by Mia Sheridan
Certainly, he must come and go covertly, in a way that didn’t alert anyone to his presence. Did he also keep the electricity off at night? These questions suddenly occurred to Clara, and she made a note to ask Jonah about it. Why the secrecy? In any case, and whatever his reasons might be, she wasn’t going to give him away.
And strangely, she felt covetous of him. He was her wish collector.
“Yes, a shame.” She chose a few more vegetables, thinking for a moment. She knew about the legend, the curse, and the riddle. She had researched Windisle itself and hoped to learn more from Jonah later that afternoon. But it probably wasn’t likely that Jonah knew much about John Whitfield, was it? Perhaps Mr. Baptiste could shed some light on who he’d been. “Mr. Baptiste, do you know anything about John Whitfield? The man who betrayed Angelina Loreaux?”
Mr. Baptiste stroked his jaw, running his fingers over his scraggly gray beard. “I don’t know much about his family. Let’s see. He was engaged to the eldest Chamberlain daughter, Astrid, at some point, wasn’t he?”
Clara’s hand stilled as she put a pepper into her basket. “He was?” Was that the way he’d betrayed Angelina? He’d become engaged to her half-sister? And yet he’d never actually married her?
Mr. Baptiste’s gaze remained fixed on the sky as if he were attempting to grasp his memories from the clouds. “It’s been so long since my grandmother told me the story.”
Thank goodness for all the mothers and grandmothers, Clara thought. They seemed to be the ones who had told Angelina’s story, who had passed the information down through the generations. Perhaps by bedsides, and firesides, from rocking chairs and porch swings.
Men told stories too, of course. But it was the women who recalled the details of the heart. It was women who passed on the souls of those they remembered.
Mr. Baptiste shook his head as if in defeat at his attempt to recapture memories and Clara’s shoulders dropped. But then he raised a finger. “Although! I remember my mama saying that her great, great aunt Lottie had been to John Whitfield’s house to care for him when he contracted tuberculosis. Aunt Lottie was a nurse, and back in those days, house calls were very common. The doctor diagnosed him with tuberculosis, and I remember my mama mentioning that John refused to be treated. According to Aunt Lottie anyway. They could have saved him, she said. He had a mild case of it when they examined him. Too prideful, I suppose. Or maybe he had a death wish. They say he suffered flashbacks.”
Clara nodded, frowning. “Yes, I heard that.” She wondered why a man would refuse medical treatment offered to him. From what she knew of TB, it was an awful, painful way to die. Why would a person ever choose that? Or was it as Mr. Baptiste had said, he was simply too prideful and believed he could beat the disease on his own without the aid of medical intervention?
Clara chatted with Mr. Baptiste for a few minutes longer, but customers were beginning to join Clara, taking baskets and filling them with fresh farm produce, so she paid for all her items, and bid Mr. Baptiste a good day.
She would go home and make a couple of pans of lasagna, one for her and one for Mrs. Guillot—though Mrs. Guillot would probably insist on “paying” her with a bottle of her toxic liniment. And then she was going to pay a visit to her wish collector. Clara smiled all the way home. Her small world was growing.
CHAPTER SIX
August, 1860
Angelina ran her hand nervously along the wood bed frame as she moved toward the window. A thin breeze blew off the Mississippi River, the willow tree just outside bending its young, slender trunk. The wisp of air cut through the heat and Angelina sighed as she tipped her head back and let the brief moment of cool reprieve flow over her flushed skin.
She heard the floor squeak behind her, and a combination of elation and terror ricocheted through her blood, causing her heart to leap.
She turned, gripping the window ledge behind her as she took him in, his face flushed, sweat gleaming on his forehead.
He raised his arm and used his shirtsleeve to swipe at the perspiration, a grin lighting his face. “There were enough tomatoes today to feed an army.” He set the basket on the stool near the door and Angelina’s eyes followed it, taking in the colorful array of garden vegetables, still caked with the soil he’d pulled them from.
Angelina moved her eyes back to his self-satisfied expression, unable to stop herself from laughing softly. “Someone’s going to catch you picking vegetables in the Chamberlain garden and then what will you say?”
“You told me no one tends the garden except you.”
Angelina turned her head and glanced down and then into his eyes, a smile still playing at her lips. “Well, you just never know who might happen by and see I’m not there. I’m not certain it’s worth the risk.”
John had been visiting her every other week for almost two months now under the guise of being at the plantation for the sole purpose of taking tea with Mrs. Chamberlain and Astrid. Twenty minutes after John bid farewell to the women and Angelina cleared the tea service, Angelina would tell her mother or the kitchen help she was going to the garden to pick vegetables and instead, she’d meet John in the empty cabin near the sapling willow tree.
To cover the vegetable-picking lie, John himself would fill a basket for Angelina to return with, ensuring they could spend as much time together as possible.
And then they’d meet there, where they talked and talked as long as they were able until Angelina had to race back to the house lest someone come looking for her or become suspicious.
And then later, in her tiny bed in the cabin she shared with her mama, she would go over the words they’d spoken to each other, the stories he’d told her about the army, his family, his life, so vastly different from her own. She’d close her eyes and picture the way his cheeks moved when he smiled, that tiny dimple appearing and causing her belly to flutter. She’d recall the way he’d sometimes trace her fingers—so tentatively—as they spoke, and it was as though she could still feel his touch tingling along her skin.
He touched her as if she were precious, and perhaps breakable. And once he started, some small part of him—his hand, a finger, the side of his thigh—continued to touch her until they parted ways.
John moved closer, and Angelina could smell the tangy scent of his clean male sweat—the sweat he’d expended for her, and happily if the look on his face was any indication. It made the blood in her veins do something crazy . . . speed up or slow down, she wasn’t sure exactly. She only knew it scared her and thrilled her at the same time.
“It’s worth it to me. I hope it’s worth it to you too,” he said, and she swore there was a note of nervousness in his words as if he was afraid she might tell him it wasn’t. The idea caused her muscles to feel loose, as if they’d melted a bit. He enjoyed their time together as much as she did. He wanted more of it, more of her.
Still . . . speaking of risks brought the danger of what they were doing to the forefront of her mind, and she looked away on a frown. This dalliance—meeting this way—was foolhardy. There was no real point to it at all. So why couldn’t she stop showing up at this cabin week after week, with this sparkly glee in her heart, her eyes so eager just to see him that she could hardly think straight?
“What is it, Angelina?” He moved closer, taking her hands in his, those warm strong hands that made her feel both safe and unsafe all in the same breath.
She let her eyes linger on their joined fingers for a moment, his pale golden, and hers a deeper bronze.
She released her grip, turning from him and staring out the window at the very edge of the sugarcane fields. The plants were too tall for her to see the workers amongst them. But she knew they were there. Oh, she knew very well. She’d helped her mama tend their wounds when they came in after a long, brutal day. She mixed the salve that would bring relief and soothe their weary muscles and broken skin.
“I haven’t told you why this cabin is empty, John.”
He didn’t reply but she felt the heat
of his body behind her, smelled the musk of his skin, knew how close he’d moved by the way the hairs on the nape of her neck felt charged.
“One of the slaves named Elijah and his mama lived here. Elijah was a brawny, big-shouldered man with the mind of a small child.”
Angelina pictured the boy/man who had had a perpetual smile on his face and at the thought of him, her stomach twisted. “A man in town said Elijah exposed himself to his wife. Said he dropped his pants right in the middle of the street and caused her such trauma, she fainted dead away.” Angelina paused, gathering herself. “Elijah, he was always toying with that rope belt of his. Always . . . tying and untying it. He was shy, nervous, just a child at heart. He didn’t mean anyone any harm. They say he smiled even as the noose was slipped around his neck.”
Angelina turned and looked into John’s eyes. His gaze was filled with the same sadness that she was certain was in hers as well. The sadness that would forever reside in her heart when she thought of Elijah and the injustice he’d suffered. But she saw an angry glint in his gaze as well, and it was that, more than the sadness, that made her trust him.
“Mr. Chamberlain didn’t stop it?”
Angelina shook her head. “It was done before he knew what happened. Oh, he raised a fuss at not being made aware of the situation right away, but what good was that? Elijah was already dead.”
John moved his hands up her arms and then pulled her to him. Shock lodged in her chest for a moment before she leaned into him. She’d never been held by a man, never been this close to anyone, except her mama when she was a little girl. And oh, to be held in someone’s arms. It felt so good. Too good. Too . . . necessary.
“Angelina,” he murmured against her hair, “I won’t let anything like that ever happen to you. I’ll protect you. The world, it’s changing, day by day. So many things are happening. You have no idea.” Of course I don’t, she thought, the words drumming through her mind. How could she? Her small world began and ended at Windisle Plantation.
She tipped her chin, looking into his face, their lips so close she could feel his breath ghosting across her skin. It smelled like the peppermint tea he’d recently drunk with Astrid, who looked at the man so close to Angelina now with undisguised covetousness. The man Mrs. Chamberlain wanted her daughter to marry because of his family’s fortune. A plan she was very obviously working diligently toward.
Oh yes, Angelina was flirting with danger in so many ways. “But not soon enough, John. And how can you protect me? You’re one man. You tell me the world is changing, but I see no proof of it. And yet”—she pressed herself closer to him—“I don’t seem to be able to stop meeting you, to stop . . . wanting . . .”
What do I want? She didn’t even know, and yet the yearning without a name lay heavy within her nonetheless. A constant wanting of this man she shouldn’t have.
“John, this . . . this . . . meeting this way is wrong and it makes no sense. It’s—” But before she could continue, he lowered his mouth to hers gently, pressing his lips against hers and then pausing.
Their breath mingled, their heartbeats joined, thrumming swiftly in time, and it occurred to Angelina that he was waiting for her to deepen the kiss. Or not. She shouldn’t do it, shouldn’t encourage this forbidden kiss that was danger, and mystery, and a thousand fireflies spinning recklessly inside of her.
Angelina let out a small, breathless sigh and pressed her mouth closer. John made a strangled sound of his own, pulling her against him as he tilted his head and ran his tongue over the seam of her lips. She opened her mouth to him, allowing him entrance, and lost herself in his taste, in the feel of him, in the sudden certainty that though they must hide it, their relationship was not wrong. Not at all. She felt it in a place deep inside that recognized only love and nothing else.
The world might change. It might not. She had no way of knowing. But what Angelina did know was that, either way, for her, there was no turning back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jonah walked slowly toward the weeping wall, the birds in the trees singing gleefully overhead, the leaves rustling with their play. Clara was already there. He saw her shifting body in the blocked light of the cracks near the base of the wall. His heart lurched and the feeling caused him to consider backing away slowly. But, ah, what the hell? They were just going to chat for a bit. And he owed her some information, didn’t he? For all his faults—and they were vast and many—he’d always been true to his word.
“Hi, Jonah.”
He sat down, leaning against the wall and bringing one leg up so he could rest an arm on it. “You have good ears.”
“The crunch of the grass gave you away.”
“Ah.” The summer heat had turned the grass mostly brown. New Orleans could use some rain. “How have you been, Clara?”
“I’m good. I feel like I’m finally settling in.” There was happiness in her voice and it made Jonah smile.
“I’m glad.”
He heard Clara shift. “Me too. And Jonah, I want to thank you as well.” Her voice was slightly hesitant as she continued. “Coming here, talking to you, it’s made me feel . . . I don’t know, like I have a friend and, well, I hope it’s okay if I consider you one. A friend.”
For a moment Jonah didn’t respond, as his heart thumped steadily against his ribs. He’d convinced himself she wasn’t a friend, and it’d made him feel less anxious about talking to her. But now . . . damn it. “Yeah,” he found himself saying, his words followed by a grimace because what the hell was he doing?
He should tell her he was nobody’s friend and she was a fool if she wanted to consider him one. She didn’t know him. He wouldn’t ever really allow her to and so any “friendship” they had would be limited and very temporary. But that in itself was a reassurance that it was okay to title this thing they were doing, wasn’t it?
He could rest assured that she’d stop coming once cooler weather set in, or sooner if her social life picked up, which it undoubtedly would as she “settled in” even more, and he’d wrap himself back in his safe cocoon behind his wall and that would be that. “Sure, Clara, you can consider me your friend.” Your temporary friend.
She let out a whoosh of air as if she’d been holding her breath in anticipation of his response and when she spoke, there was a smile in her voice. “Great.”
Her clothing scraped softly against the stone as she resumed her position. “There’s an old man who sells home-grown produce near my apartment. I asked him about John Whitfield, and he told me something interesting.” She then went on to tell him about the tuberculosis and John Whitfield refusing treatment. “Did you know that?”
“I didn’t. But I don’t know a lot about the Whitfield family. The stories that I heard as a boy were mostly having to do with this plantation and the people who lived here.”
“Ah. Did you know John Whitfield was engaged to Astrid Chamberlain?”
Jonah furrowed his brow. “I have heard that rumor, but when John came home from the war, they definitely didn’t marry. Astrid married Herbert Davies.”
There was silence from Clara’s side of the wall for a moment. “They say John came home with psychological issues. Maybe that’s the reason they never married. He became a recluse, from what it sounds like.”
Maybe, Jonah thought, that was why he’d always felt a strange affinity for the man—he identified with the need to shut yourself away from the world. John was also the villain of the story, and sadly, Jonah could identify with that as well. “If he was troubled, I can understand why. The Civil War . . . there was nothing pretty about it. The things he must have seen . . .” Blasts . . . fire . . . heat . . . blood, so, so much blood. Jonah clenched his eyes shut and shuddered, reaching a hand unconsciously to his mangled cheek.
Clara was quiet as if she’d heard something in his voice he hadn’t intended to reveal. After a moment, she spoke, but her voice was tentative. “Yes. I can only imagine.” They were both quiet for a moment before she asked, “Jonah, will y
ou tell me a little bit about the condition of Windisle? What’s it like in there?”
Jonah sighed, shaking off the fiery visions as best he could. “It’s not in the best of shape. It needs an exterior facelift, and the grounds have gone to hell. The rose garden is a mess, though Myrtle does her best to tend it. But the slave cabins are still in good shape—”
“The slave cabins are still standing?”
“All fifteen of them. The furniture’s been removed, but they’re still there.”
“Wow,” Clara breathed. “Do you ever go inside them?”
“Once in a while on my morning run.”
“Your run?”
“A man’s gotta keep his body strong.” Although, in actuality, Jonah didn’t have to do anything, and he suddenly wondered why he’d implemented the rigorous workout schedule he’d kept up every morning. For eight years. Something he could control, maybe?
He couldn’t do anything about the part he’d played in the awful tragedy all those years ago, and he couldn’t do anything to fix his ruined face—not that he would even if he could, he deserved every scar he wore—but he could keep his body strong. He could keep his heart beating. And that surprised him. It seemed like a small act of hope. He’d thought he’d come to Windisle to die, but . . . he’d worked hard to keep himself healthy and alive. Maybe it was something he’d contemplate later.
“I suppose that’s true. I have this liniment if you ever get sore—”
Jonah groaned. “It’s bad enough that one of us is covered in that smell. We’d kill the grass on both sides of the wall if I used it too.”
Clara let out a laugh that dissolved into sweet giggles. Jonah’s heart lurched, and he smiled in reaction to her happiness. “I’ll have you know that the grass is just fine over here.” Her laughter faded and she was quiet for a moment. “Will you describe it to me? What it looks like on your side?”