fountain at my own expense as a tribute to my grandfather. I was glad that Christine had suggested this. Grandfather had loved the old fountain; it would be a grand way to honor him.

Thoughts of my grandfather reminded me of the questions I had planned to ask the girl. “Christine, did my grandfather ever give you a letter—or anything else to send to me?”

Christine did not show any particular surprise at my sudden question. “Why, yes. I’d almost forgotten. Right before he died, he asked me to send a big package off to you. He was acting very strange. He made me promise not to tell anyone about it.” She laughed. “I remember when I got back from sending the package off, he gave me a praline wrapped in paper that he must have saved from his dinner. I didn’t want the old man’s candy, but he made me take it.” Christine’s eyes raised to mine curiously. “What was in the package?”

“Some of my mother’s things. An ebony jewelry box.”