by Mia Sheridan
As she turned onto her street, Windisle Manor rose in her mind, the way it’d been depicted in the photos she’d seen: grand, striking . . . endless sugarcane fields fanned out around it.
She’d found several articles in the society pages from decades past, referencing parties and events held at the manor. Guests of those gatherings had praised the condition and beauty of the house and grounds, and the pictures offered proof of its grandeur. But in recent years, nothing whatsoever appeared in print regarding the plantation.
From what Clara could gather, there was no one living there—at least no one whose heart was still beating.
CHAPTER TWO
“Hello, Mrs. Lovett? This is Clara.”
“Oh hello, Clara dear. How’s New Orleans? How are you settling in?”
“It’s good. I’m settling in just fine.” Clara put a smile in her voice, determined to sound positive, even if she wasn’t truly settled. Yet.
“I’m so glad to hear it.”
“How is he today, Mrs. Lovett?”
There was a short pause before Mrs. Lovett answered, and her voice was lower than it’d been just a moment ago. “He had a bit of an episode yesterday.” When Clara began to cut in, Mrs. Lovett steamed ahead. “Oh, nothing major. He got a bit aggravated and threw his lunch tray. We gave him a sedative to calm him down and he’s still sleeping.”
Clara’s heart sank. She’d been hoping to speak to her dad, if only for a moment, just to hear his voice. Tears pricked her eyes. “Was he lucid at all yesterday?”
“Not yesterday, dear.” Clara could hear the regret in her words. She knew how much the sweet older nurse would have liked to give her good news. Clara had grown close to her in the time she’d spent in the care facility with her dad before she’d left for New Orleans.
“Will you call me later tonight if his condition changes?”
“Of course I will.”
They spoke for another minute and then said goodbye. Clara put her phone slowly back in her purse, a singular tear rolling down her cheek. She swiped at it, taking in a big, shaky breath. She was homesick—lonely—and she would have missed her father even under the best of circumstances. But to know that he was fading away day by day and she was so far away was like a knife carving into her heart.
Soon he’d be gone and she’d have missed the last few precious moments with him while his mind was still clear, while he still knew she was there. When the fog lifted, now and again, did he wonder where she was? Did he wonder why she’d deserted him when he needed her the most? Or did he recall that he’d told her to go? “Oh, Dad,” she whispered into the emptiness of her apartment.
Clara stood from the chair in her tiny kitchen, grabbing her purse. She needed air. She needed to escape the four walls closing in on her. Dancing helped her remember why she was here, helped her remember the willing sacrifices her father had made. But it was her day off, and anyway, her body needed the rest. She wished she had—
The thought cut off abruptly as she stepped out into the sultry New Orleans day, the word wish bouncing through her mind. She pulled out her phone and searched for Windisle Plantation, easily finding the address. A few minutes after that, an Uber was pulling up to the curb and she was on her way to the weeping wall.
Twenty minutes later when she stepped out of the car, the day had grown slightly breezy, the moving air feeling wonderful across her heated skin. Clara sighed with pleasure, breathing in the sweet, ripe scents of summer and enjoying the reprieve from the sweltering weather of the past few weeks.
Above her, the sky was cast in various shades of gray, the clouds ringed in a silvery glow. It looked as if there was going to be a summer storm. A flock of birds swept through the sparkling mist, one falling out of formation and trailing alone for a heartbeat before the rest of the group turned back, gathering their lost member, the whole of their pattern complete once more.
For a minute, Clara simply stood on the side of the narrow street, no cars in sight. She was surprised to find the street deserted. She’d pictured at least a few other people standing at the wall, wish in hand. She began walking toward the stone structure across from her, happy she’d chosen a day when she had the place to herself.
Clara wrapped her arms around her waist as she approached what she knew must be the weeping wall. It was an eight-foot-high stone structure ending in dense woods and high reedy grass near the edge of the Mississippi River on one side and the beginning of what had once been the sugar crops on the other, now a tangle of overgrowth.
The middle of the wall formed an open arch, barricaded by an iron gate. Wild roses spiraled through the bars, creating a thick tangle of green leaves, heavily thorned vines, and vibrant crimson flowers. There was something both lush and savage about it, and that strange chill—part fear, part excitement—skittered down her spine.
For a moment she simply stared, in awe of its size and that she was finally in front of the very thing she’d spent weeks pondering. If it were true that the wall wept, it wasn't weeping today. The stone was dry, its color reminding her of the sky above with its various hues of pewter and sterling. Thin slivers of platinum light shone through the cracks where mortar had broken away, the spots through which a wish could be slipped.
I wish . . .
I wish . . .
It was as if the whispers, the hopes . . . the prayers, still hung on the wind, suspended somehow as if they, too, were ghostly spirits forever trapped in the air surrounding this haunted place.
“Get a grip, Clara,” she murmured to herself. She’d always been drawn to stories. She loved learning the tales of the dance productions she was a part of. The romance and the heartache always fueled her creativity and helped her become the character. It was another reason, she supposed, that she was so drawn to the legend of Windisle, of Angelina Loreaux and her tragic tale.
But ghosts? Curses? She didn’t necessarily believe in any of that, although she didn’t dismiss it entirely either. But, in any case, it was the story at the heart of it all that intrigued her the most. And this was where it had all begun.
She approached tentatively, wonder mixing with breathless sadness. Placing her shaky hands upon the wall and leaning forward, she rested her cheek on the solid structure, her mind filled with hazy imaginings of what had happened beyond it.
The wall protected the house and the land from potentially harmful forces outside, but who had protected those contained within? Suddenly, Clara was completely overwhelmed by the knowledge that such harrowing anguish—not just Angelina's, but the slaves who had lived their lives there as well—had been experienced so close to the very spot where she now stood.
She wondered if their blood and their sweat was still mixed in the soil of the weed-ridden sugarcane fields and felt so full of grief she thought she might weep. She remembered crying as a little girl over a sad story she’d overheard on the news. Her father had wiped her tears and told her she couldn't always cry for the world or she’d be crying all the time.
"But, Daddy," she’d said, "if I don't let my tears out, won't I drown inside?"
And that's how Clara felt, standing before that wall . . . her heart drowning slowly.
She slipped her wish out of her pocket—the one she’d written in the Uber on the ride there, pausing at the soft sound of movement on the other side, a small animal perhaps, or maybe just plants rustling in the breeze. Or maybe it was Angelina, her ghostly spirit standing hopeful on the other side, waiting for the one who would somehow set her free.
By a drop of her blood being brought to the light.
Staring at her wish, she suddenly felt foolish, not because she was making the wish, but because her own personal sadness seemed . . . small. Not unimportant—Clara believed all pain mattered—but hers was a part of the natural order of things, wasn’t it?
She released a loud breath. "How silly and selfish you must think we all are," she muttered, crumpling the paper in her fist and shutting her eyes. "Coming here to make our own wishes when
you've been waiting decades for your own to be granted. When the life you led held more heartache than we’ll ever know."
Clara hesitated for a moment, considering, before she un-crumpled the paper and removed a pen from the purse slung over her shoulder. She tore off the wish she had written, stuffing the small piece of torn paper in her pocket and then wrote a different wish. After folding the paper back up, she slipped it through one of the thin cracks.
She started to turn away and then impulsively turned back, peeking through the slit in the stone. Movement made her blink, and she startled slightly, drawing back and inhaling a quick breath.
Cautiously, she moved forward again, peeking through the crack once more. This time she saw nothing. She couldn't even make out a house beyond, as the gaps in the rock were so small and narrow. She could only discern a hint of green. Of course, looking up told her that massive oak trees beyond the wall, would most likely shield the house from view anyhow.
What did I see? She waited . . . for what she didn't know, when she swore she heard the sound of paper crinkling. She stepped closer again, placing her fingertips against the wall. "Hello?" She didn't know why, but she had a vague notion that whatever or whomever was on the other side of the wall stilled, just as she did.
When she received no answer, she turned, unsure of what to do, sliding down the wall until her spine was pressed against it, her head leaned back, listening. She sensed that someone was on the other side, waiting, listening as well.
She closed her eyes and after several minutes, she heard faint rustling again. If she hadn't been pressed right against the wall, she’d have thought it was a bird in some distant tree, flapping its wings for takeoff and lifting through the branches. She pressed her cheek against the stone, her ear right over the ancient, cracked, and porous mortar, and she heard . . . breathing. Her eyes widened and her heart quickened. There was no ghost on the other side, but a flesh-and-blood human.
"I hear you breathing."
The breathing suddenly halted, and Clara waited a second, two. "I didn't mean that you should stop."
After another moment, a loud whoosh of breath could be heard. Clara blinked.
"Who are you?" she asked, not knowing if she expected an answer or not.
For a long moment there was no response, and she was about to try again when a masculine voice finally said, "My name's Jonah. What's yours?"
Surprise gripped Clara. There was a man sitting on the other side of the wall, his back pressed to the same place as hers, only a layer of stone separating them. For a second her own name eluded her. "Uh, Clara."
"Clara," he repeated. A whispered caress. She had no idea who he was, but she liked the way her name sounded in his voice, the way his tongue rolled over the r.
"Who are you?"
He sighed, a weary sound, and there was another long pause. "I'm not sure I know."
Clara frowned, not understanding his meaning. "Do you . . . live here?"
"Yes." The word sounded farther away as if he'd turned his head, and she pressed her ear harder against the stone, picturing a faceless man gazing into the distance. When he spoke again, it was closer, as if he'd turned his head to the wall again.
"I . . . I was told no one lived here."
"Told?"
Clara blushed and then shook her head at herself. The man couldn't even see her. "The locals like to talk about Windisle. I . . . asked around about it."
"And you came to make a wish."
"Yes. I . . . wait, did you read my wish?" Was that the sound of the crinkling paper she'd heard?
He chuckled softly, a rusty sound as if he didn’t use it much. "It was tossed onto my property."
"I guess you're right." She paused. "So it's you . . . you read all the wishes."
"I don't read them all. I just collect them."
"You collect them," she repeated slowly. "So I guess you're the wish collector, then?"
He paused. "The wish collector. I guess I am."
"And what do you do with them?"
"I'm not sure you want to know."
She released a breath on a smile. "You grant them, of course, right?"
"I throw them away."
Clara inhaled quickly. “That's awful."
"What should I do? Leave them on the lawn to turn into mush in the rain? To blow all over the property?"
“I don't know. Throwing them away just seems . . . it seems . . . well, sacrilegious. A sin."
"Sacrilegious. That is serious. The problem is, Clara, I don't know if that sin trumps all the ones I've already committed."
She wasn't sure what to say to that, so she remained silent.
"What do you think I should do with them? Mount each one in its own special frame and hang them on my wall? The Gallery of False Hope, I'd call it."
"You're being sarcastic," she said, hearing the indignity in her own voice. "About people's personal wishes—their hopes and their dreams. Their sorrows."
“And yet you didn't make a wish for yourself.” Clara heard the rustling of paper as if he was unfolding her wish once more. Reading it.
"That was private."
"It was given to me. It landed right at my feet." There was the hint of amusement in his tone and Clara stiffened, letting out a small, angry huff.
He chuckled again and despite herself, Clara liked the sound of his laughter. It was rusty, yes, but it was also deep and rich.
"Well," she said, standing and brushing her hands off. "I have to go. I can see that making wishes at this particular wall is pointless."
Clara knew he stood too, as she could hear rustling on the other side and his voice came from above her own when he spoke. He was taller than she was. "Wait. I'm sorry. I was just teasing you. Please . . ."
He stopped speaking and she found herself leaning toward the wall. The way he’d uttered the word . . . the blatant loneliness she’d heard in his tone caused her heart to squeeze tightly. For a moment, he’d sounded desperate that she not leave. "What?" she asked softly, her mouth over one of the paper-thin cracks.
“Nothing.”
Clara paused, placing her hands against the rock. “I suppose . . . living here, you know a lot about the plantation. The history.”
“Yes.”
“Would you be willing to share some? If I came back?”
“Came back?”
“Sundays are my day off . . .”
"I, uh, that’s usually when I do my wish pillaging as a matter of fact. For some reason, not many people show up on Sundays. Maybe that's the day they make their wishes in church.”
"Wish pillaging." She laughed softly and swore she heard his lips part in a smile, but of course, she couldn't be entirely sure. “So if I were to come up with an idea of some other way to deal with the wishes besides just tossing them out, maybe you’d be open to suggestions? And in return, you could tell me a little more about Windisle?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I’ll see you Sunday.”
When he spoke this time, there was no mistaking the smile in his voice. "Same time?"
Clara slipped her cell phone from her purse and glanced at it. "Six o'clock?"
"Yes." There was something in his voice she wasn't sure how to classify . . . hope? Excitement? Nervousness? Perhaps even bewilderment. But at what? Her heart beat steadily, a warm feeling pressing against her chest. She was delighted that she now had a personal connection to Windisle through the mysterious man on the other side of the wall.
"See you next week."
"See you then."
She pulled out her phone and began calling an Uber, smiling as she walked away from Windisle, up the empty, tree-lined street. She wondered if Jonah stood on the other side of the wall peeking through the cracks, catching small glimpses of her as she moved away.
CHAPTER THREE
June, 1860
Her sister Astrid’s eighteenth birthday party was in full swing, the laughter and chatter of guests underlying the music floating dreamily from the
windows and pouring off the balconies of Windisle Manor.
“Ouch,” Angelina hissed as a thorn pierced the soft pad of her thumb. She put the tiny wound to her mouth for a moment and then, unheeded, continued to climb the rose trellis, which was dripping with fragrant pink and white blooms. And thorns, she reminded herself. Take care with the thorns.
She peeked over the railing of the balcony, her eyes growing round as she watched the guests dance and mingle in the lavish surroundings. A table laden with desserts had been set out—desserts she knew well as she’d helped bake them all morning and afternoon, and on the other side of the room sat a pyramid of champagne flutes, the bubbly, golden liquid sparkling in the candlelight.
She would never be part of any of this, but oh she wanted to see.
Her gaze snagged on the tall form of a man in uniform as he picked up a glass flute, bringing it to his mouth and taking a drink.
From across the room, she saw the lady of the manor, Delphia Chamberlain, grab her daughter—and Angelina’s half-sister—Astrid’s arm and begin leading her toward the champagne fountain, or perhaps the soldier. When Angelina looked back at him, he was watching the women’s approach as well and caught Angelina off guard when he suddenly turned, his eyes locking on hers. She sucked in a startled breath, pulling her head to the side and out of view.
For a moment she was utterly still, only pulling very small inhales of rose-scented air into her lungs, before letting out one large gust of breath. Surely she had imagined their eyes meeting. The house was bright, sparkling with light, and the garden dim.
Her heart calming, she slowly looked over the side of the balcony, her eyes focusing directly on the champagne pyramid. The man was gone. And when she looked to the place Mrs. Chamberlain and Astrid had been, she saw that they had been stopped by a party guest, who was laughing and gesturing while Mrs. Chamberlain looked annoyed and Astrid smiled politely.