by Lara Parker
“Are you married?” he asked in a dull voice.
Josette looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Yes,” she said helplessly, “we are married.”
“I demand an explanation … of this perfidy … this betrayal!”
“We have none,” admitted Jeremiah. “Somehow, we could not fight ourselves.”
Barnabas was enraged. Seizing Jeremiah’s glove, he whipped it across his astonished face. “Then you will fight me!” he cried. “I will avenge this dishonor!” Jeremiah bore the insult with stoicism. There was no choice for either but a duel.
All the family begged them to abstain, each attempting in his or her own way to plead restraint. But Barnabas was fixed, determined, and Jeremiah followed his lead like a man in a trance. Guilt so oppressed his spirit that he wished only to die.
Angelique tried as well to change Barnabas’s mind, but he would not listen to her. On the morning of the duel, she was able to press upon him a medal which would protect him, and, almost not noticing, he allowed her to hang it about his neck.
However, as things turned out, he had no need for her charm. As the two rivals paced off the count and turned to face one another, only Barnabas aimed with intent to kill. When Jeremiah fell, Josette, her whole being wrenched by loss of her true love and the near death of her husband, turned on Barnabas in hysterical accusation. “You monster! You madman! You couldn’t bear to see us happy. You have killed the only man I have ever loved!”
After the duel, Josette spent all her time at Jeremiah’s bedside, weeping as though her life were over as well. Jeremiah’s face had been blown away, and his head was wrapped in bandages. He never responded, never spoke again. Everyone in the house knew he would not survive, that it was only a matter of time until it was over. Barnabas could not bear to face Josette, and, as the days went by, he became more responsive to Angelique, if only to accept her many gestures of kindness.
One evening he sat, dejected and disconsolate, by the fire, and listlessly allowed her to massage his forehead. “You see,” she said. “I can be useful!” She could feel the warmth entering her fingertips, and was elated by the pleasure of touching him at last, stroking him, drinking in his presence.
But Barnabas’s mind was elsewhere; he seemed hardly to know she was there. “Is your headache gone?” she asked.
He started at her words. “What?”
“I only wondered what you could be thinking.”
“I was wondering … tell me … What do you make of Reverend Trask?”
Angelique considered his question. Because of the countess’s unceasing protestations that sorcery was at work in the household, a renowned witch-hunter had been summoned from Salem.
“I believe the witch should be found and destroyed,” Angelique answered. “Reverend Trask is a devout clergyman, is he not?”
“I think he is a charlatan and a hypocrite.”
“But if the governess is indeed a witch, won’t he reveal it?” Phyllis Wick, Sarah’s tutor, a new addition to the domestic staff, had impressed the family as a very odd person. She was high-strung and nervous, lacking in social charm. She rarely spoke to anyone and never smiled. Even Sarah was afraid of her. Angelique welcomed the suspicious feelings aimed at the governess, for it had taken all the attention away from her.
“Phyllis Wick is not capable of harming anyone,” Barnabas said.
“How else can you explain the strange things happening in this house?”
“I am convinced that the governess had nothing to do with it.”
Angelique saw the opportunity to argue a point, and she could not let it pass. “You must admit, Barnabas, you haven’t always been the best judge of women.”
“You’re referring to Josette…” he said bitterly, taking the bait.
“Did you judge her well? You believed she loved you, but did she? She deceived you. With a member of your own family.”
“Please, Angelique, don’t…” He rose and walked away from her, and she felt her anger flare.
“Can’t you bear to hear the truth?”
“I don’t want to think about her.”
“Why, because you still love her?”
“No.”
“Do you hate her?”
“Yes.”
“Say it. Say that you hate her!”
“I … despise her!”
His face was contorted, drawn with pain. When she saw his expression, she felt a wave of weakness flow through her, and she fought it, saying bitterly, “In time you will mean that.”
“I mean it now.”
He seemed sincere, or at least resolved. Unable to restrain herself, she went to him, hesitated, then moved into his arms, drawing him to her and feeling the warmth of his body against hers. His nearness gave her strength. “Barnabas … you loved me once. You could love me again. I love you with all my heart. I can make you forget all your griefs, all your disappointments. Won’t you give me the chance to make you happy?”
He looked down at her, a quizzical expression in his eyes, and she could feel him trembling. The strain of the past few days had deepened the lines in his face, and a profound weariness seemed wrapped around his spirit. His voice was very soft, almost a whisper, when he said, “Yes, I will.” And he crushed her to him and kissed her deeply.
Her heart flooded with joy. “Will you come to my room later tonight?”
He nodded, his breath warm on her neck.
“Do you promise?”
“Yes. Yes, I promise.”
That night, however, Jeremiah breathed his last, and the house was shrouded in gloom. Various members of the family milled back and forth in the hallway, sometimes looking in on Josette as she sat mourning at his bedside, a dull expression on her face. It was Joshua who finally covered the figure with a sheet and ordered the body to be wrapped in a shroud. Jeremiah was to be buried in the Collins mausoleum. The family used the funeral as an excuse to finally vacate the old house and move to the new estate, Collinwood, which had recently been completed and was the finest mansion in the county.
* * *
One evening, as she had every evening, Angelique waited in her room in the new servants’ quarters, but she knew Barnabas would not come to her. Now that he had finally responded to her, she was frantic to think that Josette was free once again. She sat on her bed and stared at the sack of herbs open on her lap. Unable to resist, she pulled loose the wrinkled ouanga and untied the dried-up knot. The moonstone flashed as vibrant as ever, and, as she rolled it in her palm, she was suddenly wrenched by sobs of helplessness.
She felt as though slivers of hatred and jealousy were slicing her thoughts to ribbons. Josette had never given Barnabas reason to hope. Every moment since her marriage she had been a faithful and devoted wife to Jeremiah, as it was her nature to be virtuous and true. However, Barnabas did hope; deep in his heart, he longed to be reunited with Josette. Oh, why had Jeremiah died? It was the cruelest twist of fate, when the spell had worked so miraculously. But she could not control everything. The Bokor had been the prophet, and Jeremiah’s death was the consequence.
“You will never know when your powers will fail you.” The Devil had spoken these words. Perfectly aware that she was flirting with disaster, Angelique crept out of the house just before midnight. She took with her the loaded pistol that had inflicted the fatal wound, stolen from Barnabas’s chamber. As she crossed the wide lawn on the way to the cemetery, her heart beat wildly and her throat clenched tight with dread. Could she remember the spell? She had not called up the dead since the Bokor had taught her the incantation in Martinique—a dangerous spell, difficult to execute, more difficult to control. But it was necessary that Jeremiah remain close to Josette, still claiming her as his own. Angelique would not think about the outcome.
The mausoleum gleamed white in the moonlight, and she approached the door with renewed determination. She pulled at the iron ring, and the heavy vault sprang open. Jeremiah’s marble tomb lay on the pedestal. The acacia leaves fel
l from her fingers on the sepulchre, and she stirred them into newly dug soil. She lit each of the four white candles and set them at the corners of the room. When she heard the distant thunder, her heart echoed the pounding. She drew herself up like a statue, but when she lifted the pistol, she saw that her hand was shaking. She fired the first shot, and the explosion rent her ears and ricocheted off the inner walls. In a wavering voice, drawn from a savage place within her that was deeper than any memory, she began the incantation.
“Spirit of Jeremiah, fading now, departing, I require you to return to the land of the living. Come to me now, and do my bidding.” She stiffened, dreading the jolt she knew would come, fearing the pain in her gut; but there was none, only a deep vibration within the stones of the building. She took courage. “Do not vanish, Jeremiah, do not flee, for you are needed here once more. Join not your ancestors at this time, but rise, and walk among us, that we may know you and endure your presence.”
The roof rumbled and the stones beneath her feet shifted, then shook with a violent heaving, as though an explosion had taken place deep in the earth. Again she lifted the pistol and fired. This time the sepulchre shuddered, and she stood aghast as, with a grinding sound, incredibly, the heavy marble covering inched sideways on its coffin and the dark opening loomed from within. There was a flickering movement, and a yellow hand reached out and groped for the air.
* * *
The Reverend Trask conducted intense interrogations of every member of the Collins household. He wasted little time with Angelique, who was able to convince him that she was a devout Catholic trained by nuns in Martinique. It was unfortunate, however, that Barnabas was forced to witness Trask’s questioning of Josette. She was even more lovely than before, as her grief bestowed on her an ethereal resignation. Her black lace of mourning shadowed her face, revealing the exquisite delicacy of her features.
As Angelique watched Barnabas, she could see that he was moved. It was impossible to believe that he despised Josette as he had maintained, for his expression was one of utter remorse and total sympathy. Ironically, her suffering had given Josette’s character greater depth. She had acquired a soulfulness unsullied by pride, and perceptiveness and sensitivity shone from her eyes. Her gentleness and humility impressed even the Reverend. When he discovered the mark of the pitchfork on Josette’s hand, he cried out, “This is a sign! A sign of the Devil! The Devil destroys goodness and purity wherever he finds it!”
“Please … it’s only a bruise…” Josette protested helplessly.
“It is the brand of the Devil!” he thundered ominously. “He places it on those he wishes to entice!” And then he made his most disturbing pronouncement. “You are possessed!”
Barnabas frowned, and a darkness fell over his countenance. He still failed to come to Angelique’s room as he had promised, and when she questioned him one morning, he simply stared at her and said, “Angelique, I’m sorry. I cannot give you what you want.”
“But, why?” She knew what he would say.
“Because … I love Josette. I love her still. I know it’s difficult for you to understand. It’s difficult for me as well. I-I still love her. In spite of everything, I worship her.”
“Have you been with her?”
“Yes, but only to exchange a few words.”
“What did she say to you?”
“She said nothing, except that Jeremiah was her husband and she will be faithful to his memory.” Angelique secretly rejoiced, but at the same time, she was very nearly moved to tears. She ran to him and took his face in her hands.
“Look at me, Barnabas, please, think back. I could fill your life with happiness. That’s all I want. Don’t you know that? Let me love you, let me give you joy, I can—I will—”
But he placed his fingers over her mouth to stop her words, and said gently. “Don’t. Don’t torture yourself. Try to understand. I want Josette. I’ll never stop wanting her. I’m not capable of loving anyone except Josette.”
“But she deceived you, and betrayed you!”
He turned to the fire, a confused look on his face. “Perhaps … what happened … wasn’t entirely her fault. Perhaps she is under some kind of … spell.” He laughed weakly at his own ridiculous conjecture.
Angelique felt her heart harden, and she moved away from him. “So once again you are telling me that I am not good enough for you.”
“Angelique, please … that isn’t true.”
“That you prefer to believe you love a scheming, conniving … liar, who has no feelings for you, over a devoted … attentive—”
“Angelique … you are a beautiful girl. I am alone now. It would be so easy for me to pretend that—that I care for you. I could effortlessly make love to you again. But it wouldn’t be fair to you. Don’t you see that? It would be cruel to deceive you.”
But she could not see it. Once again he had allowed her to hope, set her bright dreams on the precipice of a new existence, then plunged them heartlessly, viciously, into the dark. A vile taste came to her mouth. “Your cruelty began in Martinique, Barnabas,” she said. “That was when you deceived me. A long time ago.”
* * *
Sarah’s little cloth doll lay on Angelique’s dresser with the long thin hatpins alongside. Angelique paced the room, covetous rancor filling her soul. She was beyond caring whether the Devil noticed her sorcery or even whether her need for vengeance destroyed an innocent child. She was amazed at her own coldness, her bitterness, and her overwhelming desire to make Barnabas suffer. A sea of troubles would not be enough to repay him for the heartache he had caused her.
Once she had been a child near Sarah’s age. The desperate man who believed he was her father had imprisoned her and used her as a charm to manipulate others. How different was she? At last she understood his insidious design. Perhaps she did have his vile blood in her veins after all. She snatched up the doll and summoned the snake of flame as easily as if she had been taking a single breath.
Quivering with hatred, she said, “Sarah … your dear little sister … when you see her suffer, Barnabas, you will suffer as well.” Then, grimacing, she added, “You are going to regret abandoning me, Barnabas. Someday you will wish you loved me still.”
And, with vicious intent, she stabbed the pin into the soft blue cloth, another, and a third. In her mind’s eye she saw Sarah cry out and fall to the floor, the governess’s worried look, the family rushing to her, and Barnabas’s anguished face.
When Angelique heard the knock at her door, she swiftly hid the doll beneath her pillow. Barnabas burst into the room, his face destroyed with worry.
“Have you seen Sarah’s little doll?” he cried. “The little blue doll with the white apron. She is crying for it, and we can’t seem to find it anywhere.”
“No. Why would it be in here?” she asked in an icy tone.
“I thought I saw you pick it up earlier.”
“I put it with her toys. Please, leave my room, and don’t bother me again.”
He paced, casting about as though he was sure he could find it. “It’s just that she’s so very ill, and crying for it, and I’ve looked everywhere, I thought perhaps—”
“Sarah’s ill?”
“Yes. It’s unbelievable. She had terrible pains and collapsed suddenly.”
“The poor child! Did you send for a doctor?”
“Yes, of course, but he said there’s nothing he can do. My mother is hysterical. The whole family is completely overcome with grief. The doctor … said … she may not live through the day.”
“Where are her pains?”
“Oh … I don’t know … her shoulder and her stomach. She sobs hysterically, and then screams and doubles up as though she were being stabbed. Oh, God! It is more than I can bear. She is so young, and I love her so much. I don’t think she’s going to live!” He collapsed, sat on the bed, and buried his face in his hands.
Angelique moved to Barnabas and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, Barnabas. There i
s the chance that I might be able to help her.”
“You? How can you pretend to know more than the doctor?”
“I … had an illness very much like the one you describe when I was a child. I almost died from it. I would have if my mother hadn’t known what to do. She brewed a tea for me of special herbs. After I drank it, I was well again. Shall I brew the tea for Sarah?”
“What possible good will a tea do?”
“It may have some restorative powers. It can’t do her any harm.”
“All right. I’m willing to try anything.” He looked at her with vague interest. “You did tell me once that your mother was a healer, I remember.…”
She walked to her dresser, her manner deceptively calm although her pulse was racing, and she turned to him. “If I should cure Sarah, you’d be very grateful to me, would you not?”
“Of course. I would be indebted to you for the rest of my life.”
“There is one way you could repay that debt.”
“Angelique, I’ll give you whatever you want, but I don’t think herbs and potion—”
“There is one thing I want. More than anything.”
“If you were to cure Sarah, I’d give it to you,” he said wearily.
“I want you to make me your wife.”
“My wife!”
“Is the price too high?”
“But Angelique…” He sighed, looking at her with total incredulity.
“If she lives … will you make me your wife?”
He hesitated, then sighed again deeply. “I would do anything, yes, yes, anything, naturally, if somehow you could save her.”
After Sarah drank the tea, Angelique returned to her own room and removed the pins, slowly, one by one. The tight feeling in her own chest relaxed. She found that she was relieved that Sarah had not died. Pity for the child came over her, and hot tears sprang to her eyes. Was she ashamed? All she thought was that Barnabas would be so grateful to her, so overjoyed, that he would come to her room at any moment to thank her and embrace her. But he did not come.
* * *
The next morning she found him reading in the drawing room, and her heart flew out to him when she saw him.