River Road

by R. C. Matthews

  “Did Isaac hurt Jenny?”

  “Indirectly, yes, I believe he did,” Hatchet said, staring straight ahead. “Soldiers were living at Harmon Grove during the war. The officers missed female companionship and wanted . . . ”

  How could he explain this in a way a twelve-year-old girl would understand yet not be terrified? She needed to know the facts if they were going to attempt to communicate with Jenny.

  “To swive?” Maribeth asked, matter-of-fact.

  Hatchet stopped in his tracks. The devil take me. Perhaps his mother was right about the girl’s upbringing. A young lady ought not to know that particular term, let alone say it aloud with confidence. However, after living below deck with the crew for the journey over the Atlantic, he had no doubt she knew exactly what it meant.

  He cleared his throat and nodded. “Swiving with a woman against her will is a terrible crime, Poppet. Punishable even during times of war. As master of the plantation, it was Isaac’s duty to do everything within his power to prevent the crime. The soldiers may have threatened him in some way to ensure his cooperation and silence. We can’t know without asking him, which I plan to do. Mind you, it doesn’t make what he did right. I’m just trying to make sense of the heinous act.”

  Maribeth chewed on her bottom lip, and her eyes misted. “But why did they kill her?”

  Because they were heartless, rotten bastards. His hands began to shake, and he cracked the stick he held in half, easing the tension building in his shoulders. God, if only he had been home instead of at war. He would’ve rallied the slaves against the monsters who did this.

  “Probably to intimidate the crowd of slaves that had gathered,” Hatchet said. “When Jenny’s father and brother tried to protect her, the soldiers killed them and dragged her mother into the fold. If any witnesses spoke of what happened, a similar fate would befall them.”

  Maribeth took Hatchet’s hand and started walking. “Jenny told me you visited her yesterday. She thinks you’re scary to look at, but you’re sad, like her.” She glanced over. “I believe she can sense your pain and suffering.”

  His throat constricted, and he looked away, focusing on the manor ahead. Sad did not scratch the surface of the devastating emotions he’d buried inside, under lock and key. If he revisited the events of the war too often or what happened to Nicolette and Emma, he’d find himself hauled to a madhouse.

  “Why did you talk to her?” Maribeth asked as they passed through the back entrance, headed for the stairwell.

  “Because Jenny holds the key to ending the curse. The voodoo queen told me to beg forgiveness of the slave girl who was wronged. Only she can make it right. But after what I’ve learned, I believe Jenny deserves revenge.”

  Maribeth stopped in front of her bedroom door and wrapped her arms around his middle, hugging him tightly. “And you deserve happiness.”

  “Even though I threatened to tan your hide when I found you onboard The Savior?”

  She glanced up. “That’s your way of saying I love you. You were scared for me, that’s all. I love you, too.”

  He grunted. “I do love you like a daughter. I’m sorry I’ve never told you before. No matter what is to come, know that.”

  Facing death had a way of opening his eyes to his failures—like the way he guarded his heart, even at the expense of those still alive who loved him. With a final squeeze around his middle, Maribeth entered her bedroom and waved him inside before shutting the door and locking it.

  “You sit on the bed in front of the mirror,” she directed.

  When he was situated, she climbed on his lap. She raised her hands, palms up. “I give thanks and praise to God for the gift of communicating with the spirits.” After a brief pause, she continued, “Jenny, come meet my friend. We’ve talked about him. He’s a good sort of chap. You needn’t fear him.”

  Hatchet stared at their reflection. Maribeth sat patiently on his lap with a pleasant smile. He glanced around the room. “Is she here with us?”

  “She rarely leaves this bedroom,” his young charge said. “Please, Jenny, come join us. Charles needs your help, and he is very important to me.”

  Over Hatchet’s left shoulder, a bare shoulder and arm inched into the mirror. Butterflies quivered in his stomach as the ghost materialized.

  He whispered in Maribeth’s ear, “Why can I see her?”

  “I can’t explain it,” she said with a shrug. His eyes were riveted to the spot over his shoulder.

  When the ghost stood fully behind him, chills wracked his body. Although he blocked most of Jenny’s body in the mirror, he could see her face. Her left eye was swollen shut, reddish-purple bruises fanned over her cheek, and her bottom lip bore several cuts.

  He met her gaze, and it took all his self-control not to flinch. Take away the bruising, and her bone structure was exquisite, her skin smooth and flawless. But those expressive eyes, so dark and thick with lashes, revealed a level of suffering most people would never understand.

  “Hello, Jenny,” he said.

  “You’re his son,” the ghost sneered. “But you look nothing like him.”

  Christ, he could hear her as well. His hands shook, and he swallowed past the lump closing off his airway. Somehow, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he hadn’t quite believed ghosts existed. But to see her . . . to hear her . . .

  “That’s because Isaac is my stepfather.”

  Her eyes widened with comprehension. “You’re not even his child. Why did you apologize to me yesterday?”

  He blew out a breath. “Maybe not by blood, but Isaac raised me as his son. I love him like a father. He’s done things that I can’t understand or reconcile with the man who raised me. I apologized because you suffered a terrible fate, and that makes me sad. My family is responsible for ensuring the safety of everyone living at Harmon Grove. I’m sorry we failed you.”

  “What do you want from me?” she asked, her chin lifted in defiance.

  “Forgiveness for my family, so Maribeth can free your soul from the mirror and send you to Heaven where you’ll finally be with your family in eternal peace. Only then can we break the curse Marie Euchariste cast upon us at your bidding.”

  She vanished, and he whipped around, scanning the bedroom. But she wasn’t there. He turned back to the mirror and nearly jumped out of his skin. She stood in front of him this time, anger glowing red-hot in her eyes. Her simple cotton dress hung from her rail-thin body, and she fisted her hands at her sides, her limbs trembling with restrained fury.

  Maribeth’s body withered against his, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest. He rubbed his hand in soothing circles on her back, but his heart pumped harder, not heeding his attempts to calm them both. With a deep breath, he met Jenny’s steely gaze.

  “Isaac must suffer for what he did,” the ghost railed. “My family is dead. Brother, father, mother. Every single one of them. Isaac’s children will suffer eternally during their lifetime, and he must watch, knowing his actions caused their misery, yet unable to help them because he chose not to help me!”

  Her revelation punched him in the gut. “Isaac knows of the curse?”

  “Yes. His wife, as well.”

  Bloody hell! “This is why my sister’s first husband died. Why Mary will never know the joy of being a mother? And my brother, James? He lost his wife. What of my Nicolette, my Emma? This is why they’ve all died brutal deaths? I understand your desire to punish Isaac, but these people paid with their lives for a crime they didn’t commit. They’re innocent.”

  Jenny’s jaw clenched, and she leaned in, piercing him with her glare. “I was innocent once, too. Do not lay your woes at my feet. You are not Isaac’s son. The curse cannot touch you—only the children who carry on his bloodline.”

  How could this be true? Marie Laveau said he was cursed, and she was the voodoo queen.

  Before he could question Jenny further, she vanished.

  “That did not go very well,” Maribeth
whispered.

  “That was . . . horrific,” Hatchet said, his pulse racing. What Jenny and her family endured was beyond heartbreaking. Still, he could not condone killing people so wholly unrelated to the events of the past. What had the spouses of Mary and James done to deserve death? Absolutely nothing. And should a child suffer for the crimes of a parent? Mary was one of the kindest, most loving people he knew.

  If Jenny was right and Hatchet’s life wasn’t in danger, then what did Marie’s reading of the bones mean? Your family is cursed. The Widow Leblonc is your death or your salvation. Was your in reference to Mary and James? Would both of his siblings die if Hope didn’t succeed in convincing Kalfu to guide the bad omen back over the crossroads?

  The chill snaking down his spine said the coming horror would be far worse than anything he’d imagined.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A vicious headache throbbed behind Hatchet’s eyes with each step down the stairs. He ought to have fallen into bed after dinner the evening before, but he chose to discuss his predicament with Victor over brandy instead. Still, a few tumblers of alcohol shouldn’t have knocked him on his arse. His entire goddamned body ached.

  Victor stood at the bottom of the stairs, grinning. “You’re awake early this morning.”

  His voice boomed in Hatchet’s ears, and he scowled. “Keep your bloody voice down. Damn you and your heavy hand, filling my glass last night.”

  “Old man,” Victor taunted. “I’m feeling fit as ever. Can’t hold your liquor anymore?”

  Apparently not. He wanted to fall into blissful sleep but instead found himself greeting his sister in the parlor, with Victor trailing close behind. Mary glanced up from the book on her lap.

  “Good morning,” she said, setting the book aside. She stood and kissed Hatchet on the cheek. “Or perhaps not. You look dreadful, Charles.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Nothing one of Pauline’s remedies won’t fix. Can you have Millie ring for it?”

  “Of course.” She patted his arm before hurrying out of the room. A second later she poked her head inside again. “Before I go, I forgot to mention a letter was delivered last evening for you, Victor. I’m afraid it completely slipped my mind. I was speaking with Benjamin about an issue at the sugar mill when it arrived. You’ll find it on the credenza.”

  Victor nodded and strode to the desk. Lifting the letter, he inspected the direction. “Speaking of breakfast, I’m famished. Shall we head to the dining room?”

  “As you wish,” Hatchet said, following his friend.

  Though, truth be told, he didn’t have much of an appetite. All he wanted was something to ease his headache. Two steps later, he crashed into Victor’s back. His friend stood stock-still, engrossed in his letter.

  “What is so enthralling you cannot read and walk?” Hatchet groused.

  Victor thrust the letter at him. “Hope begs for your return. She’s in jail. A hearing is set for nine o’clock this morning.”

  “What?”

  Hatchet snatched the letter and read the contents. They were vague, cryptic. Had the police raided Le Havre after all? Hope’s sitting room was full of damning evidence. If they’d caught her unawares . . . Perspiration gathered on his upper lip, and he wiped it away.

  Or perhaps the Daughters of Dorcas were mounting an attack on the brothels? Was that the reason for his mother’s trip to town? He pulled out his pocket watch, and a bout of nausea hit him square in the gut.

  “It’s ten past eight. Dammit! Run to the stable and saddle the fastest horse. I’ll meet you out front. I must see to this headache, or I’ll never make it into town.”

  Already headed in the direction of the stable, Victor called over his shoulder, “We’ll follow in the carriage.”

  Even riding horseback, Hatchet would never make it to the courthouse before the trial began. He ran to the kitchen house and begged Pauline for another cup of brew.

  The cook clucked her tongue. “This is the second headache in two days. Come here, boy. Do you have a fever?” She pressed her hand to his forehead and arched an eyebrow. “Normal.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, “but Victor is to blame for my ailment. Too much brandy last night.”

  Maribeth sat on a stool next to the counter, stuffing a biscuit with jam into her mouth. “Truly, you don’t look well, Hatchet,” the girl mumbled through a mouthful of food.

  Nor did he feel well. And he felt ten times worse after reading Hope’s note. She must be terrified, and all alone. He could’ve been by her side last night, if only Mary had delivered the note! Frustration simmered in his veins, and he wanted to howl, but he tamped it down.

  “I’m fine,” he said, coming to Maribeth’s side. “I’m leaving for the city. A friend of mine is in dire need of assistance. Victor is arranging for the carriage to bring you and Mercy to Magnolia House.”

  Maribeth frowned. “We’re leaving?” She tugged on his shirtsleeve until he leaned in closer. “But we cannot leave until we gain Jenny’s forgiveness.”

  He rubbed her cheek. “I’m afraid we must. This is an urgent matter, and I cannot leave you here after witnessing her hostility last night.”

  “She won’t hurt me.”

  That was pure speculation. The ghosts at Devil’s Cove Manor had shoved people down stairwells. He couldn’t take the risk.

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I won’t leave your safety to chance. Please, don’t argue with me. Finish your biscuit and then go pack.”

  With a grateful nod, he accepted a cup of tea from Pauline and gulped the liquid, wincing as it scorched a path to his stomach. The throbbing at his temples had intensified, but the medicine would ease his pain within the quarter hour. He all but ran to the front of the big house, where Victor waited with Beau, reins in hand.

  Hatchet mounted the stallion. “Meet me at the courthouse after you drop Mercy and Maribeth at Magnolia House.”

  Victor nodded, his scowl forming lines of worry around his eyes. “Godspeed.”

  Hatchet kicked the horse’s flanks and hunched low as the beast sprang forward. Cool wind flowed through the open collar of his shirt, and he gritted his teeth harder with each clatter of the horse’s hooves against the gravel drive. Pain exploded at the base of his head, pounding with a brutal rhythm. He concentrated on his breathing and turned his thoughts to Hope. She was a fighter, a survivor. And not without friends who would come to her aid. Some more powerful than others.

  Despite the cloud cover and cooler temperature, Hatchet worked up a sweat during the ride. His white linen shirt clung to his back as he hopped off his horse ninety minutes later and tossed a coin to a nearby lad.

  “Stay with my horse, and there’ll be more for you when I return,” he said, handing him the reins.

  Hatchet wasn’t fit for the public, with dust clinging to his pants and smelling worse than a chicken coup. But just let them try to stop him from entering. The Parish Criminal Courthouse boasted multiple courtrooms. Hope could be in any one of them. He paused to read the court docket on the board, but he didn’t have the patience to search, so he inquired with the clerk at the desk.

  “Up the stairs and first room on your right,” the man said, gaping.

  Let the clerk stare. Hatchet didn’t give a damn what others thought of him as he took the stairs two at a time and stormed through the double doors to the courtroom, his breathing labored. But his dramatic entry went unnoticed as all eyes were directed at the judge, who rapped his gavel hard against his grand bench in quick succession.

  Judge Ludeling peered over the rim of his spectacles. “Would the defendant please rise for the verdict?”

  Hatchet sank into the nearest seat in the back row, his heart in his throat. Had the entire city come to witness the trial? He was far too late. The hearing had been quick—hopefully a good sign. Hope stood with her shoulders squared, facing the judge with her head held high. Pride swelled in his breast, even as his heart pounded mercilessly. He sat poised on the edge of his seat.
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  “In the matter of the State of Louisiana against Hydropia Guillory Leblonc for the illegal practice of medicine without a license, I find you . . . ” His piercing gaze softened, but he didn’t smile. “Not guilty.”

  A sob escaped Hope, and Hatchet sprang to his feet. Pandemonium broke out in the courtroom. Half of the crowd cheered, half shouted with disbelief. Hatchet shouldered his way down the narrow center aisle, his gaze fixed on Hope. Only a few more rows, and he could call to her. She turned and threw herself into the embrace of a man standing behind her, sobbing.

  Her relief was palpable as she clung to the gentleman, who held her tight and whispered in her ear while rubbing her back in soothing circles.

  Not just any gentleman. Isaac Moore.

  Hatchet stood frozen, staring, as his father kissed Hope’s head and patted her back, still murmuring in her ear. The gesture could only be described as . . . fatherly. Judge Ludeling’s verdict rang in Hatchet’s ears. Hydropia Guillory Leblonc.

  Somehow, he knew that name. His jaw grew slack, and the chaos around him ceased to exist. No, no, no. Hope couldn’t be Isaac’s illegitimate daughter.

  A tidal wave of truths flooded over him. She was a woman of Creole descent who lived in a mansion owned by his stepfather. Here, in the courtroom, she towered over the other women with her unusual height. Hope had told him of her mother falling in love with a wealthy man whom she could not marry.

  Hatchet knew little of Isaac’s mistress and illegitimate daughter, but the one thing he knew with certainty was her name: Hydropia Guillory.

  I’m not going to die because we’re falling—

  The irony of Hope’s frantic plea was not lost on him. She wouldn’t die for having fallen in love with him. But he would die if he couldn’t convince Jenny Cobbs to forgive his family. Because Hope was Isaac’s daughter, one of his three biological children still living, and she loved him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six