“I need to start drinking with your Aunt Maureen.”
Amelia slid over, opening a spot on the bed. Jacob crawled up, tentative, but eagerness to be near her was written in his gaze.
He grimaced and shifted back and forth, settling in. “This is the most uncomfortable bed I’ve ever lain on.”
Amelia gestured up to the carved headboard, where an oak bar resembling a rolling pin was situated, below the tester. “That’s because the mattress is stuffed with Spanish moss and feathers. That pin there is rolled over the bed in the evening to smooth out the rough spots. They put it back in after and voila, you have a useful decoration.”
“Did you just make that up? If so, I disagree that you can’t contribute to our growing delinquency of lies.”
“Between playing tour assistant to my mother, and growing up here with my cousins, there’s not much I don’t know. And you’ll find these all up and down the River Road stretch, not just here. We still have the same beds in Ophélie today with more civilized mattresses.”
“I can’t believe we’re having a serious discussion about mattresses. We woke up in 2006 and now we’re in 1860.” Jacob released a thin whistling sound. It was barely audible over the din from the festivities downstairs, which felt like a taunt; a promise of a future they would inevitably be required to address. “Or 1861. I don’t know.”
“And it’s cold outside,” Amelia added. “That worries me.”
“Because we forgot to pack our frock coats?”
“Because Ophélie is sixteen. War was declared in January of 1861. For it to be this chilly, it would have to be December or January, right? We get maybe two cold months out of the whole year. So we’re either a year away from war or a month.”
Jacob gazed up at the satin folds of the half-tester. “We won’t be here long enough to worry about it.”
“Why do you say that?”
He laughed. “Come on. We can’t possibly stay here.”
Amelia propped herself on an elbow and turned to face him. “Jacob, we’re here for a reason.”
“Because I suck at time traveling.”
“No,” she went on. “Holger told you your abilities would surface when you most needed them. Padraig said that too, right? We could have landed in a battlefield in the Middle Ages, but instead, we’re here.”
“I’m sorry, Blanca, but you’re looking for signs where there are none,” Jacob said carefully. He reached for her hand but paused, withdrawing. She picked the reason off the perimeter of his thoughts: Holding her close out in the world was as simple as an afterthought. In here, alone, it implied intimacy, and he feared anything that might place pressure on her.
Well, she feared it, too.
“We only know what we know, and what we know is your ability serves you more as a need than a want. The two of us needed to be here, we just don’t know the reason yet.”
“How long do you suggest we wait to figure that out?”
Amelia didn’t have an answer.
Jacob gestured toward the door. “That nice young girl out there, your ancestor, is going to come get us in a couple hours. When she does, we’re going to have to socialize with people who might be less quick to accept a vague story than she was.”
“We need a story,” she agreed, scrunching her face to push back a yawn. “And since we are apparently landed gentry, the pressure is on.”
“I sense two eyes dying to roll,” he said, working to discern what it meant that she was dithering between annoyance and passive disregard. She saw all of this like words on a page, his mind still wide open.
“Just tired is all. When we left Norway, it was night. My circadian rhythm is terribly confused,” she replied, pressing her cheek deeper into the pillow. “Maybe in shock, too. Can we lock ourselves in this room until we’re ready? Just close the world out? I don’t know how to make sense of what we’ve gotten ourselves into. I don’t think I’m ready to, either.”
“Ready or not, we’re here.” Jacob intentionally softened his tone upon the realization he was annoyed at the growing disconnect between the two of them, and that he could find no easy blame or simple fix. Amelia loved Jacob for caring so much; she hated herself for not having the emotional energy to make it better for him. “And if you’re right, and we need to stay and figure it out, we can’t go down to dinner with stupid expressions and pretend we don’t speak the language.”
“Que?” Amelia flashed a drowsy smile. Her pale blue eyes fluttered, half-closed. Jacob’s heart melted. The small moments mattered more than they had before, somehow. He wished he could return to a time where he didn’t need to count them.
Amelia winced. She needed to get out of his head. Open to her or not, she didn’t belong there. It hurt to be there.
He had never been so open to her, without even reciprocation. Maybe he wanted her to read his thoughts, in place of the words he couldn’t find.
“Charles is going to want to know why we’re here,” Jacob said, pushing on and running his fingers down the outside length of her arm, “without any advance warning or invite. I don’t know a whole lot about his temperament. Do you?”
“I know he let a bunch of Union soldiers rape his daughter to protect his own ass, then he killed her to cover it up,” Amelia said with a sharp frown. “So I wouldn’t expect much compassion.”
Jacob blew out a breath. “Wow, okay. Yeah. There’s that.” His hand stopped. “Maybe Brigitte is our ally, then. Our way in. A woman’s touch, and all that.”
“I haven’t heard many good things about her either,” Amelia said amidst another consuming yawn. “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault you aren’t the expert on people you’ve never met.”
“No. For being so tired and so unhelpful.”
Jacob brushed his lips against her forehead. “You’re right. You are probably in shock. I might be too. If we get asked tonight, we’ll just say… I don’t know… that we’re interested in land along the river. And hopefully, we won’t be here long enough to have to come up with anything better than that.”
III
Jacob didn’t even doze. Instead, he watched his wife sleep, wondering if he’d inadvertently led them into worse danger than they’d escaped.
What was wrong with him, bringing her here? They weren’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for anything after what she’d experienced.
Well, he hadn’t been thinking. That was the long and short of it, and everything in between. He’d seen the risk, formed an idea, and ran with it.
And Amelia had been playing around in his head since they’d arrived at Ophélie, something he could have stopped but chose not to. Jacob welcomed it, letting his guard all the way down. He would do anything to bring her comfort, and if seeing his care for her, in the space of his private thoughts, helped in any way, she could spend the next eternity there as far as he was concerned.
But here? Here would be short-term. He had managed to bring them without much trouble, so hopefully getting them home would be as easy.
Ophélie appeared right on schedule, moments after Clara departed from her torture session of stuffing Amelia into a dress and corset. She’d weathered it as well as any twenty-first-century woman used to the comfort of t-shirts and jeans might… grimacing and groaning all the way through, but tried to smile pleasantly through the assault.
Jacob had never been so happy to be a man.
“Why, Lady Donnelly! What a delight you are!” Ophélie exclaimed, hands clutched to her mouth, wearing an expression that seemed as sincere as her ecstatic words. “The crimson is shocking with your white as snow hair. Not that we get much snow here.”
Amelia smiled politely. Jacob wondered if their hostess could see his wife fighting for breath, courtesy of her new twenty-eight-inch waist.
Ophélie had also undergone a wardrobe change of her own, now in a lower cut emerald number that Jacob assumed was better suited for evening socializing.
“Is this your first time in the Americas?�
�� she asked as she led them down the long upper hallway. Jacob nearly tripped as he eyed the portraits lining the walls, some familiar, others not. Charles, Brigitte, their children… those all still hung in the present-day plantation. But the others, oil likenesses of men and women in frilled blouses, rouged lips, and high, powdered hair, were clearly from France. Sometime between the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries, they’d been removed.
“Yes,” Jacob said, scanning the pictures to memory.
“No,” Amelia said in tandem.
They exchanged looks. We need to get our damn stories straight, Donnelly, Amelia shot him, opening a telepathic connection.
Well, we spent our alone time talking about mattresses and courtesans.
Your sarcasm is, for once, not welcome.
“Lady Donnelly is thinking of the time we visited Saint-Domingue,” Jacob quickly explained, lowering a quick, satisfied grin at Amelia.
You realize we would have no reason to be in Haiti in the 1860s, right? The feudal system there was destroyed three-quarters of a century ago, and we are very much persona non gratis.
I realize that now, thanks.
“Oh?” Ophélie asked as they descended the staircase. The carved banister shone with fresh wax, catching the flickering light from oil lamps decorating the walls and tables. “We have relatives here tonight whose grandfather managed a plantation in Cap Français, but they were driven out when the slaves rose up. Maybe you’ve heard of them? The de Blancheforts? They own property all up and down this stretch of the river and are married into all the most prestigious families. The Romans, the Destrehans…”
Ophélie continued on her recitation of names and connections, but Jacob’s focus was on his wife. Her cheeks had lost all color. He didn’t know if it was the lack of oxygen, the stress, or a twisted combination of both.
“I’ll find some water,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth as they reached the bottom step. Ladies and gentlemen gathered around in small masses, the gaiety of the early afternoon having faded to more serious discussion. The women wore darker, richer fabrics. Even the overhead lighting had dimmed.
Amelia shook her head. “I just need to sit down. Maybe we can find a nice corner that also somehow makes us invisible until the evening can be over.”
“You’re looking for a wormhole. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
Her lips twisted. She gripped her waist in a desperate grab for comfort. “Water sounds good after all.”
Ophélie knowingly sat them in the corner of the double parlor on a burgundy velvet Queen Anne sofa Jacob recognized. The room was near to overflowing with guests of all ages. Jacob had never seen both parlors opened in this combined way, and was shocked at the sheer size of what resembled a grand ballroom. Men in frocked waistcoats and women in low-necked gowns gathered from group to group, the lighter joyfulness of the afternoon replaced by a tone decidedly more mature.
“I don’t suppose you know anyone here?” their hostess asked, lifting a blue Spode saucer of chicory coffee with dainty deliberateness. Her tiny sip was soundless.
Amelia nursed the water Clara had fetched her from the well, her gaze fixed on a French Renaissance-era Henry II buffet in the corner. It seemed familiar to Jacob, as well, though he remembered it from his own past in the orphanage, which had been filled with countless donated antiques, mostly French.
How many other heirlooms would they recognize? “I can’t say we do,” Jacob replied for them both.
Ophélie’s entire face lit up with purpose. “Why, I’ll catch you right up, my lord.” Her teacup was relegated to the rosewood candle stand to her right. Her posture straightened.
She gestured toward an older fellow with white tufts at his temples and a distinctive Roman nose. He held his sherry glass in an intentional manner, away from his body, suggesting he required continuous refills. “That right there is Duncan Kenner. He’s the owner of Ashland, which Papa says was the old Linwood Plantation, but that was before our time here. He’s a statesman in the legislature. His wife, Nanine, is the daughter of the master of L’Hermitage, Michel Doradou Bringier. They say Kenner named his plantation after fellow horseman, Henry Clay. He has a fine racetrack, which I walked with Mama and some of the other ladies when we went there for the New Year’s celebrations two years past. A walk like no other! My feet ached for days, and my shoes had to be re-soled. They say James Gallier Sr. designed the house, but Charles Dakin claims he did. Or so they say. Dakin has been gone nearly a decade, so no way to ask…”
Jacob was fascinated to hear Ophélie recite names he’d grown up reading in local history books. You hear that, Blanca? We’re looking at the dude they named the city of Kenner for.
Amelia didn’t respond, but she was listening.
Ophélie nodded next to the gentleman with hawk-like features in deep conversation with Kenner. “Msr. Rost married into the Destrehan family, and he’s now the owner of their lands down in St. Charles Parish. The Destrehans are royalty in these parts, as much as the Aimes or the Romans or de Blancheforts. He’s said to be a dinner guest of President Buchanan, which Papa thinks could be a benefit for us should we secede from the Union. That younger man to his left is Emile, his son.” She frowned at the last mention, scrunching her nose briefly before moving on. “Papa began marriage negotiations for he and I a year ago, but they failed.”
Jacob could see nothing wrong with Emile Rost, but Ophélie made it clear, she had no time for him.
“That, of course, is Judge Randolph, and the man he’s talking to is John Andrews. They have quite the rivalry! Would you believe they built the largest homes along the river, side-by-side? Randolph is the master of Nottoway, and Andrews has Belle Grove. Papa says Nottoway blinds you when you travel upriver, the paint is so fresh. Those young men gathered by the hearth are their sons. Heaven knows why they come all the way out here to gossip together when they could do so in their own backyard.”
Jacob had heard the story of the dueling plantations, but now only Nottoway remained in the present day. Belle Grove had been lost to a tragic fire. All that remained of the lost beauty were grainy black and white photos.
Ophélie straightened her spine and blushed. “And that,” she said, pointing to a regal fellow sitting at the head of the table, a spot Jacob assumed should have been reserved for Charles. “If you can believe it, is Valcour Aime himself. Surely, you’ve heard of him, at least? They call him the Louis XVI of Louisiana.” She implored Jacob for a sign of recognition, but he shook his head. He, of course, knew of the man, but he couldn’t exactly confess how so it was safer to play dumb. “No? Why, you can hardly travel the River Road without stepping foot on one of his properties or meeting one of his brood. He married a Roman girl, Josephine. The Romans who own Oak Alley?”
Jacob knew who the Romans were, too, from his studies of Louisiana history as a child, but he wanted to hear what she would say next. The opportunity to see the past through her eyes was too much to pass up.
Ophélie eyed Jacob as if he might truly be hopeless. “Yes, well, Aime’s wife is a Roman, and their four daughters are mistresses of their own plantations. His sugar plantation, St. James Refinery, down the parish is the sight to see. They call it La Petit Versailles because he hired designers from King Louis’ court to design the gardens. Aime might own half the river if you add it all up. The plantations closest to us, St. Joseph and Felicity, were gifts to his daughters, so we’re surrounded by Aimes. Aimes, Destrehans, de Blancheforts, Romans. You could make a song about it!”
Amelia smiled politely when Ophélie leveled a concerned gaze on her. “I’m fine. Go on.”
Ophélie paused in one more moment of measure and went on, eager to continue her education of the foreigners. “Aime knows more about sugar than the entirety of the West Indies. His girls, Edwige and Felicite, both married one of their Fortier cousins. Josephine married one of the Ferrys and Felice, of course, married back into the Romans. First cousins and all. Quite the scandal. But did you know, most
of all, that Msr. Aime’s being here is a miracle? The poor man lost his only son several years past, then his wife, and even one of his daughters. He very openly declared himself free of public life, so for Papa to have convinced him to come…”
Jacob realized their hostess was seeking confirmation of this blessed miracle so he opened his mouth in a wide O. “Your father must be something else,” he said, knowing more about Charles Deschanel than his daughter could imagine.
Ophélie colored in a way that suggested she was responsible for the compliment. She rattled off a number of other names. The Bonaparties, whose daughter, Julianne, would later marry Ophélie’s brother, Jean. Some Fortiers. More Romans. Other names Jacob had never heard before.
Jacob only paused to catch up when she indicated Victor and Elisabeth de Blanchefort, a couple no more than a few years older than Jacob and Amelia. Victor’s raven hair held a shocking, preternatural shine that seemed impossible to achieve. Skin unblemished, too perfect. While he gave every indication of being enraptured by whatever means John Randolph used to regale him, his emerald eyes sparkled, fixed on Amelia with an intensity that stopped Jacob’s heart.
He had an inexplicable urge to find the nearest wildlife and take the man down.
“Those are their young sons, Nathaniel and Lestan. Papa has secured my betrothal to Lestan, though the de Blancheforts are cousins, but not for some generations past so there won’t be a scandal. Their lands sit in St. Charles Parish, near the Destrehans…”
She rambled on, oblivious, but Jacob saw or heard nothing but Victor de Blanchefort’s silent but unmistaken claiming of his wife.
What is it? Amelia sensed the shift in him.
You’ve got a stalker.
Where?
Eleven o’clock. The black-haired dude cornered by Randolph. The devil hasn’t stopped gawking at you for the past five minutes. Maybe longer, for all I know. I’ve got his number now.
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 3