“I don’t know what happened to you, Jenny,” he said, staring at his fingernails. “But I can only imagine it must’ve been horrible. Otherwise you wouldn’t have sought to punish my family. I’ve felt the burning need for revenge myself. Felt the hatred simmer in my veins until I thought I’d explode. My betrothed was brutally raped . . . and I . . . ” He pushed his fists into the mattress. “I wanted to kill the bastard who’d hurt her with my own two hands. I would have, too, but someone else got to him first. Whatever happened to you, I know in my heart it was unforgivable.”
He gazed into the mirror and sighed.
“But sometimes we can learn to forgive. I’ve seen it twice. Never would’ve believed it possible,” he said with a shake of his head. “You see, my friend, Dominick, he was tortured for years by a terrible man, a pirate known as the Butcher. But that wasn’t even the worst part. His mother had sold him to the pirate.”
God, what an idiot he was, sitting in a room alone, talking to himself. Even if she listened, the ghost didn’t want to hear stories of his friends, people she didn’t know or care about.
“Anyway, I’m sorry for your pain.”
Pushing off the bed, he peered into the mirror one last time and saw the reflection of a pile of drawings on the bedside table. He picked up the top one; Maribeth had rendered Jenny so lifelike. Shivers ran up his spine. A dark-skinned girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, with beautiful, soulful eyes stared back at him. But oddly enough, Maribeth had drawn a gentle smile, somehow envisioning the slave girl as happy and free of whatever demons had tormented her. A child’s fancy.
Setting the drawing back on the pile, he walked to his room with the weight of her mysterious story heavy on his shoulders. What nightmare had the girl endured? He paused at the threshold, recalling Hope’s gift. He sprinkled a bit of the hydrangea bark on the floor, once again feeling a bit like a fool. But he would accept any means of protection against the evil spirits sent to plague him. He might have scoffed at the notion in his youth, but no more.
Everything he’d ever believed had been challenged while helping Victor and Dominick fight their own personal demons in the past year. War created monsters out of men, but the depravity of humanity paled in comparison to the evil lurking on the premises of Devil’s Cove Manor and Blackburn Castle.
Gathering another pinch of the bark, he strode to the fireplace and tossed the shavings inside. The afternoon was warm, so the hearth was empty. He would light a brief fire before sleep took him that night. The rest of the bark he would carry with him, as Hope had suggested.
Hatchet sank onto one of the chairs and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He had dueled with death more than most men, but this was different. This was thrust upon him, not born out of a cause he chose to fight.
The Widow Leblonc is your death or your salvation.
Why had the curse changed course, targeting him instead of the woman he . . . admired?
With a deep breath, he pushed off of the chair. No use lingering on a question he couldn’t answer. After washing his face and hands, he trudged downstairs. The parlor was alive with conversation when he entered.
“There you are,” Mother said, offering her cheek. “I was about to call for you. Mrs. Winston’s niece arrived from Georgia on Sunday and would enjoy your society. So I invited them to dine with us. Come, I’ll introduce you.”
Hatchet scanned the parlor. Damn his mother’s meddling ways. He had more important matters on his mind than entertaining the niece of his mother’s dear friend. “Tell me you’re jesting.”
His gaze fell on the young lady and her chaperone just as his mother said, “Don’t be rude.”
Miss Winston was a handsome woman, well-bred and possessing a calm demeanor. Her form was pleasing, and her eyes were a lovely shade of aquamarine, set against honey-colored tresses. But Hatchet found he rather preferred chocolate eyes flamed with desire and a woman who wasn’t afraid to stand out in a crowd.
Maribeth ran over and hugged Hatchet around the waist, not letting go. He glared at his mother. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
His mother nodded and walked away, leaving him alone with his young charge.
“Poppet,” he crooned, rubbing her hair. “Are you getting missish on me?”
“I’m glad you’re home.” She straightened and craned her neck back to stare at him. “There is something I must show you.”
Isaac walked up and winked. “Maybe you’ll let me in on your secret, too. What have you discovered while I was away?”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. “Nothing important. It’s a surprise, just for Hatchet.”
“Very well.” His father sipped from his glass of wine then leaned down and whispered, “Best you call him Charles at supper in Lucetta’s company. Shall we head inside the dining room?”
Maribeth stared at Isaac’s extended hand and slipped hers into Hatchet’s instead, keeping close to his side. “Tonight, I want to dine with Charles, if I may.”
Since when did the little termite pass up an opportunity to chat with Father? And what was with the fine manners? Not to mention the fact that she held Hatchet’s hand with a death grip, pinching hard into his skin.
“Of course, but we must hurry so we can rearrange the seating cards to our liking. I’ll switch your card with Miss Agatha Winston. Lucetta will be cross, but Charles will thank me.”
“Let her stew in her anger,” Hatchet chided. “I told Mother I wished to discuss family matters over dinner.”
“Your mother means well, Charles, and only wants to see you happily settled in New Orleans. Perhaps if you would offer her some assurance you plan to stay, she might back off until you’re settled in.”
Hatchet snorted. “Why would I when you know I have no wish to stay?”
His father sighed and folded his arms. “At least Mrs. Winston is our neighbor, so they won’t be staying over tonight.”
A small victory, that. Why must his mother foil his plans for the evening? The last thing he wanted was to languish over a four-course meal followed by music. Perhaps he could beg off with a headache while Mercy and Victor entertained Mrs. Winston and her niece.
“Come, Maribeth,” Hatchet said, squeezing her hand. “Let’s greet my mother’s guests while Isaac sneaks into the dining room to play musical chairs.”
The evening was warm, so he was glad, thirty minutes later, to find Eugene stationed in the corner of the room, manning the rope for the punkah. The cloth fan hanging from the ceiling swayed over the dining table, creating a refreshing breeze. Thankfully, because dinner was a long, drawn-out affair, by the time dessert was served, Hatchet didn’t have to invent a headache. A dull throb persisted at his temples throughout the final course, until he couldn’t function anymore and carelessly dropped a forkful of tiramisu on his lap.
“Dammit,” he hissed, fumbling for his napkin.
“Charles, are you quite all right?”
Had he cursed out loud? Well, the ladies hadn’t fainted, so his mother would survive the incident as well.
He stood and pushed in his chair. “Please excuse me, as I’m not feeling well. But it’s just a headache. Nothing to worry about.”
As he fled the room, another set of chair legs scraped the wood floor. “I’ll go speak with Cook,” Maribeth said, “and bring him a remedy.”
Ah, good girl. She was by his side within moments, a frown deepening as she assessed him.
“You didn’t lie about the headache.”
“No, Poppet, I did not.” He paused at the stairs and offered a weak smile. “But it isn’t so horrible that I must lie down. Let me change out of these soiled pants, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen. I’m sure Pauline will have something to take care of my head. After, you can show me this ‘something’ you spoke of earlier.”
She nodded and headed out the back door.
In less than five minutes, he, too, was walking the path to the kitchen house. This was the moment he’d been waiting for all day, an
d he wouldn’t allow a headache to hinder his progress.
Crickets chirped all around, adding to the sound of his boots crunching against the gravel path. He should’ve grabbed a lantern. The night was dark, and the moon offered little light.
A buzzing sounded in his ear, and he slapped the side of his head. Damned mosquitoes were everywhere! He rubbed his ear and the back of his neck, feeling as though they crawled all over him. After jogging the rest of the way, he ducked into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
“Have a care,” Pauline quipped from the center island, where she was stirring some sort of mixture into a cup of tea. “That door is on its last hinge.”
“My apologies.” Hatchet swiped at his head one last time, coming to stand beside the cook. “I hope that’s for me.”
She handed him the cup. “This will ease your pain.”
He took a sip and looked around. “Where is Maribeth? She was supposed to meet me here.”
“I’m in the pantry. We’ll need a lantern for what I want to show you.”
While she busied herself lighting the wick, Hatchet finished the concoction Pauline had prepared for him. The cook doubled as the nurse on the plantation, so he had faith her remedy would do the trick.
“I’m ready,” Maribeth said, brandishing the lamp.
When they crossed the threshold into the black night, Hatchet asked, “Where are we going?”
“To an abandoned slave house.”
A tingle of foreboding rushed up his spine. Had Maribeth stumbled across something important while playing, or had the ghost directed her to look there? All was quiet around them as they approached the shack. Even the insects didn’t stir on this part of the land.
Hatchet took the lantern and held it high. The porch tilted to one side, with the railing broken through the middle, the splintered wood hanging precariously off the edge. He eyed the two stairs, not quite sure they would hold his weight. The boards were warped with age, sagging in the middle.
Maribeth stepped gingerly on one, placing her foot on the outer edge. “Be careful, and follow me. I know where it’s safe to walk.”
For her, maybe. But there wasn’t far to fall, so he trudged after her. The musty scent of mold smacked him in the face the instant they entered the house, almost suffocating in its intensity. He scanned the room, moving the lantern inch by inch across the floor. A beat-up rocking chair sat in one corner, with a bed frame occupying the far wall. He ran his finger over the top of the chair, and it came away with a thick layer of dust.
Maribeth fell to her knees and lifted one of the floorboards, reaching inside. He kneeled beside her, his heart rate erratic. Something important lay hidden in this forsaken hovel. He felt it in his core.
“I kept my promise, Hatchet. But Jenny came to me,” she said, setting a canvas bag on the floor. “She warned me about . . . ”
About what? Hatchet didn’t want to pressure her. Maribeth’s fingers trembled as she opened the canvas bag and handed him a small package.
“Gris-gris.” He sniffed at the contents, but whatever was in it had long since lost its odor. “What else is in there?”
He dug inside and discovered an empty bottle of rum and a satchel with trace amounts of gunpowder. At the bottom, he found an article from The Picayune dated in June 1862. The edges were tattered, the page yellow with age.
“This is an obituary,” he said, glancing at Maribeth.
She nodded, whispering, “Jenny says I must stay away from Isaac. He hurt her. I think . . . I think he may have killed her.”
The food in Hatchet’s stomach soured, and goose bumps rippled over his flesh in waves. Isaac, what have you done? But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew. Jenny was young, beautiful, and black. Oh, God. Hatchet’s hands began to shake. He stood, dropping the news clipping, and strode away, taking deep breaths.
During the early stages of the war, his father had housed several of the Union officers at Harmon Grove, even entertained General Benjamin Franklin Butler on occasion, to show his support. Having been born and raised in Boston, Isaac’s loyalties were torn.
His shipping business did not rely on slave labor and would profit from helping the North’s cause. The plantation was ideally located, within easy riding distance to New Orleans, yet accessible by steamship. What sort of entertainment had Father offered the officers? Had he let those monsters rape that sweet, young girl? Maybe even joined in the activities?
“Isaac didn’t kill Jenny; the soldiers did.”
Hatchet whipped around to find Pauline leaning against the doorway. So his speculation was true. Or Cook didn’t want to scare them with the horrible truth.
“Maribeth, go back to the big house and wait for me there,” he said, his gaze trained on the cook.
“But—”
“Please do as I ask!” He motioned to the lantern. “Take it with you and don’t dawdle.”
Without another word, she did as he ordered. As soon as she was out of earshot, he groaned. “Did you lie to protect Maribeth from the truth?”
“Old Pauline isn’t a liar. Isaac didn’t kill the girl, but he let them soldiers kill her. They were looking for a bit of fun one evening. Been drinking too much whiskey. And your pa was in too deep. Schmoozing with them Yankees. Wanting to show his support, ’cuz it was good for business.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she swiped them away.
The pit in Hatchet’s stomach grew. He wanted to retch. Wanted to cover his ears and block out the horrid details. Lord help him, but he could not ask an innocent girl to forgive this complete violation of her body and soul.
“Jenny’s pa and brother . . . they couldn’t stand by,” the cook said. She sniffled and took a deep breath. “Fight broke out, and they were killed. The soldiers found her mama. Brought her out, too. Raped them both, each soldier taking his turn, and then they left the two women for dead. Made a group of us watch the whole time, including your father. Said we’d be next if we told anyone what’d happened.”
“Pauline,” he croaked.
“Wasn’t you what done it.” She sopped up her tears with a handkerchief. “Your mother was distraught. She was hard on us but never cruel. Jenny’s mama died right there on the road, in front of the shack, but Jenny held on a bit. Lucetta snuck her into the big house. Put her in Mary’s old bedroom, thinking the soldiers wouldn’t dare go in there.”
Of course. Mary used to sleep in the lavender bedroom. Hatchet rubbed his eyes, exhausted from the harrowing tale. But there was more, and he had to listen till the bitter end.
“Your mother was afraid to call a doctor. She let me call for Marie Laveau and her daughter Marie Euchariste. They tried their best, but poor Jenny was in a bad way. She died shortly after the Maries came.”
Hatchet brushed past the cook and sank onto the porch step, burying his face in his hands. “Maribeth can see Jenny in the bedroom mirror.”
Pauline sighed. “I’m not surprised. Jenny revealed herself to me once when I helped clean the big house. My Tobi is devastated by her imprisonment. Did you know they were engaged?”
He nodded. “Mary informed me in her letters while I was serving in the war. I’m so sorry for his loss.”
“My son will never leave this place while Jenny is trapped here. I begged your mama to cover all the mirrors, but she feared raising the suspicions of the soldiers. Spirits linger on this plane for a while after they die and get trapped here if they see their reflection in the mirror.”
Well, that was something he’d have to explore with Eveline at a later date. He’d never heard that before. The notion seemed impossible, but there must be some truth in it.
“Did Marie curse my family because of this?” Hatchet pointed to the canvas bag on the floor. “Mary found a voodoo doll of Kalfu a few weeks ago. And there’s a bottle of rum with gunpowder in there, along with a gris-gris bag. All offerings to Kalfu?”
“Marie Euchariste was furious when she learned the truth of what happened that night,” Pauline sai
d, folding her hands. “So she granted Jenny’s wish to curse Isaac. Held the ritual right here where the women were violated. She prayed Isaac’s children would each live a life filled with sorrow.”
And so they each had. But now it was time for Hatchet to die, unless he found a way into Jenny’s heart and earned her forgiveness. There was only one problem.
Jenny deserved revenge.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Early afternoon sunlight bathed the inner courtyard of Le Havre. Despite the beautiful weather, Hope felt cold inside. She swallowed the last bite of her midday meal while her thoughts lingered on the incident in front of St. Louis Cathedral yesterday. Lucetta Moore wanted to see Hope fall, and the woman was well connected within the community.
If Isaac’s wife succeeded in bending the ear of the authorities . . . Maybe Hope had enough dirty secrets to keep the hounds at bay. Or maybe not. But when she weighed the odds, the scale always tipped in one direction: in favor of hiding all proof of her voodoo.
The risk of prosecution in the event of a police raid was too high. What would the women of Le Havre do without their safe haven? Several of the tenants cleared their plates from the table, oblivious to the danger threatening their livelihood. Hope could not be so selfish. She stood and squared her shoulders. If she made haste, everything in her sitting room could be packed within an hour. But she would need Albert to stow the boxes in the attic crawl space.
“Hope! Where are you?”
The frantic shout came from the foyer as she closed the courtyard door behind her. What was Isaac Moore doing here? He never invaded the privacy of her home, and she wouldn’t allow him to start now. She lifted her skirt and charged to the foyer, almost knocking him over as she rounded the corner.
“Get out! You are not welcome here.”
All of his hair stood on end, as though he’d been combing his fingers through it restlessly, and his face was rough with stubble. He hadn’t shaved, a sure sign of the urgency of his visit. His disheveled appearance threw her off-kilter.
“The police have a search warrant. They will be here within half an hour, if not sooner,” he whispered, taking her by the elbow and leading her upstairs. “Please tell me you had enough sense to follow my advice.”
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