River Road

by R. C. Matthews

  Maribeth poked her head outside the carriage window, seeking a glimpse of the mansion ahead. While many of the plantations along the river road were in disrepair since the war, his childhood home hadn’t lost its grandeur—in most part, due to his stepfather’s wealth. Eight columns lined the front of the white stucco home, black shutters accented the windows, and porches surrounded the entire house on both levels. But his favorite feature was the three dormers protruding from the hip-roof.

  How many hours had he spent playing upstairs with his siblings during stormy weather? With baskets full of toys and the freedom to let imaginations run wild, the space was heaven on earth for a child. In fact, the nursery could serve as an excellent hiding place for Hope’s asson, as it might be mistaken for a toy, and no one frequented that room anymore.

  The big house was set back far enough off the river road not to be disturbed by any passersby but close enough to flaunt his family’s wealth. Mother maintained appearances with a manicured lawn and whitewashed walls. The French doors to the front parlor and dining room were opened wide, allowing the breeze from the Mississippi River to flow through the house.

  Even at this distance, the ostentatious furniture of his ancestors was visible, situated around a grand fireplace. Among the pieces was a game table fashioned out of cherrywood. Perhaps he would challenge Maribeth to a round of The Checkered Game of Life this evening. He’d been remiss in spending time with her.

  The carriage circled the courtyard and came to a stop before the entrance. Water gurgled from the center of the black stone fountain, welcoming them home. Isaac bounded to the ground and offered a hand to Maribeth, but she only giggled and jumped out, running toward Hatchet.

  He drew up on the reins. “Whoa,” he said, patting the horse’s neck. The stallion stilled, and Hatchet dismounted. “Have a care you don’t get trampled, Maribeth.”

  A stable boy jogged over and took hold of the bridle. Beau was a fine bit of horseflesh, only the best for Isaac. As they trudged to the porch, women’s laughter drifted from the parlor. His mother loved to entertain, and the plantation was within an easy ride from town.

  Hatchet groaned and eyed his father.

  “I know, I know,” Father said with a wave of his hand. “Your mother has embraced her role as the honorary leader of the Daughters of Dorcas. They meet here every Friday for luncheon. But you needn’t worry, Charles. You smell wretched after riding for two hours in this heat. Go on and clean up, boy. I’ll make your excuses.”

  Maribeth sniffed under her arms. “I could do with a change of clothes myself.”

  Father chuckled and ruffled her hair. “Go on with you, too, before my wife recruits a new member to her society.”

  The child’s face scrunched up in distaste before she skipped down the wide porch, calling over her shoulder, “Shall we enter the back way, Hatchet? Come, let’s clean up so we can tour the plantation. Isaac promised to take me himself. He says I’m old enough now to appreciate the surrounding land and buildings.”

  Hatchet nodded, and she skipped around the corner, a smile lighting her face.

  “You’ve your hands full with that one,” his father said, shaking his head. “But she’s a delightful child, loaded with energy and curiosity, as a young one ought to be. Don’t squash her vibrant nature.”

  Another bout of laughter trilled on the air, and Hatchet glanced in the direction of the parlor, where his mother appeared. Her face lit up when she saw him, and she held out her hands in greeting. “Come reacquaint yourself with my friends, Charles.”

  Pointing to his dusty clothes, he shook his head. “You must allow me to wash. I smell of horseflesh, dirt, and sweat. I’m not fit for company.”

  “Do hurry,” she said, turning her cheek to Isaac for a kiss. “They’re all in a tither about seeing you full grown. But teatime is almost over, and they’ll be off. Mefistofele is playing at the French Opera House tonight.” She sighed. “Once you take your rightful place in this household, I might also enjoy the pleasure of a night about town whenever the fancy hits me.”

  Hatchet bowed stiffly and smiled. “I’ll be down as soon as I’m presentable.”

  Which would certainly be after the Daughters of Dorcas had departed. Besides, Mother wished him to manage the plantation, and what better way to express his feigned interest in taking over the reins than joining Father and Maribeth on their tour? A fine excuse, indeed. But once the relic was in his possession, he would set his mother straight. When The Savior set sail for England, he would be aboard.

  He caught up to Maribeth about halfway up the backstairs. “You may use the lavender guest room, the one next to my bedroom. So you needn’t be scared at night when the floorboards moan or the wind whispers in your ears.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I lived among ghosts at Devil’s Cove Manor, so nothing in this old house will frighten me.”

  “The offer still stands to come hide underneath my bed,” Hatchet said, opening the door to her room. “Your trunk will be delivered within the quarter hour. There should be fresh water in the washbasin. I’ll be back shortly thereafter to collect you.”

  Flopping on the bed, she closed her eyes. “Please don’t dawdle, Hatchet. I’m so excited to see the kitchen house and herb garden. And then there are the former slave quarters.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m afraid the workers still reside in those cottages, Poppet. But if you’re nice to the other children during our visit, perhaps they’ll invite you in for a peek. Though I can’t imagine you’ll want to stay inside for long. They’re much too small for two families.”

  “What?” She sat up and gaped at him. “Why must they share? They’re free people now.”

  “Housing is expensive, and sugarcane is not as lucrative as one might think when you share in only a portion of the crop yield. Where would you have them live?”

  Her head cocked to the side. “I don’t know, but that doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Life rarely is,” he said. “I wish I knew of a viable solution to the issue.” He headed for the second set of stairs that would take him to the nursery, calling over his shoulder, “Be ready in thirty minutes!”

  He bounded up the steps, two at a time. When he’d last ventured into his childhood playground, toys were strewn all over. It’d been odd, since his mother kept the rest of the mansion spotless. But he fancied that she wished to capture the final precious moment her children had played with each toy. So when he entered the nursery, the sight caught him off guard.

  Sunlight filtered into the room through the double-hung windows, casting the maple wood flooring in a warm glow, every inch of it immaculate. Where were all of the toys? He walked to one of the chests, rolling up his sleeves as he advanced. The space was so stifling in the afternoon heat, he could scarce draw a breath.

  Lifting the lid of the first wicker chest, he peered inside. Armfuls of toys had been carelessly tossed within: dolls with arms askew, wooden soldiers, balls, and tops. Had his father buried the asson at the bottom?

  Hatchet kneeled and pushed each piece aside, creating a pile on one side of the container. A miniature bongo sat on the bottom of the basket, but this wasn’t his prize. Hope had described the asson as a rattle, made from a calabash and adorned with earth-toned beads.

  He turned and surveyed the room. The table with chairs on the far side was clear of all clutter, and the bookshelves held nothing of interest. But there was one more bin overflowing with toys on the opposite wall. Minutes later, after inspecting every single piece within the second box, he wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Where are you hiding it, old man?” he muttered. His gut provided the answer. “Your personal safe, hidden behind a painting in your study.” There was no time now to break into the vault. He still needed to wash and change into clothing that didn’t reek.

  Dammit. Entering his father’s domain while he was resident at Harmon Grove wouldn’t be easy. Why had he agreed to tour the plantation? That w
ould’ve proven an ideal time to sneak inside the study.

  He entered his bedroom and slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the room and could likely be heard throughout the house. To hell with what my mother or the Daughters of Dorcas will think. Rubbing his eyes, he sighed and let out a deep breath. The stolen artifact meant a great deal to Hope, and he would find it, if the treasure was truly hidden somewhere on the premises.

  He stood still, taking in the massive sleigh bed dressed in a dark-blue duvet of silk from his youth. Nothing had changed. His mother was more sentimental than she led others to believe. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he strolled to the window while unbuttoning his shirt.

  The branches of an old maple hung within inches. He leaned out and brushed the nearby leaves with his fingers. The limb didn’t appear particularly sturdy, but he knew otherwise, having climbed out many a summer night in his youth with his sister. His gaze roamed over the lush grounds, bringing back cherished memories from before the war, when life was simple.

  Harmon Grove offered many wonders for a curious child, that much was true. Mary had been fascinated by the slaves, with their interesting customs, especially the music played on makeshift drums. A barrel with one end covered by an ox hide, or a mule’s skull beat upon with sticks. Almost anything was used as an instrument to accompany the foreign words of their songs and dances.

  Father would’ve wrung Hatchet’s neck had he known about their evening jaunts to visit the slaves, but Mary would’ve gone with or without him.

  Somehow, she had endeared herself to the slaves. Perhaps they lived under the illusion that she would one day improve their fates. He chuckled, shaking his head, because that illusion might very well become reality, if he had anything to say about the management of Harmon Grove.

  After tossing the rest of his clothes aside, Hatchet bathed quickly, making use of the sandalwood soap and washbasin in the corner of his room. The water was cool, so refreshing, and minutes later, he felt like a new man as he pulled trousers and a cotton shirt from his trunk—but no undergarments. Those were too damned hot.

  With a final glance at the maple tree, he strolled to Maribeth’s room. Her voice leaked out from the crack under the door, and he leaned closer, listening. Was she making friends with the dolls sitting on the rocking chair? No, she was past that age. Not wanting to startle her, he tapped his knuckles on the door.

  The door whooshed open, and Maribeth smiled up at him, her cheeks flushed. Gone was her dress, and in its place were breeches, a flowing white shirt, and boots. Perfect for stomping through the sugarcane fields. Mother would have a fit if her friends were still around to see the ragamuffin in this state of dress.

  “Who were you talking to, Poppet?”

  She closed the door to her room and skipped to the stairs. “I don’t know.”

  That wasn’t an answer at all, and well she knew it. “Stop right there.”

  A sigh escaped her. “I can feel the presence of a ghost in my bedroom but can’t coax it to speak with me. Did you know the house is haunted?”

  What nonsense was this? Still, he should trust her instincts. She was a medium. “You aren’t supposed to communicate with ghosts without Brother Anselm by your side. He was quite adamant that it’s too dangerous.”

  “Well, the brother isn’t here, is he?” Her lips formed a stubborn line. “While you, Dominick, and Victor abandoned me to visit Blackburn Castle, I was honing my craft. Why won’t you tell me what happened during your trip?”

  Hatchet shook his head. “Oh, no, you little termite. You’re not changing the subject so easily on me.”

  Maribeth huffed and headed down the stairs again.

  “Eveline would be disappointed in you,” he called after her, using the only weapon he knew of to combat her obstinacy. “She has encouraged your gift as a medium but wishes for you to be safe. We know nothing of the ghosts in this house.”

  She stopped, hanging her head. “All right, I won’t pursue the ghost, but I can’t stop her from communicating with me, if that’s her wont.”

  Her? Why was Maribeth certain the ghost was female? In a few steps, he caught up to her. He lifted her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  She glanced away, gritting her teeth. He took a calming breath. He could wait all day.

  “I saw a glimpse of her image in the mirror,” she finally confessed.

  Well, that was an interesting turn of events. He couldn’t recall hearing Eveline speak about ghosts in mirrors. But so long as they left the spirit in peace, all would be well. Best they move along now. They were long past due for presenting themselves in the front parlor. “I have your promise you won’t attempt to communicate with the ghost, Poppet?”

  She nodded, and they walked in amicable silence. But the peaceful atmosphere was disturbed by an argument brewing inside the parlor, spilling into the corridor.

  “Do not try my patience on this matter, Lucetta!” Isaac warned in a harsh whisper. “Leave Le Havre out of your plans to reform the city, or you will find I’ve little desire to continue funding your beloved plantation with profits from my shipping company.”

  Hatchet paused, pulling Maribeth to a stop. What was his father’s interest in Le Havre? His little charge shouldn’t listen to conversations involving a brothel, but the girl had heard much worse on The Savior. Damned truth, he stood on pins and needles himself.

  Mother sucked in a breath. “You would threaten me?” Her growl was followed by the swish of her skirts. “No matter, Isaac. I don’t need your money now that Charles has returned. Under his management, Harmon Grove will flourish, even more than in its heyday.”

  “Please, Lucetta, if you hold an ounce of love for me, I’m begging you to back off. Have you forgotten I hold the mortgage to Le Havre? You’re turning against me.”

  Mother sighed. “I’m not a fool. You’re rich beyond imagination. If you hold an ounce of love for me, I’m begging you to sell the place.”

  “I can’t,” he said with a groan.

  “You won’t,” she countered. “There is a difference.”

  Silence ensued, the argument apparently having reached an impasse. Hatchet placed his free hand on the wall, steadying himself. His father held the mortgage to Le Havre. Dammit, but Hope should’ve divulged the nature of their relationship. On second thought, Hatchet didn’t ask and could’ve guessed it. His father owned properties all over the city.

  Was she merely another tenant or something more? And why couldn’t Father sell the property? Did Hope have information in her little book about Father, too? Not many property owners would allow their tenants the liberties of Le Havre, though his father was wealthy enough to ignore what others thought of him. And why had Father purchased her ceremonial rattle behind her back from Captain Corbin, but Hope thought he’d stolen it? The possibilities were endless, but one thing was certain. There was more to this story.

  In time, Hatchet would discover every detail, because no matter what the circumstances, his family still needed Hope’s assistance. He couldn’t allow his mother’s temperance group to anger the one woman he knew could break the curse.

  Chapter Nine

  On the back porch, Maribeth stared off into the distance. “Did you plant these trees, Isaac? They’re magnificent. Perfect for climbing.”

  Father shook his head. “These maples are well over a hundred years old, planted by the first settlers, Lucetta’s ancestors. She has many reasons to take pride in her heritage, don’t you think?”

  “I do,” Maribeth said. “Where will we start the tour?”

  Father folded his arms at his lower back as they walked along a gravel path, glancing skyward. “The weather is fine, but in an hour or two the sun will be at its hottest. Let’s visit the kitchen first. Perhaps Cook will have something sweet to stave off our hunger before supper.”

  “But no snatching food from under her nose,” Hatchet warned. “We aren’t at Devil’
s Cove Manor, and Cook doesn’t know you.” Though he had no doubt Pauline and Maribeth would be fast friends before the end of their visit.

  When they entered the kitchen, the space was alive with activity: children washing vegetables, a woman rolling dough, and another manning a huge copper pot. The scene was so different from the past, a melting pot of servants from varying ethnicities.

  The air was spiced with cayenne pepper and a hint of butter. Hatchet peered into a cast-iron pot and sniffed the bubbling concoction. He could hazard a guess.

  “Crawfish étouffée,” Pauline said, entering from the back door with a basket full of fresh herbs. “One of your favorites, boy. Your mama told me to expect you tonight.”

  He nodded. “That it is. I’ve missed your cooking. How is old Pauline?”

  “I’m not a spring chicken anymore,” she said with a snort. “And I’m busy! I’ve got biscuits in the oven about ready to come out and pie crust that needs attention.”

  Making a great show of inspecting her while she bustled around, Hatchet lifted his brow. “Looks to me like you’ve plenty of spring left in your step.”

  “Oh, you.” She flapped her towel in his direction. “You’re buttering me up, wanting some sweets. Well, you can forget about it. You haven’t even introduced me to your young guest.”

  “I’m Maribeth.” The girl bobbed a curtsy. “American biscuits are one of my favorites, especially with butter and jam.” She sniffed the air and sighed. “And I smell ginger snaps. Abigail lets me help her in the kitchen. Do you like help?”

  Leave it to Maribeth to make friends all on her own. Poor Cook didn’t stand a chance against her charms.

  “Of course I do, but ain’t just nobody coming in here and messing around my domain. The oven mitts are there, hanging on the wall.” Cook gestured with a flick of her chin. “Show me your skills, young lady, and take out them biscuits.”