The Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

by M. L. Bullock

  Ashland flashed his best football star smile and kissed me on the forehead. “Oh, I hope not. I definitely snore louder than you do.” He smiled and walked out into the rainy Mobile night.

  Chapter 7

  Long after Ashland left, I felt his kiss on my forehead. After I watched his car lights swing into the misty fog of the Alabama night, I clicked off the bedside lamp and snuggled in my bed. I thought about the first time I saw Ashland, how he had appeared without a sound, confident, handsome and playful. Somehow, we had managed to connect, both witnessing the unusual events that continued to center around his family home. I felt like death warmed over, but my heart felt happy because of my luck to meet a guy like Ashland. A guy more like me than I had ever imagined.

  Are you sure about this?

  I fell asleep and dreamed normal dreams, honey-hued, warm, slow-moving—all about Ashland. His hand was at my waist, and we danced without touching the ground in the Moonlight Garden. Terrence Dale appeared, playing the violin, pulling sentimental strains from the strings. More dancing couples swirled around us—Calpurnia and Muncie, Mia and Hollis, Isla and David Garrett.

  The honeyed background faded, and the garden became as black as the inside of a mausoleum. I heard voices. They whispered to me, calling my name. I groped in the dark for Ashland, but he wasn’t there. I felt hands on me—I screamed and brushed them away furiously.

  I woke with a start to find a big orange tabby nuzzling my chin. “Well, hello,” I murmured. “How did you get in here?” I heard humming in the kitchen, and my first thought was Mia. But why would she let a cat in?

  As quiet as a mouse—a very sick, coughing mouse—I walked into the kitchen. “Bette?”

  “Good morning! I brought you some breakfast. Sorry I didn’t cook, though. I was out late. I picked up some fresh croissants, butter, strawberry preserves. But I didn’t get any juice. Have you ever had coffee in a French press?”

  “No, I haven’t. Thank you for all you’ve done, but you didn’t have to do this.” Still, my hungry stomach couldn’t wait to dive into the spread. I sat in the green vinyl chair of the dinette; the tile floor felt cool on my feet. The orange tabby followed me into the kitchen, rubbing against my legs. “I think your cat likes me.” I reached down and patted his big head. Normally I preferred dogs, but I might have to change my mind if all cats were as friendly as this one.

  “Let me introduce you to Bienville—I also had Iberville, but he’s my ghost cat.” Bette smeared butter on her pastry and poured us both a cup of coffee from the French press. The aroma of coffee whetted my appetite further.

  “What?” I laughed at the idea of Bette believing in a ghost cat. “What do you mean? Is he white like a ghost?” Surely that was what she meant. Well, who am I to judge? I’m the queen of weird.

  Bette laughed with me. It was a pretty sound, light and lilting like a young girl’s laugh. Her head of white curls didn’t bounce today, evidence that she’d sprayed her coiffure with hair spray before her date last night. Of course, her precise lipstick application put my best attempt to shame.

  “Well, I had two cats. They were my LeMoyne brothers—you know who they were, being a historian and all. They founded many of the cities along the Gulf Coast, including Mobile. I think there were five LeMoynes, but I only had two cats. Well poor Iberville ran into the street and was dead, deader than a doornail. I tell you I know he was dead because I buried that thing myself right in my backyard garden near the purple azaleas. A couple of days later, who did I find sitting outside my kitchen window. Iberville! He walks a little funny now, and his meow has changed, but what can you expect? He died, didn’t he?”

  She looked at me and smiled hugely. “I’m kidding, of course! That’s what we Mobilians call a tall tale!” Her laughter gave away how much she’d been pulling my leg.

  I couldn’t help myself and laughed too. “Where I’m from, we call that a lie!”

  Bette put her hand on her chest in mock indignation. “Here in Mobile, we’re too good-mannered to call anyone a liar—even our politicians. It’s tall-telling, and it’s practically expected.”

  “That’s good to know,” I took a bite of the fresh croissant, and it was light and delicious. Just what I needed.

  Bette reached for another croissant with her well-manicured hands. “I swunny, he is like a ghost, though. Just when you think he’s gone, he pops up again. Now, that one—he’s a friendly butterball. Since he knows you like him, he’ll probably pop in again. But you don’t have to let him in.” She noshed on a pastry without so much as a lipstick smudge.

  “Tell me about your date, Bette.”

  “Oh my, you know a lady never kisses and tells. But do you remember an old actor named Steve McQueen?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “He was a handsome rascal back in the day. Big dark eyes and a head full of lush hair.” She shuddered in appreciation. “He was quite a looker. One of my favorite films with him in it, Le Mans, had him playing a race car driver with a limp.”

  “And? Your date looked like Steve McQueen?”

  “No, but he had a limp.” She broke into giggles and for the next thirty minutes told me about her date night, although she left out the juiciest details. Then she excused herself to let me continue recuperating.

  With a full belly and another piping hot cup of coffee, I sat at my desk to read the journals in the bright sunny light. I pulled out a pair of white cotton gloves from the drawer, a voice recorder and a notebook. If I was going to find Calpurnia, I had to get serious and approach the mystery like a historian. She couldn’t have just disappeared—she wanted to be found, and I had promised Ashland that I would. I grabbed my phone and dashed off a text to him: Feeling better today. I’ll be ready for work Monday. Thanks again!

  Just a minute later, my phone dinged with a reply: That’s great! I need your keys. Tires are fixed. I’ll drop it off for you.

  What a nice thing to do. I hadn’t even thought about my car. Okay, I’ll be here. Thanks for fixing them. I look forward to seeing you.

  Looking forward to seeing you too. Call Rachel K. Found something.

  I dialed Rachel’s number. “Hey, Rachel. Ashland says you found something?”

  “Oh my gosh, yes! It’s beautiful—a painting. I emailed you a photo of it. It’s a portrait of Calpurnia Cottonwood. And according to the date on it, it had to have been painted not long before she went missing. I don’t know how anyone missed this. I’m thinking it will go perfectly on one of the mantelpieces, maybe the one in the ballroom.”

  I knew exactly which picture it was although I’d never actually seen it. “Does it have an artist’s signature at the bottom?”

  “Yes, but it’s kind of blurry, hard to make out. I plan on getting on that, though.”

  “I’m pretty sure Reginald Ball is the painter. He was a local man, one of the gentry here back in the day.”

  “I’ve never heard of him. Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Thanks again for emailing me, I’m pulling it up now. You guys have done a great job. Keep up the indexing, and I will see you all on Monday.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I flipped open my laptop. Rachel’s email was at the top of a ridiculously long list of unanswered messages. I clicked on it and held my breath as the attachment loaded. It was Calpurnia. She wore a coral-colored silk dress with coral lace at the elbow sleeves. Her brown hair was piled on her head, just like it was the day she met David Garrett. I squinted at the picture—no, her eyes weren’t brown but that odd hazel color that could be brown or green depending on what she wore. In this portrait, they were green and lively. Despite what Callie thought about Reginald Ball, he had managed to capture many of the unique things that made the young woman so lovely. Her soft skin, the slope of her long neck, the nervous smile on her full lips. He must have loved her, in his own nervous, inept way. I felt a twinge of sadness for him, knowing that she’d never have willingly married him despite his best efforts at courting her.
I left the portrait up while I began my research. This was long overdue. I sipped my coffee and opened the book, searching for the last entry I’d read.

  Chapter 8

  Dear Diary,

  No well could ever be as deep as the Sadness that fills my Soul. All the happiness of life has disappeared into the Endless Black Night, and I wonder every minute how much longer I must endure the cruel barrage of slanderous names my Father casts upon me. Now that Mother has slipped into Heaven and taken her Lovely Face from me, I have no one to help. I am kept like a prisoner here. I cannot accept callers or well-wishers—not even Reginald Ball can see me now. Father says that idle tongues have spoken ill of my Virtue, and I of course deny all these charges while knowing that I have indeed given my heart to Someone Special already.

  Father vows to protect me from the Ardent Affections of any man unworthy of my name and pedigree, including Captain Garrett, whom he says is no true captain but only a poor boat captain with a mercenary’s heart. The Sheriff continues to visit, looking for clues to find Uncle Louis, but no man or woman has seen him. Who else can be taken away? All that is left to me now is Cousin Isla, and she is ever changeable in her moods—one minute I believe she loves me as a Sister, as she often declares herself to be, but then without an explanation she shows a depth of cruelty I never believed possible in one with so lovely a face.

  Last night, in a drunken rage, Father tore the gardenias—Mother’s gardenias—out of the ground, the ones that grew under my window. Someone had told him that the white flowers put off a scent that made men sick for love. I swore that no man had climbed up the lattice to my bedroom window, but he would not relent, convinced that I behave like a common woman whenever I am given the chance.

  Some days, even Cousin Isla is forbidden to see me and I am forced to remain in my room with only the comfort of my books and drawings. Once I dreamed about dying, letting my Father find me pale and dead in a pool of crimson, but I have neither the courage nor the heart to do such a thing. For I know that if I did, I would never be permitted to enter the Gates of Pearl. I cannot stand to think of living an eternity without Mother, Baby Angelique and all my other siblings. Perhaps Uncle Louis is with her too, but I wondered if I would ever know.

  Although my door is locked, Isla often comes and sits outside it to talk to me. The other day, she told me about all the calling cards I have received. She said Stokes refuses everyone, but she greets them for me and keeps the cards in the hopes that one day I will see them.

  I sat on the wooden floor, my head against the door, and asked if any of the callers know I’m being held prisoner in my room. She responded that Stokes tells everyone I am recovered from the Fever that has ravaged the city. But she mentioned that a few callers are persistent, returning frequently to check up on my health, sending flowers—even a note.

  I caught my breath when I heard that, but I did not dare mention the Captain’s name. I asked who comes so frequently.

  She thought for a moment and said, “Well, Reginald Ball, of course. And I am surprised that your father will not permit him entrance. He is your Cousin also, isn’t he?”

  Unsatisfied, I pressed her for more names. She paused. “Why, the Captain, of course,” she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. She told me he suspects that something is amiss and he’s been all but forbidden to court me. She has taken him for walks in the Rose Garden to entertain him, and she told me that from their conversations, he seems determined to see me.

  I thanked her for caring for the Captain, even as my heart Ached at the thought of him being here and not seeing him. I dared to ask if he had left anything for me on any of his visits.

  She lowered her voice and said, “Yes, he did. A note. I’ll ask Hooney if I can bring your supper tray up. If she says yes, I’ll slip the note under your plate.”

  I nearly cried for Joy. I thanked her fervently and begged her to talk to Father for me. I vowed I would not misbehave or shame him.

  I could hear the sadness in her voice as she said, “I will tell him, but you know your Father. He is a most obstinate and unyielding man.” She heard someone coming and admonished me to be discreet with these correspondences from the Captain. If anything were found, she would also be punished. She bid me Goodbye, and I heard the rustle of her dress and her footsteps running away from the door.

  After she left, I looked at myself in the standing mirror. I appeared a pitiful sight, sitting on the floor in a heap of dirty muslin. I hadn’t bothered to dress beyond my nightgown—I’d been in this room for nine days without an attendant. I had not bathed, and I had no one to help me with my hair so I’d left it down. The long tresses hung like brown ropes around my head. Enough rope to hang myself.

  I heard someone climbing the stairs, heavy iron keys jangling, and my heart beat in my chest like a snared bird. Like a maniacal whirlwind I scooped up all my books and papers, tossed them carelessly in the floor grate and pulled the rug over it. My father flung the door open and stood in the doorway, glowering at me. The evil brown leather belt was missing from his hands, but that meant very little if his mind swam with whiskey. After a few steps into the room, I could see that he was not impaired, but he looked as furious as I have ever seen him.

  I prayed: Oh Sweet Jesu, Father has a Dark Soul. Please save me from Death This Day.

  “Where is it? Where did Christine hide it?” His deep voice rumbled through me like a wave of hatred, threatening to toss me upon perilous rocks.

  “Where is what, Father?” I asked. I leaned against the wooden bedpost, trying to step out of his way as quickly as my feet would allow me. He paced through my room, pulling open drawers, tossing my carefully folded clothing haphazardly on the floor. He tore through my armoire, snatching my gowns from their hangers. I could hear the delicate fabric rip. Swearing, he emptied my hatboxes and shoe boxes into a storm-swept pile on the floor. Truly, he was a madman. I cried, gasping at the sight of the destruction of my possessions. I silently prayed that he would not look in the grate and discover my most Prized Treasures.

  He ranted about my Mother plotting with her brother, my dear missing Uncle Louis, and accused me of keeping secrets from him. Then he grabbed my bare arm with a forceful grip and pulled me to him. “Where is it?” he demanded.

  I promised I did not know what he meant and begged him to stop hurting me. He ignored my cries and dragged me out of my room. I nearly tripped twice, but he didn’t slow his gait. He dragged me down the long hall to my Mother’s room. Isla peeped out her door but did not attempt to interfere. I sobbed, feeling raw abandonment. Did no one care that I might die at the hands of this Madman?

  Obviously Mother’s Bedroom had been previously plundered, her boxes and drawers ransacked—a Mighty Search had been launched here, and there was no doubt that Father had not yet found Satisfaction for his Efforts.

  He shouted, “Where is it, Daughter? It is mine, and I want it now!” He released me, and I tumbled to the carpeted floor, where I stayed with my eyes downcast. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Hooney outside the doorway, waving her hand to let me know she was there. “Help me,” I said in my mind, but what could she do? Father tore through Mother’s belongings again, searching for something, something important. The sight of it, the blatant disregard for the many things she had touched, the heirloom items she had loved—that belonged to me now—made me cry even harder. I ignored Hooney’s yellowed eyes and warning gestures. Father had to cease this destruction.

  “Please stop!” I lifted my hands above my head to protect it from the expected blows. At that moment, I did not care. “Don’t do this to her things! Please, just tell me what you’re looking for!”

  He ceased his searching and stood over me victoriously, his chest heaving with anger and exertion. “If I discover that you know where it is, that you have hidden what belongs to me, I will beat you.” I knew that of all the things he had ever told me, this was the truest.

  I stared at the dusty toe of his black leather boot, prayin
g that it wouldn’t kick me. “Please, Father, I don’t know what you want.”

  He did not speak to me again but walked out of the room at a furious pace. I heard him yelling at the bottom of the stairs, calling for his horse and his slave, Early.

  Hooney rushed to my aid, murmuring that she would take care of me, help me bathe and fix my hair. I heard her say, “Don’t you dare faint on me. You know I can’t carry you. I’d have to call Stokes.”

  I didn’t want to go back to that room. I needed to breathe some air. I begged her to let me stay out a little while, but she was adamant that I needed a bath. She shouted to Hannah to bring some water, then patted my arm with a cool hand as she led me back to my room. She promised me I could go for a walk outside and get some fresh air after I had bathed and eaten, and I do not remember ever being more Grateful for anything.

  The warm water washed away the grime, but my heart will be forever changed by my experience in confinement. Later, as I walked through the Rose Garden with Hannah by my side, I swore to myself that I would leave this place—while I lived and breathed.

  I heard a voice behind us. “Miss Calpurnia! How it blesses my soul to see you looking so fine!” It was Reginald Ball, practically running toward me with hearty bowlegged strides. I stopped to greet him, waiting beneath one of the hearty oak trees. My confinement had made me sensitive to the bright sunlight, but I welcomed the warmth.

  I greeted him and thanked him for his kindness in visiting me. He told me he had offered to bring the doctor, which of course my Father refused. I was gladdened by his thoughtfulness and assented when he asked if he could walk with me a while.