“You don’t eat together,” Bradley observed to himself.
“What?” she asked, determined to keep the smile on her face.
“You never sit at the table for a meal.” He swept a hand down the length of the table that would easily seat eight people.
“Oh. Of course we do. When my mother is here. She insists that we eat together. Especially when my brothers are home. But my father and I see no need. We’re busy with our own schedules. It’s easier this way.”
“Hmm.”
“What did you do today?” she asked, moving to the sideboard and picking up a plate. Tonight was fried chicken with okra and tomatoes. There were also apple fritters. Since Bradley made no move to join her, she filled a plate and set it on the table. “Here,” she said. “Everything the cook makes is wonderful. I think she must especially like fried foods, though, because she never fails to outdo herself.” While she talked, she filled a second plate and set it across the table from the first.
“If you aren’t going to talk to me, the least you can do is eat with me,” she said, smiling sweetly.
He moved to the chair and sat. Instead of looking at the food, he kept his eyes on her. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“Thank you for the compliment,” she said, taking a small bite of chicken. “But you’re acting strangely.”
“My apologies,” he said, shaking his head. “Your father came to see me.”
“Oh no. Again?” she said. “What did he say to you now?”
“Nothing much,” Bradley said. “He merely reinforced the importance of me finding a way to make it on my own here in this time.”
“And you will,” she said, her smile turning to determination. “I already have something in mind, but I don’t want to talk to you about it yet, until we see what happens tonight,” she said, with a quick glance toward the door.
Bradley tasted the chicken. “This is excellent,” he said.
“I know. We have the best cook.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes.
“Are you still planning to try to get your money tonight?” she asked.
“I have to. I have to at least try.”
“Very well. Either way, I’m going to see Madame Laveau.”
“Is it safe for you to go alone?”
“Probably not, but I’ll do it anyway. I’ve gone alone before.”
“Why not take one of the servants?”
“The servants won’t go near her. They’re convinced that they won’t live long enough to make it home.”
“But you aren’t afraid of her?”
“She’s never threatened me. She’d always been quite pleasant.”
After they finished eating, they went downstairs to the tavern. After they settled in at her favorite table near the back of the room, and each had a glass of wine, she told him about her idea for the membership levels.
“Miss Lafleur, you are brilliant,” Bradley said. Again, he was convinced that she was a modern twenty-first century woman stuck in 1838. He needed to find a way to bring her back to the future with him. It was unfortunate that it wasn’t possible. He shook his head.
“Why do you shake your head?” she asked.
“I believe you’re ahead of your time,” he said.
“Nonsense. Every woman has to take care of her household. It’s what we’re trained to do. Taking care of the tavern is no different.”
“But it is different. Growing a business like this is what half the women of the future dream about doing. They go to school to learn how to do what you just naturally figure out all on your own.”
“What do your men do?”
“Ha. Our men do what men have always done. We take care of our families and fight for our country.”
“So if women are growing businesses and men are working, women and men are equals?” She smiled brightly.
“We’re working on it,” he said. “There are still a few snags to work out, but we’re getting there.”
“You wouldn’t think it would take so very long.”
“You’re right. You wouldn’t.”
It was growing dark now and Bradley was feeling the urge to step through that door. “I have to step outside for a minute.”
Her eyes darkened and she lowered her head.
“I’ll be back,” he assured her.
She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes haunted. “You don’t know that.”
He held out his hand, his palm up. She put her hand in his and he wrapped his fingers around hers and held tightly. “Do you trust me?” he asked.
“I trust you. I don’t trust the Gods or whatever force it is that determines whether or not you move about through time.”
“Whatever it is, surely it wouldn’t be so cruel as to bring us together only to keep us apart for eternity.”
“You, Mister Becquerel have more faith in such things than I do.”
He lifted her hand and pressed his lips lightly on the back of her hand. “I will see you shortly,” he said.
Quickly, before he could change his mind, he stood up and crossed the room. I won’t look back.
He looked back at her, though, anyway, through the haze of the cigar smoke. She was lovely. So young. So elegant. So brilliant.
And he knew his heart wasn’t in this. He knew she was right. He could step through that door and never come back here. It was could be merely a cruel twist of fate that brought them together for a short time.
He turned back, opened the door, and stepped through.
He turned his face to the sky and laughed as a host of conflicting emotions rushed through him. Relief. Disappointment. Disbelief. Resignation.
He looked up and down the street, illuminated only by moonlight. A chicken fluttered at his feet, pecking at something in the dirt. A rider on horseback dismounted and secured his horse on the hitching post next to where Bradley stood.
There were no drunken revelers. No street lights. No cars.
He was still here in 1838.
He pivoted, went back inside and crossed the room to their table where Camille sat patiently waiting, her expression blank. He picked up his glass of wine, drained it, and said. “I didn’t finish my drink.”
He then headed back to the door, opened it without hesitation, and walked outside.
The chicken had only moved about three feet.
This time he did feel the disappointment wash over him as reality began to settle in. He walked the few feet to the front of the hotel and, sitting on a bench, put his head in his hands.
The worst part of the whole thing was facing Camille. She’d warned him that he would be staying here, but he hadn’t believed her. He had been determined to be right about this.
He straightened and leaned back on the bench. A few minutes later, Camille came toward him. She wore a dark hooded cloak, her hands buried in its pockets.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Wordlessly, he stood up and followed her down the street and left down an alleyway. As they moved toward the river, Camille kept her eyes straight ahead, her intent unwavering.
Bradley, on the other hand, could not help looking all around him. The mist from the river created tendrils of fog as they neared the river.
When she reached a row of small houses, she went straight up to the one with a green door and knocked. Standing next to her, his hands in his pockets, he wondered if they should go. It was growing cold and there were shadows in the mist.
Camille glanced at him, an eyebrow defiantly raised, so he said nothing.
A few minutes later, a small woman dressed in black lace from head to toe opened the door and stepped aside for them to enter. “You brought your young man, Bradley,” she said.
Camille gasped, “I didn’t tell you his name.”
“You didn’t have to. Madam Laveau knows all.”
A shiver ran along Bradley’s spine. She couldn’t possibly know his name.
Camille frowned at the woman. Bra
dley shifted from one foot to the other as he remembered the old song about the voodoo priestess. Please don’t anger her.
“Come,” the older woman said, “Let’s sit.”
Camille and Bradley sat next to each other on the couch. There were candles burning on the end tables, and the coffee table. A large sleek black cat lounged on the coffee table, amidst the burning candles. Bradley could only think of the fire hazard. His mother would have never had an open flame with her cats about.
“You want to know when you can return to your own time.”
Bradley swallowed a healthy gulp of skepticism and nodded. “Yes.”
“It will be sometime,” she said.
“How do you know this?” Bradley asked.
“Why I know things isn’t important.” Her eyes were dark, both her irises and the area around her eyes – smudged with what looked like eyeliner or maybe just coal.
“What am I supposed to do here?” he asked.
Madame Laveau smiled broadly. “You have much to do here.”
“I don’t understand how I’m supposed to know.”
“You have two women to deal with in this time. Surely they are more important than your busy schedule in the future.”
Bradley stared at the woman. And promptly shuttered his emotions.
Camille glanced at him. She did not look pleased.
“There is only Camille,” he said.
“Two women,” the older woman insisted. “Three if you count your grandmother.”
Now Bradley knew the woman was pulling threads. Threads that may or may not be true. It’s what fortune tellers did. He grinned smugly. He had found her out.
“Vaughn is not dead,” Madame Laveau said.
Bradley nearly toppled off the couch.
The voodoo priestess closed her eyes and lifted her eyes toward the ceiling. “She calls to you,” she said. “She wants to see you.”
Bradley held his breath. What did this woman truly know?
“Before it’s too late,” she continued.
“My grandmother is already dead,” he said.
“When a person goes missing, there are many reasons why a body isn’t found. Perhaps they are dumped in the river. Or perhaps they walked through a rip in time.”
Bradley kept his eyes on the woman. This was too much. He didn’t know how she knew what she knew, but it was beginning to make him uncomfortable.
Beyond beginning. He needed to get out of there. He stood up.
“Wait,” Camille said, holding a hand out toward Bradley, but keeping her eyes on the fortuneteller. “How can he find her?”
“His grandmother is the woman I spoke to you about last time. Her name is Vaughn.”
Camille cut her eyes toward Bradley.
What was going on? What did Camille and this woman know about his grandmother, Vaughn? “I’ll be outside,” he said, ignoring Camille’s outstretched hand and stepping outside to gulp in the the fresh night air. He’d thought he was going to suffocate when he heard her speak of his grandmother.
There were any number of ways the woman could have known his name. Servants gossiped and since they knew Camille had a guest, someone could have easily found out his name.
But no one, no one, should have known Vaughn’s name. There was no Internet. This is 1838. Vaughn had been born years from now.
This was impossible. He paced a few feet away. Stared at nothing. Paced back.
What was it his grandfather had said? She was born in the 1700s. She had just gotten to America when she was attacked by Indians. Somehow her life was saved and she ended up in the 1800s.
Camille needed to get away from that woman. The woman was a witch.
He saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye, turned, but nothing was there. This happened several more times and he was about to jump out of his skin. He was beginning to wonder which was worse, being out here alone in the fog with the shadows that may or may not be anything or inside with the witch.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, Camille came out of the woman’s house. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright.
“We need to get out of here,” he said.
“I was only a minute,” she said.
“A minute my… foot. You were in there forever.”
“Are you afraid of the fog?” she asked, pulling her hood over her head.
“Not the fog. But what’s in it.”
She glanced around. Started to say something, but one of the shadows passed directly in front of them. “Yes, we should go home,” she said.
As they hurried down the dark alleyway in the fog, Bradley took her hand and hoped he was going the right way. Now that they had some distance between them and Madame Laveau, he slowed down. Her hand was small and delicate in his.
The moon was only a sliver mostly hidden behind the clouds.
“Are we going the right way?” Bradley asked.
“We’re sort of taking the scenic route. But I don’t mind. It’s a safer area here.” They came to the end of the block. “Turn right here.”
They went around to the courtyard and sat at the little iron table before going back inside.
“I don’t think we should go back there again,” Bradley said.
“I agree.”
“What did she tell you after I left?”
She turned away. “Nothing really,” she said. “Something about me bringing you here to see her. I guess she knew you didn’t want to be here.”
But he could tell she was lying. Madame Laveau had given Camille some more information while he was out of earshot.
I have to get away from here, Bradley thought again. I have to find my sister.
Chapter Nine
Camille locked the strongbox. It’s only temporary, she reminded herself. If she put the money back, it wasn’t stealing. Besides, she’d never taken any payment for any of the work she’d done for her father. She didn’t need it. She had everything she needed.
Still, despite her justification, she felt guilty about borrowing the money. I’ll go to confession.
The bag of coins was heavy. Nonetheless, she tucked it into her skirt pocket. She glanced around the office. Everything was caught up and tidied away.
The timing could not have been better. Her father had gone to the plantation to visit with her mother would not be back for another two weeks. Perhaps she would even be back before he returned.
David would collect the money and keep up with it while she was away. He had a key to a small lockbox where they kept money for incidentals. She would tell him she was going to be away for a few days. There was certainly to need to give him specifics. He would assume she was joining her parents at the plantation. No one needed to know that she would actually be staying on the boat, past her parents’ plantation up the river, and travelling to Natchez.
It occurred to her, however, that she should leave a note for her father. Just in case. They would be traveling by riverboat which was not always the safest mode of travel.
She pulled out a sheet of paper and penned a letter to her father.
Dear Father,
In case I’m not back by the time you return, please do not be distressed. I had to travel unexpectedly to Natchez in order to help locate Mr. Becquerel’s sister.
Your loving daughter,
Camille
She reread the note, then ripped it up and tossed it into the fireplace. Her father would kill her for traveling unchaperoned with a man. In fact, if anyone found out that Bradley was anything other than her cousin, her reputation would be destroyed. Her father would be furious.
She should be back before two weeks were up anyway. No need to risk her father’s ire.
She went upstairs to her room and made some final changes to her trunk. She had packed pretty much her whole spring wardrobe along with her shawl and cloak. The weather this time of year was unpredictable.
She needed to check on Bradley to see if he needed any help with figuring out what to pack. It was mid
-morning, so she decided to risk going to the guest room. Moving unnoticed, she made her way to his door and knocked lightly. He didn’t answer.
She heard someone coming up the stairs, so to avoid being discovered, she opened the door and slipped inside, keeping her eyes down and her back to the room. “Bradley?” she asked.
“You can turn around,” he answered, with amusement in his voice.
She turned around, keeping her back against the door. And giggled. He had clothes strewn all over the bed.
He shrugged. “I travel all the time, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to take.”
“Would you like me to help?” she asked.
“Please. I don’t even know what goes with what.”
She went to the opened trunk and peaked inside. It was empty. She giggled again.
“I’m glad you find this humorous.”
“I can help you,” she said, and began sorting trousers, shirts, jackets, socks, and cravats. She glanced at him sideways. He’d been wearing the same outfit she had picked out for him two days ago. She’d changed clothes half a dozen times.
“How often do you wash your clothes?” he asked.
If anyone else had asked her that, she would have thought they were jesting or daft. She knew, however, that Bradley seriously didn’t know how things worked around here.
“The servants take care of it,” she explained as she sorted and placed things into the trunk. “They can’t wash the wool, but they can brush off dirt and stains. They air it out. That’s why we wear the cotton undergarments. You can wear those a couple of days depending on how hot it gets. They wash the undergarments in hot, soapy water, then hang them to dry.”
“That makes sense,” he said. “You don’t have to come with me,” he said, for the tenth time since they’d begun to plan this trip.
“Don’t be silly. You’d be lost as a goose.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I’m glad you’re going with me.”
“Just remember,” she said. “you’re my cousin.”
“Got it.”
Bradley had understood immediately when Camille had told him about the necessity of them traveling as cousins. In a world where her reputation could be ruined just for stopping by his room or touching his hand in public, he was surprised she was even allowed to travel with him as cousins.
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