The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras (8 page)

When I returned to the parlor, a tight-lipped servant was collecting the wineglasses. “Christine, show Louise to her room,” called Edward from one of the high, stiff-backed chairs near the mock fireplace. “I’m sure she would like to rest before dinner.” The coolness in his tone made me realize that I had displeased him by escorting Nicholas to the door. My welcome was over.

As I followed an equally huffy Christine down the corridor I was beginning to wonder if I was going to like this newfound family of mine.

“Dinner will be at seven,” Edward called to us without looking up as we began to climb the stairs. “We dress formally, of course.”

Christine was taking the polished stairs two at a time. I had to hurry to keep up with her. The upper rooms of the house formed a huge square with a small courtyard in the middle. They all overlooked the courtyard as well as the outside gardens. From the upstairs hallway there was also a view of the downstairs rooms on the opposite side of the polished stairway. I leaned lightly upon the banister to gaze down into the pleasant little courtyard that offered much privacy.

“Not too close to the edge, Miss Moreland,” Christine cautioned.

“Please call me Louise. Miss Moreland sounds like some ancient maiden aunt or prim schoolmarm, and I’m not so much older than you.”

“How old are you?” she demanded. Curious gray eyes, which reminded me of Edward’s, probed mine.

“It’s not really polite to ask a lady her age. But I be eighteen next month,” I confided with just a touch of pride.

“I’m almost as old. I’ll be fifteen soon!” She smiled, her teeth pearly against her unfashionably tanned skin. “I was afraid you’d act stuffy like ‘they” do,” she added, making a face. “Now be sure you are to dinner at seven, Louise,” she minced, “and be sure to dress just right.” I was a little shocked at her disrespectful mocking of Edward, but at the same time I could not help but be amused by her exact imitation of his tone.

“That was your grandfather’s room,” Christine said as we passed by one of the many closed doors in the corridor. “It’s locked. Edward locked it the night of his death and no one has been in there since.”

“Are all his—things still in there?”

“It’s just as he left it.” She wrinkled her nose. “A real mess.”

The door next to my grandfather’s room was wide open. “This is the main guest room,” Christine explained. “I guess it’ll be yours now.” I looked beyond her into a room that was spacious and elaborate. Though the windows were both open, a slightly musty smell hung in the air. The handsome furnishings had a blank, impersonal look about them, as if they had never belonged to any one person. The thick mesh mosquito netting and heavy four-poster seemed out of sorts with the white silk curtains that streamed and billowed from the open windows. In the middle of the room, near the imposing oak wardrobe and smaller, mirrored vanity, my trunks and hatbox already waited.

I began to busy myself with unpacking my necessities, while Christine made herself quite at home upon the white bed, her dusty riding habit shedding a thin, powdery trail upon the lace coverings. As I began to hang up my dresses and arrange my toilet articles upon the vanity, she released a steady stream of questions about my mother.

“I grew up hearing all about your Mama, May Dereux, how her Union soldier swept her away. What a wonderfully romantic tale,” she sighed wistfully. “To be banished from the family and give up everything for the one you love!” I remembered Mother’s loneliness, the restless unhappiness that she tried so hard to keep concealed from me. I had to remind myself that Christine was but an innocent girl, hardly more than a child. Obviously enthralled with dime-novel romances, she was too young to begin to understand the heartbreak my mother’s estrangement had really caused to both herself and the family.

“My father was a great hero,” Christine boasted suddenly. “Racine Dereux. There’s a portrait of him in Edward’s study. And you’ll hear Edward talk about him.” She gave a little sigh and rolled her gray eyes. “Sometimes I think that’s
all
he talks about. He likes to ramble on about all those battles, and how terrible it was for Papa to have been killed just a few weeks before the war ended.”

“And your mother, Christine? What was she like?”

She shook her head, her expressive eyes clouding. “She died in childbirth. Both my parents died before I could even remember them. I don’t miss them—it’s almost as if they never were. Mrs. Lividais, the housekeeper, says that if I wasn’t so much like my father, she’d swear I was a changeling. You know what that is, don’t you? It’s when the fairies steal a baby and leave one of their own in its place.”

“I see.” Anxious to change the turn of conversation, I asked, “Who was the young man I met in the parlor? He seemed very nice. Is he really your beau?”

A flush spread over her cheeks and she turned away, shrugging. “Not really. I only say that to bother Edward. Edward doesn’t like Nathan,” she confided. “He says he’s not good enough for me.” Barely pausing to draw a breath, she added angrily, “Edward doesn’t want me to have any beaux at all. Did you see the way he acted about Nicholas? He wouldn’t even let me talk to him!”

“I can see why Edward might not approve of Nicholas. After all, he’s a little old for you.”

“Oh, that’s not the reason he’s ordered me to stay away from him. It’s because of what Nicholas did to our family name.”

I felt my throat constrict. “Does Edward believe that Nicholas might have had something to do with his wife’s death?”

Christine’s laugh was ugly. “Edward could probably have forgiven him for murdering Elica! He never liked Nicholas’s wife. In fact, he was so angry because Nicholas had the gall to marry her in the first place!”

“Why didn’t Edward like Elica?”

“It wasn’t the woman he didn’t like, but what she was.” Christine shrugged carelessly. “Edward, he’s all caught up in bloodlines and ancestry and such. There was some silly talk about her not being of Creole blood.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Creoles are the old families like ours, the true aristocrats, you see ...” she began to explain. I smiled to myself, thinking how much like Edward she sounded. “We are of pure French blood. That’s what being a Creole means,” she said proudly. “French-born Americans. Now, the Cajuns, their blood is all mixed up with the common folk, but not us Creoles. That’s why we don’t mix. That’s why Edward doesn’t want me marrying a Cajun boy, like Nathan. That’s why he didn’t want Nicholas marrying Elica.”

“Elica was a Cajun, then?”

Christine gave me an exasperated look. “Of course not! No one knew a thing about Nicholas’s wife—she just appeared out of nowhere. That was the problem. Edward didn’t know who her people were. Nobody did.”

“Did you know her very well, Christine?”

Christine nodded. She raised her chin defiantly. “She was strange and quiet, but I liked her. She rather liked me, too, I think.” A little of that unexpected shyness had returned. “She gave me this.” Christine unloosened a locket from around her neck. “I wear it always. It’s her miniature. Wasn’t she just beautiful?”

I took the locket that Christine offered me. Indeed, the face in the miniature was one of striking beauty. Luminous black eyes stared out from a heart-shaped face framed with hair so dark and thick that it seemed to shine blue like a raven’s wing. There was something foreign, almost exotic, about the woman with her sad, widely spaced eyes, perfect nose, and full, sensuous lips. She wore a deep-blue dress which clung to her ripe bosom and accentuated the deepness of her hair and eyes.

Christine’s eyes grew as dark and smoldering as the eyes of the beauty in the miniature. “Some still believe Nicholas murdered her,” she said. As I handed back the locket, I felt a sudden chill in the room. “Killed her on their wedding day.” Then, almost in the same breath, she added, “I don’t believe it, though, not for a minute.”

“Don’t you think he’s handsome?” Her voice was dreamy. “Nicholas Dereux.” After a brief pause, she added, “Do you think Elica would mind terribly?”

“Mind?”

“If I marry Nicholas instead of Nathan. When I grow up, I mean. After all, she’s been dead almost a year now. He can’t go on mourning forever, and he’ll need a wife.” I stared into those strange gray eyes, feeling a sense of shock, almost horror. For the life of me, I could not tell whether the girl was jesting or absolutely serious.

Christine tossed back the slightly wavy hair which fell almost to her waist. It was golden where the sun had warmed its rich strands, but the thick mass beneath was dark, almost the deep brown shade of my own hair.

She rose suddenly. “Quarter to six. I’d better let you dress. Wear the lime-colored silk,” she suggested as she turned and skipped out into the hallway in a most unladylike fashion. At the doorway, she turned once more. “I think you and I will get along just fine,” she said. “But stay away from Nicholas. He’s mine.”

I did not know what to make of her sudden warning. It was obvious that she had a crush on Nicholas. But who could blame her? To a child of fourteen, the dark, handsome man with his aura of mystery must seem like the prince out of some romantic fairy tale. And the fact that Edward had forbidden him no doubt made him, in her eyes, even more attractive.

I suspected that, despite his stern manner, Edward had spoiled Christine rotten. After all, she was the daughter of his only child, a son he had apparently worshipped. I wondered what Racine, the war hero, had been like. Part of Christine seemed wild and untamed. I could almost believe that she truly was a changeling, a fairy child, the product of the wild woods and swamp.

Chapter Six

Soon after Christine left, the same unsmiling woman who had collected the wineglasses in the parlor appeared at my door with two steaming buckets. “Here’s hot water for you to wash up in,” she said.

My display of enthusiasm over the luxury seemed to warm her somewhat toward me. Her scowl eased into a look of amiable curiosity as she poured the buckets into the ceramic sink basin, clucking a bit about the water that had sloshed over the sides.

“Mrs. Lividais, I am,” she said, straightening from her task. She was about as tall as she was wide. Her small, clear black eyes watched me like a curious bird’s. “I be the cook, housekeeper, and whatever else is needed,” she announced proudly, in an accent that I was beginning to recognize as distinctly Cajun.

From my glimpse of her downstairs, I had imagined that the slow-moving woman would be silent, even sullen. But, as the water grew cold before my eyes, she began to entertain me with a lengthy account of how she ran Edward’s house. “I try to help him with Christine, too. What a trial that girl is! More trouble than my twelve all rolled together.”

“You have twelve children?” I asked, amazed.

“All girls. Good girls, too. You’ll meet my eldest, Odele, at supper. She works in the kitchen. We all have to work, those of us who can—what with that mus’rat-chasin’ man of mine drinking up whatever money we manage to bring home,” she added with an indulgent sigh.

“I go so you can get washed up now, yes?” she finished, handing me a towel and a cake of yellow soap. With a glance at the muddy hem of my dress, she said, “You look like you been down in the swamp chasin’ mus’rat youself!” A sudden smile lit up her black eyes and brightened the round face. The warmth, the touch of humor amazed me. She seemed a different woman from the dour creature I had noticed in the parlor. Later, I would discover that Uncle Edward’s presence seemed to have a similar effect on others, including myself. He had a way of draining the life, the enthusiasm from those around him, leaving behind only polite, well-mannered shells.

After she left, I washed in the water, soothing despite its coldness. Refreshed and rejuvenated, I realized with a start that I would have to rush to be on time for dinner. I hastily changed into my best dress, the silk one Christine had suggested. To my bewilderment, I saw that it was still sorely wrinkled from its long stay in my trunk, even though I had hung it out as soon as possible. But there was no time to have it pressed now.

As if to make amends for the condition of my dress, I took great pains with my hair, piling the deep chestnut waves high upon my head and pinning it in its most becoming fashion. The pins would not stay in and the unsteadiness of my fingers caused me to start completely over twice. I must have taken too long, for when I reached the bottom of the staircase, I could see that the others were standing politely around the table, waiting for me. I was surprised to see that Nathan was joining the family for dinner. I was guided by Edward into the empty seat to the right of Christine and her friend.

Edward, of course, presided at the head of the heavy, polished table with its cloth of elegant white lace. At his side, Lydia seemed the picture of perfection. Her shining hair had been tortured into tiny ringlets about the pale oval of her face. Though she wore a soft golden brocaded gown and Edward sported a waistcoat and dark trousers, neither Christine nor her guest had taken any pains with their appearances. Christine still wore the dark riding habit. Her hair was tousled as if she had barely bothered to run a comb through it. She and Nathan ate with the manners of a pair of hungry wolves, carrying on a private conversation that excluded the rest of us. Occasionally there would be a loud guffaw from one or the other, followed by an annoyed glance in their direction by Edward.

The meal was a banquet, with three different kinds of meat—ham, beef, and roast duck with orange sauce. Side dishes of rice and boiled potatoes accompanied the main courses. I had not eaten a real meal since Cassa’s gumbo last night, and found that I was quite hungry.

“Will you go horseback riding with me tomorrow?” I glanced up from the delicious roast duck, realizing that Christine was addressing me.

“I’m sorry. I don’t ride.”

“Well, you’ll have to learn if you’re going to stay here with us. Won’t she, Edward?” Christine, alone, seemed unintimidated by him. Without waiting for a reply, she added, “Don’t worry, Louise. Riding’s easy. I’ll start you out on Sugar. She’s the gentlest of the mares.” She took a swallow of tea. “Well go out to visit Cassa, and maybe I’ll take you out to Brule’s cabin.”