Barely a minute later, they were in the buggy, heading back to Belle Chene, the unopened picnic basket on the floorboards between their feet. There was plenty of room for it. She and Nick sat as far away from each other as they could get. Wendi refused to try to force further conversation. For once in his life, Nick Bardou could sort out his feelings on his own. Discuss things maturely--like she was trying to do--or bury himself in pouting petulism for all eternity as far as she was concerned.
She finger-combed her hair, hoping she could get herself into some sort of presentable mode before they reached the stable. She needn’t have bothered, because she didn’t see a stable hand around when they drove into the barn. Nick halted the buggy inside the door, and she climbed down without waiting for him to assist her.
Shrugging, he climbed down himself, then led the horse toward the stalls farther back in the barn.
She gave up the struggle to let him figure out his own emotions. Some men obviously remained little boys all their lives, needing to be mothered and guided.
“Nick.”
He stopped and looked back at her.
“Will you do one thing for me?”
His shoulders slumped, and he said in a low voice, “I’d do lots for you if you’d let me, Wendi. But it’s like everything else that’s happened to me in this godforsaken state. I always end up hurting people instead of--”
She flew toward him, shaking her head wildly and guilt filling her at how deeply she’d misread him. He barely managed to drop the reins before she threw her arms around his neck.
“No. No, Nick, no!” she cried. “Oh, how could I be so wrong? Listen, we need to work this out together, instead of misreading each other so unjustly.”
Pulling her closer, he kissed her. Tenderly, softly and lingeringly. Then he pushed her away.
“You’re not misreading the situation, darling,” he said. “You’re judging it correctly. Whether it’s this karma stuff you keep talking about or something else, there’s no future for the two of us together.”
“You just said you’d do anything for me, Nick. Please. Please read my mother’s last Book of Shadows before you make any final decision. The last one I have anyway. If, after you read that, you don’t want to talk about this any longer, I’ll let you leave without protest.”
He shook his head. “It won’t do any good. But if that’s all you’re asking of me, I’ll do it. Go get it and bring it to the garconniere. I’ll read it right now.”
“Thank you,” she breathed.
Whirling, she raced out of the barn and down the path to the manor house. She glimpsed Cecile talking to Lucian as she hurried by the kitchen house, but she only lifted a hand in greeting and passed on by. In her room, she went to the armoire and opened the doors, reaching in for the portmanteau she’d used to carry her clothing.
For a second, she thought it was gone, and she turned the satchel up and shook it. Then she remembered reading it while she recovered from her head injury, dropped the portmanteau and went to the bed. She found the Book stuffed down between the mattress and sideboard, and reached for it gratefully. By the time she got to the garconniere, Nick was waiting for her.
“Do you want to come in while I read it?” he asked as she handed the Book to him.
“No. No, I’ll wait in the house.”
He glanced down at the journal in distaste, almost as though he were touching her mother instead. Briefly, she wondered whether she’d done the right thing, then blew out a resigned breath, chasing a curl from her forehead. What would be, would be. If she couldn’t work out the disrupted karma in this life, she’d have to worry about it again in the next one.
Dredging up an effort of will she thought for a minute she wouldn’t be able to find, Wendi turned and left Nick standing at the door of the garconniere alone. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything except a couple bites of biscuit today, and now it was well past noon. Changing direction, she headed for the kitchen house to see if Cecile could find her something to eat.
Cecile fixed her some cold chicken, cheese and warm bread, making innocuous conversation and shelling peas as Wendi ate. There were many things Wendi would have liked to talk to Cecile about, since the woman had known Nick both as a child and young man, but she couldn’t concentrate right now. The other woman didn’t seem to want to talk about anything serious any more than she did.
Wendi knew the Book of Shadows by heart, and she was fairly certain it would raise more questions in Nick’s mind than give him answers.
The problem was, would he care whether or not he got those new questions answered?
#
For the rest of the day, Wendi alternately paced her room and tried to mentally contact Sybilla. She refused to peer into Nick’s mind and see what his feelings were, knowing he would resent it if she did. Sybilla never answered her, and after the sun went down, Wendi stood in front of her bedroom window. Not one light shown in the garconniere, and she imagined Nick sitting in there in the dark, pondering what he’d read.
He had to have finished the Book by now. He couldn’t read without a light. But had he even read it?
Of course he had. He’d surely been too curious not to, even though he’d handled it with distaste.
Maybe he was just humoring her.
Darn it! She could be spending her time a heck of a lot more productively than trying to form an opinion of something she had no way of knowing about until Nick came to talk to her again. She could be practicing her magic, although that didn’t appeal to her at all, especially since her magic was still one of the barriers between her and Nick.
She could be looking for her mother’s last Book of Shadows. After all, that’s what they’d come to Belle Chene to do, and she hadn’t done her part. Instead, she’d taken Aunt Sybilla’s word that she and Thalia Thibedeau had looked every possible place while they were supposedly only doing housework. If anything, she had probably hindered the search, with her getting hurt and her turmoil with Nick. Even her attempt to perform a ceremony and contact her mother had fallen apart.
Her need to perform a seance had been thwarted time and time again, although she had no doubt in her mind her mother had been making attempts to contact her. Thalia Thibedeau had assured her that her mother had visited while she recovered--had helped hasten her recovery. She’d been here in the room then, not in the barn. Maybe a ceremony here would make contact.
Wendi wrinkled her brow. At least it would help pass the time. She crossed to the small chest of drawers in the corner of the room and pulled out the drawer where she’d stored the candles and other supplies she’d brought with her from New Orleans. Gathering what she wanted, she laid them on top of the chest, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, murmuring and chanting the proper words to show her respect for the rite she would perform.
When she felt the changed atmosphere, she took each candle and held it while she dipped her finger into the jar of jasmine oil and rubbed it around the wick, up and down the sides. Walking over to the mantle, she placed each candle in the appropriate spot and arranged her bowls of water and salt. She set her incense burner at the last of the four corners. Continuing to murmur respectfully, she lit the candles and incense, then moved over and sat on the window seat while they burned, filling the room with pleasant odors. She would--
Nick. Nick was outside the door.
He opened it without knocking and came in. When she dropped her legs from the windowseat and patted it invitingly, he moved over and sat down beside her.
She bit her lip, completely undecided as to what she should say, if anything. Avoiding her gaze, he bent and placed his forearms on his knees, staring at the floor. He sat that way for a good five minutes before he said anything.
“I didn’t know your father was Laurent Chastain.”
“We lived in the family mansion on Royal Street for a while,” Wendi told him. “Until shortly after my grandparents died.”
“That’s what the book says. But it en
ds there.”
Wendi let the silence stretch for a while, wanting Nick to ask for more information rather than have her offer it. Finally he did.
“I need to know the rest of it.”
Relieved, Wendi said, “I was hoping so badly you would. Shall I light the sconces?”
“No. No, let’s just let the candles burn. It seems appropriate somehow.”
“All right.” There was enough room on the windowseat for her to get comfortable--this discussion would take a while--and she drew her legs up again. Settling sideways, her back against the deep wall, she wrapped her arms around her knees, hesitating. What was to come would change things, and she had no idea whether what she was doing was right or wrong.
A brief touch flittered on her cheek, and she quickly turned her head, closing her lips before she could utter the one word that might send Nick out of here without listening. Mother. That touch was enough. She was doing the right thing.
Nick shifted restlessly, and Wendi began with a question.
“Did you know the Chastains well?”
“No,” Nick said. “After my mother’s health began failing, we didn’t entertain much.”
“There was another son, my uncle, Louis. My father’s twin. He was the second born, and over the years, I think that was what caused all the problems. For my mother and me, anyway.”
Nick nodded. “I’ve seen situations like that before. It’s hard enough being a second son, but being younger by only a few minutes--knowing you missed being the heir by a twist of time in the womb--it could make a person resentful.”
“It made him vicious,” Wendi said. “No one realized that until after he inherited everything, though, except I found out later my mother had her suspicions. My father was killed in a buggy accident, and it wasn’t long after that that my grandparents died in a yellow fever epidemic. I don’t remember all this, because I was only four years old when we left the Chastain mansion. But my mother told me the story as soon as I was old enough to understand.”
She watched Nick closely. “She told me after I was old enough to realize Dominic Bardou was her lover.”
Nick stiffened, and she waited for him to react.
“Go on,” he said at last.
The candles flickered brightly, then settled into a warm backdrop glow.
Chapter 24
Sabine and Dominic met in the park one afternoon, Wendi told Nick. Met again, really, since they’d seen each other at numerous soirees and balls, at the opera during the season, at other places the cream of the Creole society mingled. Both were married, happily, and there wasn’t any hint of scandal connected to either family name at the time. Dominic Bardou loved his Annabelle deeply, and Sabine and Laurent were barely past newly-wed status, even though they already had one child. Laurent danced only duty-dances with any other woman besides his wife.
There had never been any hint of witchcraft connected to Wendi’s side of the family, either. The women down through the eons had kept their secret well, knowing what would happen if they were exposed. The Inquisitions and Salem had left their mark.
They chose their mates carefully, also, and Wendi knew her father was aware of and accepted Sabine’s practice of witchcraft. Sabine had trusted him with her secret before she would agree to marry Laurent. Later, Dominic knew, also, but he, too, kept the secret.
Then Laurent was killed. They said--they being those insufferable rumormongers--that Laurent had been drinking after an argument with his wife, whipped his horse too fast and lost control, overturning the buggy. He’d died instantly, and everyone who saw the widow at the funeral knew she was devastated--probably from guilt, they sneered. There’d been no argument, however, only an unexplained loose wheel on a buggy and a man kept late at a meeting and hurrying home. A meeting arranged and delayed by his brother.
Sabine went into seclusion, and six months later, yellow fever struck. The elder Chastains were barely cold in their graves before Louis approached Sabine in her bedroom late one night. She was waiting for him, knowing this moment would come. Her magic protected her, but Louis still had the upper hand.
The next morning, he threw a small bag of gold coins at Sabine, told her it was her inheritance and ordered her to get out. She could take nothing but the dress on her back and her child. If she refused, the child would be the one to pay, because she had to sleep sometime.
Sabine and Wendi moved in with Sybilla, because they had no one else. Their mother and father, too, had died in the epidemic, almost as though it were decreed by some karmic Fate. Fate also decreed the family home catch fire and burn a week after their parents died, with Sybilla barely escaping herself. All she’d been able to manage with the stipend left from the estate was a tiny, two-room house near where they lived now, and it was crowded beyond belief with the three of them.
Nick stirred beside Wendi. “That’s enough disaster to fill several lifetimes, making that about as farfetched a tale as I’ve ever heard. It’s just farfetched enough that it has to be true.”
“It’s true, Nick. When you come from a heritage of witchcraft and your ancestors have had eons of practice at concealing their craft, you have the ability to make do. Overcome the disasters life throws at you. Experience tells you, and you listen to the voices of those who have gone before you.”
“It’s well known now that you and Sybilla are witches.”
“By necessity. We had to make a living somehow after my mother died and your father was killed in the war. I guess Dominic was too desolate after he lost both Annabelle and my mother to think of what would happen to Sybilla and me. By the time he did, if he did, he was already gone from here. You know how it was at first. The South thought it would only take them a few months to send the Yankees home with their tails between their legs, but the war lasted five years. I like to think that Dominic assumed he’d be home soon to take care of his concerns.”
“I was in the war myself, through most of it. Not in the same regiment as my father, though.”
“I know. Now, let me tell you the other side of the story--the one about Dominic.”
The day they met in the park, Dominic had just come from Annabelle’s doctor. The man had sent word to him to meet with him alone, and the visit confirmed Dominic’s suspicions. The last three miscarriages had weakened his wife; another pregnancy would kill her.
Nick jerked upright to look at Wendi, but he didn’t interrupt her. She continued with her tale in a soft voice.
Both Dominic and Sabine had gone to an isolated spot in the park, to wander the more private paths and try to come to grips with their individual situations. Sabine’s money was nearly gone, and one of the basic rules of witchcraft, if a witch wanted to find karmic harmony, was that they didn’t use their magic to build a fortune for themselves. They were to make their way in life as best they could.
Sabine knew what Wendi would face growing up if she and Sybilla set up shop as witches--the only way it looked like they were going to be able to make a living. Of course, Wendi and Sybilla had done exactly that later, but they’d had no choice. No one offered them another way, like Dominic was getting ready to offer Sabine then.
Sabine didn’t even realize at first that Dominic was there beside her. She sat on the bench, her face buried in her hands, sobbing. Dominic sat beside her, recognizing her when she lifted her tear-streaked face.
They told each other their stories honestly--there hadn’t appeared to be any reason not to. And Dominic made Sabine an offer. He would care for her, buy her a house and provide for her, as well as her daughter and sister. In return, she would give him a bed when he could no longer suppress his masculine urges.
“Over the years,” Wendi admitted, “they came to care deeply for each other. But Dominic never once gave leaving Annabelle a thought. Mother said she presumed Annabelle was well aware that Dominic was satisfying his urges elsewhere, but they took care to keep their liaison a well-guarded secret. It all came out, though, when my mother was killed at Belle Chene.”
“No,” Nick denied. “There were whispers before that. But since my mother never seemed aware of them, as far as I knew, no one ever told her about it.”
Wendi shrugged. “Down through history, it’s been accepted that men will take mistresses. That they can’t control their urges. But make no mistake, Nick. Your father loved his wife dearly, and that’s why this entire situation came about. He didn’t want her dying from another pregnancy, and he already had two heirs. What happened was a mutually beneficial situation for them both at the beginning.”
“Until the murder.”
“Until the murder,” Wendi agreed.
Nick got to his feet to pace the room. “I--” He shook his head. “I don’t remember what happened, but I do know I’d been drinking. Heavily. And I was so damned angry with my father, it wouldn’t have surprised me a bit to have waken up with him dead beside me. But it wasn’t him. It was your mother.”
“How long had you known they were lovers?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t, I guess.”
He hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “It seems like I’d always known. But that’s not true. I was coming out from. . . .” He looked at Wendi. “From one of the brothels over near where you live on St. Charles Avenue.”
“They built the house there by agreement,” Wendi explained. “They thought even if Dominic were seen in the neighborhood, people would think he was visiting one of those houses, too. It was a fairly good cover.”
“Well, it didn’t work. This was early one morning, just after dawn. About a year or so before Sabine’s death. I was with a friend, Chet Emilie, and we both had a hell of a hangover. Maybe we were still drunk, too, because I doubt Chet would have said what he did otherwise. We rode past your house, and he nudged me. Said something about he wished there were girls in the house we’d just left half as pretty as my father’s mistress. The one he kept in that house there.”
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