She peered over and nodded. “And to you, Mr. Norwood. What are those women doing?”
Her client shook his head. “Haven’t heard of the Daughters of Dorcas? They’re warning us against the evils of alcohol”—he leaned in closer—“and fornication. They started a collection for a temperance fountain, but I daresay the hat is empty. Abolish alcohol and prostitution in this city? Never.”
“Well, they can stand outside as long as they choose,” Hope said, lifting her skirt. “But the rain will be upon us soon, and I, for one, plan to be inside the cathedral when it comes.”
She traversed the path to the entrance, only to find a wall of women blocking the door, with Lucetta Moore at the center. Even in her late fifties, and despite years of managing Harmon Grove, Isaac’s wife had retained the fair color of her skin. And her high-born attitude, if her upturned nose was any indication.
“Come to repent for your sins, Madame Leblonc?”
Hope gripped her umbrella with both hands and took a deep breath, lest she whack the woman over the head. Isaac would tell her to walk away from the situation rather than stoke the flames of his wife’s ire. The nasty woman already had designs on closing Le Havre. Any altercation now would only strengthen her resolve. Still, Hope had every right to pray in the church, and she was desperate to have her prayers heard.
“Step aside, Mrs. Moore, I do not answer to you. God welcomes all who wish to pray in His house.”
Her nemesis didn’t budge. “I wonder that you come here at all. You’re a renowned priestess of the voodoo sect.”
Oh, no, Hope would not damn herself before a crowd of witnesses. She was far too intelligent to fall victim to such schemes. “I’m a devout Catholic. I attend Mass here every Sunday, though I cannot say as much for you.”
“A sadistic means for covering your true nature. A Christian woman would never run a brothel! You’re a heathen. Admit it!”
Hope’s limbs trembled. “You are infuriating! I understand why you hate me . . . but you take this too far,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Stay out of my affairs, or may St. Michael strike you down for your wicked soul!”
Big, fat droplets of rain plopped on Hope’s bonnet, and lightning bolted from the sky, crackling between them with blinding speed. Hope stumbled backward, shielding her ears as a boom of thunder shook the ground at her feet. Her entire body quaked with the deafening sound. The Daughters of Dorcas screamed, cowering against the façade of the building.
Her heartbeat clattered wildly as she struggled to gain all of her faculties. Mrs. Moore was quicker to recover.
“Thank you for the public demonstration of your witchcraft,” the woman hissed, water dripping from the rim of her bonnet. “And I have witnesses. You sought to strike me down with your voodoo, but, by the grace of God, here I stand. I will see you hanged.”
Wide-eyed, Hope could only stare in disbelief. “You’re insane. I didn’t conjure a bolt of lightning.” That would’ve taken forethought and a substantial amount of groundwork. “We’re in the midst of a storm. A judge will laugh should you present your evidence, witnesses or not.”
“We shall see,” the woman said, her face pinched.
Rolling her eyes, Hope pushed past her, glad to find a clear path to the church entrance. None of the other Daughters of Dorcas dared to stand in her way. Well, that was a blessing, because Hatchet and his family desperately needed her prayers.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rainwater dripped from Hatchet’s jacket, forming a puddle on the marble foyer. He shimmied out of the garment and handed it to Stevens, who eyed the growing puddle with distain.
“You have guests waiting in the parlor,” Stevens said, stepping aside. “Mr. and Mrs. Blackburn. Shall I inform them you’ll be down momentarily, after you’ve changed?”
“No need,” Hatchet said, drying his face with a handkerchief. “They’ve both seen me in far less formal attire on The Savior. I assure you, my dishabille will not shock them.”
“Your mother—”
Hatchet waved off the butler’s concerns. “Yes, my mother would disapprove, but she isn’t here. Please don’t disturb us for an hour.”
How fortuitous that his friends had arrived earlier than their agreed-upon departure time. They were enjoying a cup of tea with beignets when he entered the parlor.
“Never been happier to see you both,” he said, sitting on the edge of a chair. “Something has come up, and I need your help.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Victor said. “You’ve got a serious look about you. Tell me you met with Marie Laveau.”
Mercy’s cup rattled on the saucer, her eyes alight with excitement. “The voodoo queen? Oh, I envy you the opportunity. Did you truly meet her?”
“Early this morning.” He glanced over his shoulder, ensuring the parlor door was closed, though he’d secured it himself. “The curse stems from a slave girl who once lived on the plantation. Jenny Cobbs.”
“Well, where is she now?” Mercy asked. “How will we find her?”
Hatchet met Victor’s bleak stare. “She’s dead and haunting Harmon Grove. According to Marie, my family must seek forgiveness from this ghost for past wrongs.”
“Bloody hell!” his friend growled, coming to his feet. He shoved his hand through his hair. “You should’ve told Dominick and Eveline about this trip before they left for their honeymoon. You need Eveline’s gift as a medium. Damn your stubborn pride; I’m writing a letter to them now!”
“Don’t bother. We have only a few days to work this out. Don’t you see? My sister is engaged!”
Mercy set her teacup aside, offering her undivided attention. “Oh, dear.”
Victor blanched. “But Eveline’s the only one who can communicate with the dead.”
“Maribeth has the gift as well,” Mercy whispered, her mouth turning down in a fierce scowl. “But she’s only a child. Communicating with a malevolent ghost can be dangerous. Freya, help us. Do we dare risk it?”
Hatchet sighed. He agreed wholeheartedly, in theory. “I’m afraid that ship has sailed.”
“What’re you saying?” Victor grabbed hold of a fistful of Hatchet’s shirt, pulling him to his feet. “Spit it out, mate.”
“The cryptic note we received from Maribeth, the one you couldn’t decipher? Well, I can. When we first arrived at Harmon Grove, she glimpsed a ghost in her bedroom mirror, and I caught her trying to communicate with it.”
Mercy gasped. “Foolish, headstrong girl!”
“She promised not to attempt it again, and I trust her to keep her promises. But the ghost wasn’t bound to our agreement, and I surmise from the note that she communicated with Maribeth.”
Victor groaned and shoved Hatchet away. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve left from the opera house and been there in less than two hours.”
“I wasn’t thinking.” He’d been too wrapped up in ensuring Hope enjoyed a night out on the town, and then there was her initiation ceremony. “Truth be told, it wasn’t until Marie Laveau spoke of a ‘slave girl’ in connection with the curse that I pieced it all together. I didn’t suspect Maribeth was in danger until this morning.”
Mercy stepped between them, placing one hand on each man’s chest. “Everyone calm down. She isn’t in danger. Otherwise, she would’ve arrived on the doorstep of Magnolia House instead of sending a note. This is the girl who snuck onto a ship and sailed across the Atlantic unbeknownst to us. She is resourceful, if a bit reckless. But she would run from danger, I assure you.”
Victor nodded and walked away, taking a calming breath. “You’re the voice of reason, dear wife. Still, the girl is twelve years old. We shouldn’t have left her unattended.”
Hatchet had been remiss in his duty to care for their young charge while she was visiting his home. The fact she’d come uninvited was irrelevant. She was like a daughter to all three of them—Dominick, Victor, and himself. If anything happened to her, the fault would lie on Hatchet’s shoulders.
&
nbsp; “She isn’t unattended,” Mercy cooed, rubbing her husband’s arm. “We both know Mary would never let anything happen to the child. Hatchet’s sister is a mother hen.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Victor faced them once again. “But I would like to leave for the plantation as soon as possible.”
As would he, but there were other matters to discuss. Communicating with the ghost was only the first step in breaking the curse. He needed to get his hands on the asson for the ritual with Kalfu. But approaching Father on the matter wouldn’t bear fruit. He would scoff at the notion of ghosts and curses. If only Hope hadn’t already returned the sacred rattle to his care.
“There is one more thing we must do before we leave town,” Hatchet said, jumping headlong into the issue. “I need you to access my father’s bank deposit box and borrow an ancient voodoo relic he has stored there. We’ll need it for a spirit ritual to banish the curse, after I’ve begged for the slave girl’s forgiveness.”
His friend shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “How do you propose I do that?”
He could always count on Victor to help him in a pinch without complaint. Especially if it involved a task that would bring them one step closer to freeing him from his nightmares.
“I’ll locate my father’s key, and you’ll rent a new lockbox with the bank. That will gain you access to the back room, along with privacy. I already have a lockbox and don’t wish to be placed on the scene if my father later discovers the key is missing.”
Victor nodded. “Consider it done.”
The door to the parlor opened, and Hatchet’s mother swept in with a gracious smile, until she noticed his wet attire. “Charles, is that any way to greet your guests? Good afternoon, Mercy, Victor.”
What was Mother doing at Magnolia House? He’d thought she was managing the plantation. Damn the butler for not informing him. Although, on second thought, Stevens had tried to warn him.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he said, kissing his mother on the cheek. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Only for the morning.” She tugged at the hem of her gloves, a slight scowl turning down her lips. “My duties to the Daughters of Dorcas called. We’re raising funds for a temperance fountain. I’m sure we can count on you for a generous donation.”
“Having a rough start?” he asked, containing his grin.
“You could say that,” his mother huffed. “But, no matter. God’s will shall prevail.”
Heaven help the citizens of New Orleans. His mother was on a mission and would stomp on anyone blocking her path.
“I’m on my way upstairs to pack, Mother. We’re leaving for Harmon Grove within the hour. It would please me if you and Father came for supper tonight. I have several ideas on the future of the plantation I want to discuss with the entire family.”
Anything to get his father out of Magnolia House.
“That sounds delightful,” his mother said with a genuine smile. “I’ll speak with your father as soon as I’ve written an urgent letter.”
That sounded rather dire.
“Is anything amiss, Mother? Do you need my assistance?”
“No, thank you, Charles,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ll handle the matter on my own. I’m a resourceful woman. I shall see you tonight.”
She stalked out of the room with purpose in her strides.
“Well, I see where you get your stubborn nature.” Victor snickered. “Sticking your nose in everyone else’s problems but rarely accepting help on your own behalf.”
“That’s not—”
Mercy’s eye roll stopped him cold. So he didn’t like to impose on others or feel indebted. That wasn’t a character flaw. It was self-preservation. Having to rely on others made him vulnerable.
“Well, I’m asking for your help. Are you happy?”
“No, my friend,” Victor said, clasping him on the shoulder, his countenance grave. “I’m terrified, because you would never ask for help unless the ship was sinking.”
Hatchet’s boat was taking on water, fast. There was little time to right the wrongs of the past. His fate had always felt outside of his control, but no longer. The path was rocky and narrow, but straight ahead.
Once he secured the ghost’s forgiveness, he would call for Hope to perform the necessary ritual, but not a moment sooner. He wouldn’t allow her to attempt it without first knowing he held the key to unlock the crossroads, and even then, she might fail.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When the carriage completed its twentieth turn around the block, Hatchet glanced out the window. Why was it taking so bloody long to rent a lockbox? He tapped his foot and counted backwards from ten. Seconds later, the carriage stopped in front of Hibernia Bank, and Victor handed Mercy into the coach before hopping inside himself.
“Tell me you have it,” Hatchet said, staring at the reticule clutched in Mercy’s hands.
She grinned. “Of course we do.”
He closed his eyes and slumped back against the bench seat. “And without incident?”
“Not quite.” Victor unbuttoned his jacket and set it off to the side. “The old chap wouldn’t leave us alone in the vault room, so I had to knock him out.”
“Are you mad?”
“I cast a memory spell on him when he woke,” Mercy said, matter-of-factly, as if using witchcraft while in a public building was part of her daily routine. “He recalls tripping and taking an unfortunate fall.”
Hatchet stared at the tiny woman seated across from him. “You’re terrifying sometimes. Remind me never to raise your hackles.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I daresay Hope could match me wit for wit. Voodoo isn’t witchcraft per se, but it’s a close cousin. She prays to the loa, and they answer her prayers, much the same way I pray to my patroness, Freya. I’ve also visited Hope’s garden. She has an extensive knowledge of herbs that’s quite impressive.”
That was saying something, coming from a formidable witch such as Mercy. Hatchet palmed the canvas bag he carried in his pocket, the gift from Hope. Only a few months earlier, he would’ve tossed the bag into the nearest rubbish bin. But experience had taught him that magic was real and prayers could be answered. His friends, Victor and Dominick, were living proof of those principles.
Mercy was proving useful in this battle. He didn’t deserve her loyalty, not after the way he’d mistrusted her at Blackburn Castle. But he would spend his lifetime earning her respect, because she’d saved Victor from a gruesome death.
“Thank you, Mercy. I’m forever in your debt.”
“Fine friend you are,” Victor said, taking his wife’s hand. “I did ninety percent of the work.”
Hatchet chuckled, folding his arms. “Perhaps, but I’m collecting on your debt to me. I’ve saved your sorry life more than once in the last decade.”
His friend nodded, his face turning somber. “So, what is the plan when we arrive at Harmon Grove?”
“First, we speak with Maribeth in private. She begged me to come home, so I’m certain she knows something.”
Hopefully that “something” was the history behind the slave girl’s story and the reason she’d cursed his family. He could beg for forgiveness, but his pleas would hold more weight if he knew the offense.
The remainder of the journey to Harmon Grove passed in silence. Hatchet envisioned the way the afternoon and evening would progress: Upon their arrival, Maribeth would jump into his arms and tell him the sad story of the slave girl she’d befriended. Then, if all went well, they would make contact with the ghost by nightfall, after the rest of the family had gone to bed. Another day, and he would gain the ghost’s forgiveness with a bit of coaxing from Maribeth. And on the third day, Hope would come to free his family.
Simple enough, only not so simple, because his parents’ carriage was being led away by the stable master upon their arrival, and Maribeth was nowhere to be found in the big house. Cook refused to speak with him about her note, citing the additiona
l guests as the reason for her harried state within the kitchen.
Hatchet made his excuses to the others, with an agreement to meet in the parlor shortly before supper. As he passed by the door to Maribeth’s bedroom, he paused and then entered.
He peered around, and a flash of color in the corner of the room drew his eye. But when he looked closer, he saw only a gilded mirror. What in the devil? Perhaps the ghost had seen him and fled. He walked to the mirror with calm, measured steps, though his heart rate quickened, and he blew out a breath. How did one address a ghost?
“My name is Hat . . . ”
No, bad idea. Best to use his given name.
“My name is Charles,” he said, feeling like an utter fool. But Maribeth had glimpsed the ghost in the mirror. It certainly couldn’t hurt to try and communicate. “Perhaps you’ve heard about me from the little girl staying in this room? Maribeth is my friend. I would like to talk to you, Jenny. Will you let me, please?”
The silence was deafening as he stared at his large frame in the mirror. Perhaps his height intimidated the poor girl. Not all children had as much pluck as Maribeth. So, he sat on the edge of the bed and waited, all alone with his memories of living on the plantation in his youth.
A slave’s life was difficult, especially working the sugarcane fields. Summers were blistering hot, and the days long. Then there were the nights—two families cramped in a cottage the size of Hatchet’s bedroom. The slaves of Harmon Grove had plenty of reasons to seek retribution.
His mother wasn’t an easy master and viewed them as little more than oxen. Whippings were doled out as discipline, and hired hands were encouraged to bed young, healthy slave girls who showed interest in a dalliance. Why pay premium prices at market when one could “grow” their own slaves?
His stomach churned. Every aspect of slavery made him sick, and he couldn’t fault one of the slaves for seeking justice. He’d spoken with his mother in the past on his ideas for running the plantation, but until either he or Mary accepted the responsibility of managing Harmon Grove, things wouldn’t change.
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