“Get rid of that filthy nightshirt,” she said. “When you’re done, look for a small jar in my reticule. I brought a salve for his lips. But I want you to wet a cloth and gently wipe his teeth and gums first.”
They worked quietly and quickly, washing away a day of sweat and vomit. When his front was tended, Victor held Hatchet while Hope stripped the soiled sheets, replacing them with fresh ones. Laying Hatchet gingerly on the bed, facedown, they washed his back side.
“Good.” Hope blew out a breath. “You can lie him on his back again, but prop his upper body and head with pillows. I don’t want him to choke on his own vomit. Keep the bowl nearby. We must be vigilant.”
Victor nodded and collected the dirty sheets. “You’ve done this before. Hatchet told me about your husband and son. I’m so sorry you must go through this again.”
“This time my patient will live,” she said. “I’ve dedicated years to my craft. I am a mambo, intimately acquainted with the many spirits of my religion and wise in ways I wasn’t when I lost my family.”
The corner of Victor’s mouth curled in a half smile, and he strode out of the room. Hope emptied the contents of her purse on the single chest in the room and assembled a simple shrine to honor the Baron Samedi. She propped the doll in his image against the wall so he stood tall and proud. At his feet, she offered gifts of rum and tobacco. But these would not be enough to entice the spirit to fulfill her wish.
“I almost forgot,” Victor said, entering. “Hatchet wanted you to have this.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of her family’s ancient asson in his outstretched hand. When did Hatchet steal this back? She whirled around, accepting the precious gift. Clasping the long stem of the gourd between her palms, she rubbed back and forth, grinning as the beads rattled against the round surface of the drum, filling her soul with the sultry sounds of music.
Baron Samedi would be very pleased. With the power of her ancestors behind her, her chances of success were hundredfold.
“I cannot thank you enough,” she said, setting the ceremonial rattle aside for the moment.
Victor sank onto the wooden chair next to the bed and glanced around. “The room is much more comfortable already. You’re a godsend.”
He might not think so in a few minutes. Her heart rate quickened as she lit a taper and carried it to the chest, lighting a vanilla-scented candle.
“Victor, I must perform a sacred dance for the spirit who resides over life and death.” She walked to the window, staring up at the starlit sky, unable to face him. “Baron Samedi is particularly fond of smoking and drinking. And women, especially mortal women.”
Victor chuckled. “A typical man.”
She leaned against the wall and lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps, but the baron loves debauchery and obscenity. His pleasure will be increased tenfold if you drink and smoke with him while watching me dance.”
Slouching in the chair with his arms folded, Victor nodded. “Of course, if it will save my friend’s life.”
“Just one more thing,” she said, focusing on Hatchet’s sleeping form. “I’ll be dancing in my chemise and corset.”
The feet of his chair scraped against the wooden floor as he stood. “Pardon me?”
She sighed. Englishmen and their morals. Spiritual dances were a celebration of life.
“Think of it as you would an opera or play.” She began taking out her hairpins, allowing him to adjust to the idea while she chatted. “I’m an actress on the stage. A form of innocent entertainment.”
He stormed to the doorway, shoving one hand through his hair. “Is this necessary?”
“My apologies, Victor,” she said, shaking out her hair. “I should’ve asked Albert to stay. He has observed many rituals and caroused with the spirits.”
“Well, you’re in luck. The big ox is sitting on the back porch steps. Scared the dickens out of me when I tossed out the bedsheets.”
Thank you, Loco.
“Please send him up while I undress. And reconsider whether you’ll join. The more men who join in the frivolities, the more amicable the baron will be to grant my wish to save Hatchet.”
He scurried out of the room without acknowledging her request. She could not blame him for being squeamish. His wife was pregnant and sleeping in a hotel, dreaming of him. Still, the ritual dance was beautiful, a true art form. If Mercy weren’t in danger from exposure to the illness, Hope would gladly dance for her as well.
Her fingers trembled with anticipation as she unbuttoned the front of her gown, eyeing the ceremonial rattle on top of the chest. She hadn’t danced since the initiation ceremony, and never to communicate directly with the spirits. After tossing her dress and crinoline on the foot of the bed, she smoothed her hands over the red silk corset, breathing deep. The color matched the baron’s vest and would gain his attention.
“Good evening,” Albert said, his frame filling the doorway. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” She gestured to the chest. “Pour yourself a glass of rum and enjoy a cheroot while you make yourself comfortable. Stand, sit, whatever you prefer.”
Victor poked his head inside the room, not meeting her gaze. “I’ll watch from here, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Albert can bring you a shot of rum and a cigar. Listen to the music. Relax and enjoy. You needn’t watch the dance, though I daresay you might find the sheer beauty of it touches you deep in your soul.”
Beautiful enough, hopefully, to lure Baron Samedi away from the graveyard and Hatchet’s burial site.
• • •
The flames of Hades, a tempest of blinding heat, searing every inch of his skin. He could scarce draw breath, and his mouth felt stuffed with cotton, his lips cracked. Trace amounts of copper lingered on his tongue, making him gag.
A sudden cool breeze wafted over him, and his sanity returned for an instant, only to be snatched away again. Scorching heat. Sweat beading on his temple. Throbbing pain in his head. Parched throat.
Sweet, blissfully cool water on his face, lips, body. Murmurs. Crooning. An angel’s melodic voice bringing him peace. Gentle hands, caressing. Vanilla . . . a cheroot . . . the rhythmic beat of music . . . chanting . . . an angelic voice.
He wanted to see her, know her, but his eyelids were so, so heavy.
His eyelashes fluttered open, and he watched, enthralled, as his angel raised her hands high in the air and shimmied, undulating her hips as she whirled in a circle, her long, black tresses cascading down her back, swinging with the beat of the music.
Beautiful angel in red.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The faint scent of lilacs tickled Hatchet’s nose. He rolled in the direction of his lover, but his hands met only with cool sheets. Yet he could smell her everywhere. Peeling his eyelids open, he peered into the darkness.
Seconds later, his eyes adjusted, but he struggled to bring anything into sharp focus. A sonorous wheeze nearby made him sit up and rub his eyes. Someone slept in a chair beside him. He leaned closer to the edge of the bed.
What the hell was Victor doing in Hope’s bedroom?
His bedroom at Magnolia House came into focus, and Hatchet fell back against the pillows as memories of the courtroom flooded his mind. He groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands, wincing as his palms connected with his cracked lips. The action left him thoroughly exhausted.
He glanced down, suddenly aware he was naked beneath the thin sheet covering him to his navel.
“Good morning, Charles.”
His gaze flew to the doorway, where Hope stood, carrying a tray laden with a teapot and bowl. She walked to his bedside and set the tray over his lap.
“My name is Hatchet. I thought I ordered you to stay away,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m going to kill Victor for letting you in here, as soon as I have the strength.”
Her lips didn’t even twitch as she sat on the edge of the bed and handed him a spoon. His mouth watered at the bowl of chicken broth, t
hough he would’ve preferred a steak, or the whole cow. He was famished.
“You couldn’t have killed him from six feet under,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. Those gorgeous chocolate eyes of hers misted, but she held his gaze. “So be glad I defied your orders. Should we rouse him? He’ll be relieved to see you awake.”
So she had brought him back from the edge of death. He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. Alive. He was blessedly alive and wanted nothing more than to enjoy his first few minutes of lucidity alone with Hope.
“Leave him. Victor sleeps like a babe. How long was I out?”
“Almost eleven days,” she said, pouring him a cup of tea.
He nearly spat out a mouthful of broth. The situation had been dire, indeed. But he had survived under her care. Laying his hand over hers, he squeezed.
“Thank you for being an obstinate woman. Though, to be honest, I’m surprised my mother let you anywhere near me.”
Hope pulled her hand away from his hold. “About that . . . She didn’t. Victor begged me to come, but I must leave before dawn, before everyone awakens from my sleeping draught. You’re going to be fine. The fever has broken. All you need to fully recover is rest and food.”
He lifted her chin until their eyes met. Her strength and beauty touched the deepest parts of him. But even though she sat by his bedside, she felt miles away. And that shredded his heart.
“When will we address the barriers between us?” he asked with a sigh.
She stood and busied herself by the dresser, packing random items into a handbag. “Which one? Your mother or my father?”
“Our father.”
Her shoulders stiffened, and she inhaled sharply. “You are not my brother, Charles. I’m well aware of Isaac’s legitimate family. Though you’re his stepson, I’d never even met you in the whole of our lives until you showed up on my doorstep.”
“Stop calling me that,” he groused.
“Why?” she asked tartly. “That is your name, Charles Moore.”
The vise around his gut tightened, and he took a sip of tea. “So you’re not disturbed by the fact that we both call him father?”
“Not in the least,” she said, facing him. Her jaw tightened as she gripped one of the four posters of the bed. “What disturbs me is that you call Lucetta mother.”
The soup lost all taste as he swallowed. His mother could be a handful at times, but she mostly meant well, and she loved her family fiercely. He didn’t expect Hope to take tea with his mother, only tolerate her existence in the world.
“I admit my mother can be trying.” He rubbed his hand over his forehead. “But she isn’t the devil incarnate. You needn’t say her name as if it were Lucifer instead of Lucetta.”
“Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub—any will do. Your mother tried to have me thrown in jail!”
He sank against the pillows and closed his eyes, feeling tired. “I know, Hope, and I’m so sorry. I’d planned to speak with her about leaving you alone during my last visit to Harmon Grove, but then—”
“You knew of her plans and said nothing to me?” Hope nearly shouted.
Her eyes widened in outrage, and Hatchet’s gut twisted. “I didn’t know the particulars. No more than Isaac, and he had already warned you about the Daughters of Dorcas targeting Le Havre. Had I known my mother was so far along in her plans, I would’ve put a stop to it earlier. You must believe me.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” She sat at the foot of the bed, her back to him and her shoulders slumped. “There are over one hundred thousand citizens living in New Orleans, and I get involved with the only forbidden man.”
She’d done more than “get involved.” She’d fallen in love with him, dammit! The proof was in his near-death experience. Why was she being so stubborn?
“What is wrong with falling for me?”
“Please, Hatchet, don’t be obtuse.” Her hands gripped the edge of the bed, and she groaned. “Your mother despises me with a bitter passion because my mother stole Isaac from her. I don’t doubt that Isaac loves Lucetta, but he loved my mother more.”
Every word she said was true. His mother had hated Isaac’s Creole family from the onset. And Hatchet finally understood why his mother wanted Isaac to sell Le Havre. Even more so, why his father had refused. But he didn’t give a damn about their issues.
“That isn’t relevant to our situation.”
She came around and sat at his side. “You love your mother. I don’t expect you to ruin your relationship with her for a few more weeks with me.”
“I don’t—”
She placed her fingertips over his mouth and shook her head with a sad smile. “Listen to me. You’re leaving for England soon, and New Orleans is my home. Regardless, even if you stayed, we could never marry. You’re white. I’m black in the eyes of the law.” A tear fell down her cheek, and she wiped it away. “Spend your final weeks here with your family, and rest so you can heal.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “I’m so glad you’re alive and well.”
A black void engulfed his heart as the simplicity and truth of her words sank in. He wanted to leave. She wanted to stay. But their time together wasn’t at an end. Not until he ensured she wouldn’t suffer under the curse anymore.
“I’m afraid you can’t get rid of me so easily.” He clamped his fingers around her wrist. “You wanted to know what Marie Laveau told me, and I, being the stubborn fool that I am, wouldn’t tell you the details. Well, no more.”
Her brow lifted, and it was his turn to pull her hands to his lips for a kiss.
“Mrs. Leblonc will be your death or your salvation. Only time will tell. I didn’t fully comprehend her meaning at the time. But I do now.”
Hope shifted closer, a frown marring her face. “I don’t understand. Why would I cause your death?”
“Because I was right about my family being cursed, except for one small detail. Marie Euchariste hexed Isaac and his biological children, as a means of ending his bloodline. Every man you love, and your children, will die because of what Isaac did. I don’t even know how to tell you this, but he—”
“You needn’t say it aloud,” Hope interjected. “This is because of Jenny Cobbs.”
Hatchet nodded. “How did you know?”
“After my mama died,” she said, “I stumbled upon the truth in one of her diaries. She was heartsick over the incident, as was I. When I confronted Isaac, he insisted he had no choice. Still, I couldn’t forgive him for the fact that he stood by and watched, then hid the truth from the authorities. I didn’t care how many weapons the soldiers wielded or what threats were issued. With fifty male slaves living at Harmon Grove, he could have led them to overpower the Union squad. It’s the reason I no longer acknowledged him as my father. Until eleven days ago.”
When Isaac had stood beside his illegitimate Creole daughter in front of a courtroom of witnesses and supported her against allegations from his own wife.
It was a proud moment, to be sure. Hatchet wouldn’t have believed his father capable of it in the past, not when he took painstaking measures to keep his Creole family hidden.
“Marie says I must gain Jenny’s forgiveness, and I want to try,” Hatchet said, squeezing her fingers.
With widening eyes, Hope stared back at him. “But Jenny is dead. You cannot seek absolution from her.”
Ah, but he could, because the spirit was still on this plane of existence. Only Hope was unaware of the truth. “Jenny’s soul is trapped within a mirror in the big house, in the bedroom where she died. Do you remember the little girl, Maribeth, who accompanied me at Café du Monde? She is a medium and has befriended the slave girl’s ghost. We’re trying desperately to secure her pardon. Only then can you banish the bad omen back to the underworld with a spirit ritual.”
Hope clutched her throat and stood, tripping over Victor’s outstretched legs.
“What is it?” he croaked, startled awake. “Do you need the bowl?”
“No, you bloody idiot,” Hatchet said with a grin. “She needs you to watch where you put your damned feet.”
“Merciful angels!” Victor cried. “I can’t believe my eyes. God’s truth, I thought you were headed for Hades.” He blew out a breath and pulled Hope into a fierce hug. “I’m sorry to have doubted you.” Holding her at arm’s length, he continued, “And you were right about the dance. I’ve never witnessed anything so divine in my life.”
A faint image of a woman dressed in red flittered over Hatchet’s consciousness. “That was you in my dreams,” he said, smiling. “An angel in red, come to bring me to Heaven.”
“You were awake?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.
“Aware . . . of subtle music . . . sweet scents . . . and a goddess, swirling in a frenetic dance.”
She grinned. “Am I an angel or a goddess?”
“Perhaps both.” He poured another cup of tea. His mouth was parched, and his stomach rumbled with hunger. “An excellent nurse as well. Please, come feed me. I find myself exhausted yet starving.”
Grabbing her handbag, she shook her head. “Dawn is upon us, and I must go before your mother finds me here.”
“But we must make plans,” Hatchet said.
She sighed. “Breaking the curse isn’t a simple matter.”
Not simple, but necessary. Jenny and his family had suffered enough, and it was time for peace, no matter the cost. “Tell me what must be done, and I’ll see to it.”
Hope lifted her chin, meeting his steady gaze. “If Isaac earns Jenny’s forgiveness, you must convince your mother to host a voodoo ritual at Harmon Grove. Your siblings should attend, along with your parents. We’ll meet at the crossroads, in front of the slave house, where it all began. Or we simply let it go. A part of me believes Jenny deserves a pound of flesh for what she suffered, and Marie Euchariste sacrificed her life to ensure justice was granted.”
He couldn’t let it go. Not when it impacted the rest of Hope’s life. She would never find love or bear another babe, cradle the child in her arms. Or Mary. His sister’s fiancé was still at risk. She was young enough to start over and fill Harmon Grove with rambunctious children.
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