“I’ll eat when I’m hungry!” he jolted out. “I’ll drink when I’m dry! And if women don’t kill me, I’ll live till I die!”
Suddenly he saw her and grabbed his decrepit hat from his head, holding it across his chest.
“G’mornin’, Mish Wendi.” He staggered against the building wall, thumping to a halt with a silly grin on his face. “An’ Mish Shybilla.”
Sybilla shook her head at him, but Wendi paused a second and said, “Good morning, Doc. And how’s Mary Jo?”
“Mish Wendi!” he said enthusiastically. “She’s real happy, now thet we kin . . . .” He snickered and winked sloppily. “You know. I sure do ‘preciate that there potion.”
“You keep drinking all day and all night, it’ll take more than a potion to help you the next time, Doc,” she warned halfheartedly. Doc wouldn’t see next spring, with the insidious damage from tuberculosis already claiming his lungs, let alone the damage years of drinking to blot out his memories of having already lost his three sisters to the horrible disease had done.
She didn’t know if his finding Mary Jo a couple years ago had been good or bad, since the homely spinster owner of the local hat shop had fallen in love with him so solidly. Mary Jo kept him fed when he’d eat and gave him a place to sleep when he made it home at night, prolonging his life and giving them both a short span of happiness. But she couldn’t reverse the disease’s progress. Nor could Wendi’s magic. It seemed the Fates had decreed Doc a short life.
“Tell Mary Jo that I said hello,” she said with a sad smile before she hurried after her aunt.
She tried another tentative thrust into Aunt Sybilla’s mind, but her aunt had effectively closed off the psychic communications between them. Even at twenty-two and having endured two failed love affairs, it would be years before Wendi’s magic would be as strong as Sybilla’s. Anyhow, as strong as Aunt Sybilla’s had been until recently.
She didn’t need magic, however, to know whatever had upset her aunt back there had nothing to do with someone perhaps noticing Wendi’s successful spell. And she’d bet her next week’s success at magic that Sybilla’s distress had to do with the man walking off the ship with Thalia Thibedeau. Despite the length of time this former client had been gone from New Orleans, Wendi recognized Thalia Thibedeau on the gangplank. She would have waved, but the man beside Miz Thibedeau flagged her feminine attention, as well as her appreciation.
Devastatingly handsome, he’d caused a definite stir of awareness in her. Tall, dark, and with a fitted frock coat outlining very adequate shoulders, he stood out from the crowd as though absolutely no one else at all on the dock even mattered--at least, to Wendi’s mind. The black aura surrounding his body was almost the same shade as his hair, though, and it immediately filled her with unease. The color reflected deep pressure and tension, while the extension of it over his head meant physical injury. She knew at once that he carried the cane on his arm for aid with an injury rather than fashion.
She also noticed orange in his aura, an indication of his courage. He needed that, according to what she sensed. She’d only had time to briefly touch his mind before Sybilla stepped between them, and the depths had been so filled with shadows and pain she rebounded from them in distress.
As soon as they arrived home, she’d ask Aunt Sybilla if she knew the man. Something had sent her aunt hurrying away from the ship--something strong enough to overcome Sybilla’s hunger, which she’d been griping about all during their walk to the docks. Wendi couldn’t shake the strong suspicion their flight had to do with the wondrously attractive man with the black aura.
Aunt Sybilla hurried on past the turnoff to Stefan’s bayou stand, strengthening Wendi’s suspicions. There hadn’t been a scrap of food left in the house after breakfast, since they’d both been too busy to shop the past few days--perhaps also decreed by the Fates. Of course, there was that sweet potato pie their neighbor had brought over to pay for her Tarot card reading--the neighbor who thought vinegar enhanced everything. Even the Afghan hound Aunt Sybilla had befriended, which kept the neighborhood cats at bay, wouldn’t touch that.
Wendi stopped at the turnoff. “Aunt!” she called when Sybilla didn’t notice she’d halted. “At least let me get us some shrimp from Stefan’s!”
Sybilla turned and motioned to her. “No. I’ll ask Little Bob or Tangie to get us some after we get home. Come on.”
“It’ll just take me a few minutes, Aunt. What on earth’s your hurry?”
“Please come with me, Wendi. We need to get home and talk.”
Wendi glanced down the intersecting path leading to the bayou, and her stomach growled. There hadn’t been any flour to make biscuits or gravy that morning either, and grits never satisfied her hunger for long. It wouldn’t take Stefan more than five minutes to throw out his net and retrieve enough fresh shrimp for them a meal. This time of year, the bayou teemed with both shrimp and crawfish.
When Wendi continued to hesitate, Sybilla walked closer to her. “Remember when I told you that I’d seen something in my scrying speculum yesterday evening, child? Something foretelling a major change coming into our lives?”
“I remember, Aunt.”
“Well, that change just walked off that ship beside Thalia Thibedeau!”
Chapter 2
“It’s always been a lovely house,” Miz Thibedeau murmured as the carriage pulled up outside the Bardou mansion. “But I suppose it’ll be quite the mess after being closed up all these years.”
The carriage driver climbed from his seat, then pulled down a set of steps on the side of the vehicle for his passengers to dismount. Ten years ago, Nick would have disdained the steps, but now he used them grudgingly. Turning, he held up his hand for Miz Thibedeau. A look of surprise crossed the carriage driver’s face, but Nick didn’t bother to explain himself. Miz Thibedeau more than repaid his little courtesies. In fact, he wondered sometimes if she wasn’t the only person on earth who thought him worthy of her care.
Not that he would ever let her far enough inside the barrier to his emotions to recognize his gratitude.
Miz Thibedeau climbed down and smoothed some non-wrinkles from her dress. “Shall I wait out here for our baggage to come in the wagon?” she asked. “Or should I go get started on the dust inside?”
“Right now, just wait,” Nick murmured. He pulled a coin from his pocket and handed it to the carriage driver. The man glanced at it and his mouth dropped open.
“Oh, sir, thank you,” he said gratefully. Tugging his hat in a leavetaking, he climbed aboard and set his horse in motion.
“Now,” Nick said sternly to his housekeeper and cook. “Before we go inside, I want to know how long you’ve been aware of who I am.”
“Oh, lordy, for ages,” Miz Thibedeau said breezily, waving a hand in the air, but with a suppressed twinkle in her eyes. “Even before I come to work for you. Why, you don’t think that newspaper telling about the tax sale on this beautiful mansion just accidentally found its way open so you’d see the piece, do you?”
“Damn it, Miz Thibedeau--”
She patted his arm and walked past. “You look a lot like your father, Monsieur Bardou,” she said, addressing him for the first time by his French Creole title. “And I’ve always wanted to see inside this beautiful place. Though I do wish it wasn’t going to be covered in dust the first time I see it.”
Nick limped after her. “I wired my attorney, Justin Rabbonir, and asked him to have the house readied for us,” he said with a sigh of resignation. “He was also supposed to see if he could find any servants to assist you for the few days we’ll be here, but he wired back and said he couldn’t. They did at least clean the place, and they damned well better have done a good job for what I had to pay them. But none of them would agree to work here permanently, even for a few days.”
“No, probably not,” she agreed. “I’ll get some servants, don’t you worry, Monsieur Bardou. Do you suppose Monsieur Rabbonir is waiting for us with the key?”
Nick shook his head and picked up a flower pot filled with bright-blooming red geraniums on the landing wall. He frowned down at Miz Thibedeau. “Didn’t you notice the grounds were kept up when we pulled up at the curb? And it looks like Justin brought over some flowers.”
“I assumed your neighbors wouldn’t put up with a neglected house beside theirs. The estate probably set up funds for a groundskeeper. Or maybe your hired help at Belle Chene, outside of town, took care of it.”
It shouldn’t still surprise him that she knew things about him--things he’d thought secret from his previous life--but it did. Shoulders heaving in defeat, he shoved the key in the lock and opened the door. Holding out a hand and giving her a wry look, he allowed her to proceed him.
She stopped just inside the marble-floored entrance way, mouth dropping in awe. “It’s every bit as beautiful as I’d heard,” she said after a few seconds. “Oh, I’m so glad you wired ahead and had it cleaned.”
“I asked Justin to make sure the larder was stocked, too.”
She giggled like a young girl. “You and your belly, Monsieur Bardou. Did you by any chance think of transportation?”
“There’s a small barn out back, and I believe you might find a buggy and horse there, as well as a mount, should you decide you wanted to try to ride that way. Use the mare, though, not the stallion of mine I asked Justin to have sent in from Belle Chene.”
“Oh, Monsieur Bardou, you made a joke,” she said with a laugh. “Maybe it will do you good to be home.”
Invisible weight fell on his shoulders, heavy in its non-existence, and Miz Thibedeau’s face changed immediately. “Well, maybe you just don’t know it yet,” she murmured. “Will you show me around, or would you rather I familiarize myself with the house?”
“We’ve probably got time for a tour before the wagon with our baggage arrives.”
The Bardou mansion wasn’t the largest house on St. Charles Avenue, but Nick would rate its opulence beside any other mansion in New Orleans without question. Justin had evidently overseen the work, because the place smelled just like it did right before the times his mother had entertained. And she’d entertained several times a week in the earlier period of her marriage, but he didn’t want to let that memory out yet, either.
He motioned Miz Thibedeau through the door on the right, which led into the ladies parlor. Through the room was another room, a mirroring one, but decorated in more masculine style--the men’s parlor, where he’d drunk more liquor than he cared to recall and puked his guts out one night. He checked the bar as they passed through, finding it fully stocked. Justin had even remembered the brand of brandy he preferred.
They passed through the game room and out onto the back veranda. Though still somewhat overgrown, an effort had been made to tame the profusion of roses, wisteria and azaleas in the garden back there. Several marble statues stood cleared of vines, though still needing scrubbed free of bird droppings. The small barn demanded a coat of paint, and beyond that, the rear wall was covered in ivy. Sun sparkled on the pieces of sharp glass imbedded in the top of the wall to help keep intruders from invading the family’s privacy.
Over and above the other flower scents, honeysuckle mixed with jasmine drifted in the air.
“My mother always loved the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine,” Nick told Miz Thibedeau. “See where it’s planted over there?” When she nodded, he continued, “Up above that area is the master bedroom. She liked the windows open at night, so she could smell her garden.”
“I knew your mother,” she told him, not expanding on her statement.
He didn’t ask her to. “Come on, we’ll finish the tour.”
They walked across the veranda and entered another door, which the same key opened. He bypassed the oak stairwell for now, leading her to the front entranceway again, then to the other side of the stairwell. Here, another parlor was used for less formal visitors, and just past it was the library/study his father had called his own. He only muttered an identifying comment to her for now, then led the way up the stairwell.
There were six bedrooms upstairs, and it didn’t take him long to show them to her. Three had attached dressing rooms, but only the master suite had a sitting room and wash closet.
As they started back downstairs, Nick said, “There’s another small building off the back veranda that you probably saw. It’s used for the kitchen. I want you to feel free to do anything necessary to make that room useable for yourself. And there’s a small living quarters above that, which you may use if you wish. Or you can have any of the bedrooms upstairs.”
“Other than the master suite, I assume,” she said, quirking her eyebrow.
“Other than the master suite,” he agreed, knowing it would look like he couldn’t handle the memories if he didn’t use the room designated for the mansion’s owner.
“First thing I’d like you to do for me,” Miz Thibedeau said as soon as they got to the bottom of the stairwell, “is hitch up that buggy. My sister’s expecting me, and I’ll drive over there and see what sort of servants she can round up for us. With all her children and our various cousins, I believe we’ll find a very adequate staff.”
“Just remember, it’s only for a few days. But tell them I’ll pay them for at least a month, if they’re good at their jobs. I don’t like to have to worry about the house running itself while I deal with other matters.”
“As you wish.” Cocking her head, she gazed at him with the merry look he didn’t like to admit he enjoyed thoroughly. “I seem to recall a bayou stand run by a Cajun named Stefan near where my sister lives. Would you by any chance be interested in some crawfish for the evening meal?”
He had to swallow the sudden moisture in his mouth before he could answer her with any degree of nonchalance. “Whatever you wish. Your meals are always delightful.”
“Hmmmmm. Etouffe, then? Or jambalya?”
“We’re tired from the trip. Just boil them.”
“Ah, yes, with lots of spices and hot peppers,” she mused. “Some new potatoes and corn cooked in the pot with them. And I’ll bet my sister made some pralines, knowing I was coming. That will do for dessert this evening, if you agree.”
Damn it, moisture would run down his chin if he opened his mouth! Instead, he jerked his head “yes” in agreement and headed for the rear of the mansion. A few minutes later, he had the buggy hitched, Miz Thibedeau on her way down the back alley, and was closing the gate. Now he could give in to the pain and strong desire for the taste of brandy tantalizing his senses.
Leaning on his walking stick more heavily now that no one could see him and judge his depth of misery, he made his way up the flagstone-lined pathway and onto the veranda. The door jammed for a second when he pulled on the knob, and he jerked it loose with a curse. He didn’t have to put on a front for anyone now, and the dam against the pain crumbled as though it were a levy giving way in a flood.
He didn’t bother with the men’s parlor--he headed straight for the library. Knowing Justin, that bar would be stocked as adequately as the other one, perhaps even more so. He flung the door open and hurried over to the sideboard, where cut-glass decanters and heavy crystal glasses sparkled invitingly.
When the unrelenting pain sent a tear sliding down his face, he grimaced in anger and grabbed the brandy decanter. Shakily, he leaned on the walking stick, pulled the stopper out with his teeth and spit it away. It landed soundlessly on the carpeted floor. He took several long swallows, then closed his eyes and waited for the relief the bottle held.
Brandy never made the pain disappear completely, but it helped him bear it. Over the years, however, it took more and more brandy to help--and longer and longer for it to work. He stood there a full five minutes before he felt confident enough to stagger to one of the overstuffed armchairs in front of the huge teakwood desk without collapsing along the way. The fight with the agony in his leg took all his energy, but instead of dropping immediately into the chair, as he would have ten years ago, he eased
himself down. One of the things he would miss the most here in this harshly humid land was the specially designed furniture in his house in San Francisco. After another swallow of brandy, he leaned his head back against the chair.
Still he denied the most prevalent thought access to his mind, focusing on another direction, hoping the memories frothing for notice like pounding waves at high tide would recede.
Why the hell had he even bothered to come back to New Orleans? Seemed like some twisted Fate had started it all. Hiring Thalia Thibedeau. Her son sending her periodic New Orleans newspapers all the way to California. Her knowing who he was all along.
He could have ignored the notice of the tax sale on his family home and the outlying plantation of Belle Chene. Pretended he hadn’t seen it, even though Miz Thibedeau had left it open beside his breakfast plate that morning. At the time, he didn’t realize that had Miz Thibedeau seen it, she would recognize it as having anything to do with him. He hadn’t used the Bardou name in years.
For that matter, why the hell did he even hire Miz Thibedeau that day? Surely his longing for the taste of the spicy Creole and Cajun dishes from his childhood hadn’t been that bad. His stomach growled and his mouth watered. He snorted a sound of disgust at the lie crowding his mind, recalling the day he’d found Thalia Thibedeau so far from her New Orleans home.
He’d been interviewing prospective servants and thought it provident to find a widow who had travelled from New Orleans to California with her husband before he died. But look at the twisted path that turn of Fate had led him on. He’d vowed never to set foot in New Orleans again, and here he was--not only in this hellacious city but in his family mansion. And Miz Thibedeau had set the wheels in motion.
He’d sworn to never even travel any further east than the Rocky Mountains again. Too many memories lay beyond those craggy peaks. Too many nightmares waited in the wings for release.
He was right in the middle of those nightmares now. Try as he would, he couldn’t keep his thoughts focused on California, not with the walls of the Bardou mansion surrounding him. Not with the memory of the wind-blown strawberry blond hair on the woman peering at him across the dockside crowd. Peering at him with a gaze that somehow connected to him.
Spellbound Page 2