The noise in the courtroom reached a deafening pitch as Hope held Isaac with trembling arms. She was free to leave! The queasiness afflicting her since last evening finally subsided but left her drained.
“Come, let me take you home,” Isaac said. “This place is a madhouse.”
She nodded against her father’s shoulder and wiped her eyes. “Thank you. After everything . . . all the years I’ve shunned you, hated you, treated you with disdain . . . still, you were here for me when I needed you most.”
Without him, she would’ve been shackled and escorted to another jail cell. A shudder rippled through her. Last night was one she didn’t wish to repeat, ever. Nor would she, because Isaac had hired an attorney overnight and paid a king’s ransom for the not-guilty verdict.
Without him, her sacred rattle would’ve been auctioned away, lost to her forever. He’d honored her wish to practice her religion so long as her livelihood wasn’t in danger, and he supported her dream of running a boardinghouse for Creole women. Merde! She was blind.
“I’ll always be here for you,” Isaac said, patting her on the back. “You’re my daughter, and I love you. Maybe one day you’ll call me father again. You cutting me out of your life was a hard lesson. Tell me what I must do to earn your forgiveness.”
“Nothing, Father.” She gazed into his watery eyes. Pressure mounted against her aching heart. “I forgive you. I’ve seen into your heart, and I feel your sorrow. You aren’t a bigot or a monster. You’ve supported me, along with many worthy causes, over the years. I thought you would turn your back on me and my people when I cut you out of my life. But I was wrong. Please, take me home.”
She braced her hand on the railing separating the gallery from the defendant’s table and began walking toward the center aisle in tandem with her father. He was tall and broad, and people stepped out of his way, allowing him to pass. But when Hope walked through the wood gate into the gallery, she found her path blocked.
Lucetta Moore met her face-to-face, her eyes blazing with fury. “This isn’t over, you little whore. You’re a disgrace to my husband’s good name. You should be ashamed of yourself. Even your mother would turn in her grave if she knew what you’ve become. At least Gabrielle accepted her place in society and lived her life with grace and dignity in the privacy of her home.”
The blood drained from Hope’s face, leaving her light-headed. How could her father love this bitch?
“That’s enough, Lucetta,” her father said, inserting himself between them. “You’ve gone too far this time.”
“Isaac—”
“Not another word!” he growled, placing Hope’s hand on his forearm. “I’ll see you tonight at Magnolia House. But, so help me God, dear wife, if you plan another attack on my daughter, it will be the last you ever see of me.”
Lucetta’s eyelashes fluttered as she wobbled precariously. Her head lolled to the side, and her legs crumpled. Isaac lurched forward to catch her, but another man swooped in from behind.
“I’ve got you,” the man said, supporting Lucetta under the arms as he led her to a nearby seat.
Hope stared at his bald head and broad shoulders. “Hatchet?”
But he didn’t acknowledge her as he smoothed the hair from Lucetta’s face with concern lines etched on the crook of his nose. He glanced around, frantically. What on earth was he doing?
“Mrs. Winston!” he shouted above the ruckus of the crowd. “Do you have smelling salts?”
The woman dug into her reticule and handed him a small bottle. He uncorked it and waved it under Lucetta’s nose. She moaned, and her eyes wiggled from side to side beneath her eyelids. After another wave of the salts, she woke, sitting up on her own. Her gaze fell on Hatchet, and she gripped his hand, squeezing.
“Charles, thank God you’re here. What a dreadful day this has been. Escort me home, please.”
Hope gawked at their joined hands. Was this a cruel joke? She glanced from mother to son and detected only the slightest resemblance in their high cheekbones. However, the color of his eyes: cold, steel gray. Those belonged to Lucetta. And he’d been an overnight guest at Harmon Grove. Oh, why hadn’t she pried deeper or inquired about his legal name?
“Charles . . . ” she whispered.
“I didn’t know,” he croaked. His cheeks were flushed red, and sweat beaded on his forehead. “I swear, I didn’t know.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Isaac grabbed his wrist. “Charles, are you all right?”
Hatchet turned on his heel and ran out of the courtroom. Hope charged after him, ignoring her father’s startled “Wait!” She was hindered by her skirts and lost Hatchet in the crowd. A few moments later, she found him outside, retching into a potted plant.
“All these weeks you lied to my face!” she shouted. “Isaac is your stepfather, and you acted as though he was a business acquaintance. He has raised you since you were a baby.”
Hatchet dry-heaved, his entire body shaking. When the episode passed, he glared up at her. “Don’t berate me. You’re his daughter! I asked you who he was to you, and you said your landlord, nothing more.”
That wasn’t a bald-faced lie. Until yesterday, her father was dead to her. She was about to point out that fact when Hatchet leaned over the pot once more. He sounded horrid.
She knelt beside him and clasped his hand. The heat of his touch sent shock waves through her. “You’re burning up.”
After spitting one last time into the plant, he sat back on his haunches and glanced at her. “Every inch of my body aches, and I cannot think with this incessant pounding in my head.”
She wrapped her hands around his arm and stood, helping him up. “You should be in bed. Let’s get you home, and I’ll call for a doctor.”
He bent over, clasping his hands on his thighs. “The curse . . . Please, you must speak with Victor. I fear I’m going to faint.”
Falling to his knees, he braced his hands on the concrete and heaved in a deep breath. Panic gripped her by the throat. She needed to get him into the carriage before he lost consciousness and his body was a dead weight.
“Hope! Charles!” Isaac called from the top stair of the courthouse.
“We’re over here!” She rubbed Hatchet’s back as she waved Isaac over. “Quickly. Hatchet is burning with fever. We must transport him to Le Havre. I can care for him better there while you call for a doctor.”
Isaac stormed to her side and pulled her away from Hatchet. “Stay away. We don’t know what ails him.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” she said, struggling to break free from Isaac’s iron grip. “I may be furious with him, but I will not let him suffer.”
Lucetta gasped, holding her skirt and breathing hard. She skewered Hope with a glare. “Have you lured my Charles into your bed? Stay away from my son. You’re not a doctor or a licensed pharmacist. You’re a whore. Have you done this to him? Filled him with disease?”
“Mother, please, stop.” Hatchet got to his feet and leaned one hand against the building, swaying. “This isn’t Hope’s fault. Leave her be. Please, call for the carriage. I need to lie down.”
“At once!” Lucetta scurried toward the street.
Hatchet bowed his head. “Listen to your father, Hope. Stay away from me.”
Tears prickled in the backs of her eyes. Why was he pushing her away? Because he feared for her health or because he did not love her? Either way, his decision stung.
Victor suddenly bounded up the steps and hoisted Hatchet’s arm around his neck. “I’ve got you, old friend. What the devil is the matter with you? I leave you for two hours, and you’re falling apart at the seams.” He nodded at Hope. “Glad to see you’re all right.”
Hatchet’s silvery eyes met hers, and the pain buried deep within his soul almost brought her to her knees.
“Please, stay away,” he whispered as they walked past her.
Isaac tightened his hold on her arm, pulling her bac
k against his chest. They watched in silence as Hatchet rode away in the carriage. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight, because something told her she may never see him again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hatchet lay on his deathbed, but whether he lived or not, he was lost to Hope. A strangled sob escaped her, and she pounded her fist on the table in her sitting room. From the onset, their relationship had been doomed. She could never stay with Charles Moore, the son of that lunatic bitch. Lucetta would force him to choose between herself and Hope. How could she expect him to abandon his mother? Still, she would not let him die as Lucetta seemed determined to do.
“That stubborn woman!”
Hope tossed a note on the table in front of her best friend. Roxie picked it up and read the contents.
My dearest Hope,
We are at our wits’ end. The doctor declared Hatchet’s life is in the hands of God. His fever persists. Ten days, no relief. His skin is sallow and his breathing labored. Victor never leaves his side but keeps me informed. With the babe growing in my belly, I don’t dare get too close.
Hatchet is delusional, with trace amounts of blood in his vomit. Though I’ve begged his parents to explore all options and allow you to visit, neither will entertain the idea. Lucetta insists you will kill Hatchet as a means of revenge, while Isaac fears for your life. This is madness.
Please, tell me what else we can do. I’ve tried everything within my powers. Nothing is working. I fear for Hatchet’s life.
With deepest regrets,
Mercy Blackburn
Hope sank to her knees and heaved in gulps of air. Hatchet was fighting for his life while she was slowly losing her mind, trapped inside Le Havre. Tears welled in her eyes, and she gave in, letting them fall.
“He’s going to die unless I find a way to sneak inside Magnolia House.”
“I’m so sorry,” Roxie crooned. “Even if you gain entrance, there’s nothing more you can do for him. Delusional, sallow skin, blood in his vomit—they’re all signs the end is near. The yellow fever has run its course.”
No, her friend was wrong. Even death could be avoided. Hope jumped to her feet and scrambled to the drawers of her chest, pulling out straw, canvas, and the other essentials she would need to fashion a voodoo doll. With her arms full, she crossed over to the table, dumping the materials in the center. She reached for a sheet of parchment and a pencil, scribbling a list of herbs from memory.
“What’re you doing?” Roxie asked, leaning over her shoulder.
Hope thrust the paper into her friend’s hand. “Collect these herbs from the garden and meet me in the kitchen in fifteen minutes. Everything is labeled, so you shouldn’t have any issues finding the ingredients.”
Roxie lifted her brow. “Ingredients for what?”
“A sleeping draught,” Hope said as a plan formulated in her mind. “When it’s finished, you must deliver it to Mercy Blackburn with instructions to administer the draught to everyone at Magnolia House tonight. Slip it in their wine at dinner. Or sprinkle it on their food. Tell her I’ll be waiting at the servants’ entrance at ten o’clock. Everyone should be fast asleep by then.”
“You’re mad.” Roxie shook her head. “If Lucetta wakes and discovers you there, she’ll have you charged with breaking and entering. And what do you plan to do once you’re inside?”
“Save his life! I’m a mambo; this is my calling. I’ll tell you more after you gather those herbs.” Hope picked up the scissors and began cutting strips of canvas. “Hurry.”
Her friend huffed out a sigh then left to do her bidding.
Nervous energy tingled in Hope’s fingers as she stuffed cotton into a square of canvas, and drew the corners together, forming a round head. She grabbed a handful of straw, shoved one end into the head, then secured it with a thin strip of black cloth. Another bunch of straw formed the arms. Within a few minutes, fine, black velvet covered the entire body.
The clock chimed the top of the hour as Hope opened three jars of paint, one white, one black, and one red. Although a sense of urgency for Hatchet’s well-being pushed her to rush through the task, her instincts demanded she complete the doll with precision.
With each stroke of the brush, the skeletal face of Baron Samedi took shape. Chills raced up her spine when she gazed into the spirit’s black eyes. Would he listen to her pleas and grant her wish? He was the master of the dead but also the giver of life, capable of curing any mortal of disease or wounds, if he thought it worthwhile. Even those afflicted by a curse and only a breath away from death. One could not die if the Baron refused to dig the grave.
She painted boney hands and feet with a fine-tipped brush, taking care with each finger and toe. Next came his red vest, followed by a black top hat sewn on his head. The finishing touch would be a simple wood cane tied to his right hand once the paint dried.
Setting the voodoo doll aside, Hope stood and stretched, working the kinks out of her shoulders, then she headed for the kitchen. Brewing a sleeping potion was easy—ensuring everyone drank it was hard. But she had faith in Mercy and Victor to carry through with the task. Even if they failed, she would risk Lucetta’s wrath and the threat of imprisonment to save Hatchet.
• • •
While Albert paid the driver of the hired carriage, Hope pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair. Nobody walked this late at night in the Garden District. Still, it was better to be cautious.
“All right,” Albert said as the carriage rolled away. “Lead on.”
Hope crossed the street. “You didn’t need to accompany me. Look around, there isn’t a soul in sight.”
“I cannot allow you to roam the city unaccompanied. If anything happened to you, Isaac would have my head. I’ll see you safely inside.”
That was probably true. Poor Albert. He didn’t earn enough wages to disrupt his entire evening. When Hatchet was out of the woods, she would compensate the butler handsomely.
The air was thick with humidity, cloying to her skin. She could’ve cut through the air with a knife, if she could see. Most of the houses were pitch-black, offering no light by which to traverse the sidewalk. The neighborhood was so different from the French Quarter, where the streets were alive until the early-morning hours.
Before she knew it, Magnolia House loomed before her. She crept along the side of the house and tiptoed through the garden until she came to the back door. After offering up a prayer that Mercy had received her note, Hope knocked on the door three times.
The door swung wide open, and Victor whispered, “Come in, come in.”
Hope waved goodbye to Albert and untied her cloak as soon as she entered the house, glad to be rid of the confining fabric.
“Tell me he is still alive,” she whispered.
Victor took her hand. “Barely. I cannot thank you enough for coming.”
“Take me to him. All is going to plan, I presume,” she said, following Victor up the servants’ staircase.
“Everyone is sleeping like a babe. Your idea was brilliant. My wife was upset she hadn’t thought of it herself.” His fingers squeezed around hers. “Before we go inside, I must warn you. Hatchet doesn’t look himself, and the room smells rather foul. I’m afraid there is little I can do about that. Are you ready to see him?”
She took a steadying breath and nodded. After tending to her own dying husband, she knew the disastrous effects of yellow fever. Donato lost his battle with the disease after eleven days; little Alfonso succumbed within seven. Her throat tightened as Victor twisted the door handle.
The rank scent of death seeped out of the room, flooding her senses. She breathed through her mouth and rushed to the bedside. The room was dimly lit by two gas lamps, offering her a shadowy glimpse of her patient.
Hatchet lay propped against a mound of pillows. His skin held a yellowish tinge and glistened with sweat. He wheezed in and out, taking shallow breaths. She held his hand between hers, disheartened by the heat radiating off his skin. Goodness. He was
still suffering through extreme fever. Why was he covered with blankets in a stifling hot room?
Dark circles under his eyes spoke volumes of his restless sleep. Her stomach turned at his wretched condition. She ran the backs of her fingers over his flushed cheek. Oh, Hatchet. I’m here.
“Open the door to promote airflow,” she said, standing and pulling the blankets off the bed, tossing them to the floor. “He needs fresh linens and a bath. Is there clean water in the basin?”
Victor nodded and saw to her bidding. “The doctor insisted the door remain closed to contain the illness.”
“I don’t care what the doctor says!” A rush of heat swelled in her breast as she dipped a cloth in the cool water of the basin and wrung it out. “Better the others leave the house entirely than subject Hatchet to this unbearable heat. His body is already consumed by feverish flames.”
“You’re entirely right.” Victor closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the doorjamb. “Tell me what to do, and it shall be done. I don’t want him to die.”
The anguish in his voice was raw and tangible. She would not let Hatchet go to his grave without a fight. “Fetch new linens while I bathe him.”
She dabbed the wet cloth over Hatchet’s face. His lips were cracked and purplish at the seams. He mumbled in his sleep, thrashing his head from side to side. “Shhh . . . I’m here, Hatchet. You’ll be more comfortable once we get you out of these soiled nightclothes and cool you down.”
The nightshirt was damp with Hatchet’s sweat, sticking to his broad shoulders and chest. She wrestled the fabric up his body, but her progress was slow.
“Let me help you,” Victor said, placing a set of clean sheets on the foot of the bed.
“The garment is ruined. Cut it away.”
He pulled a knife out of his calf holster and sliced through the fabric at the neckline, then he grabbed hold of both ends and ripped the cloth down the center, revealing Hatchet’s naked body.
Hope sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. This was not the virile man of ten days ago. Shivers wracked her body, but she shook them off.
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