I wasn’t quite listening. That’s de Blanchefort, right?
You’re not listening now. I’m going to kick the dude’s ass.
He’s rather handsome…
You’re making jokes about this, but I’m not playing. I don’t think there’s any bear around here, but I’m not above hijacking a nutria to take care of this problem.
And have to deal with those ugly orange fangs?
Temporary pain. I’m a problem solver.
Or being silly. De Blanchefort brought his wife and kids. This isn’t exactly a meat market.
No. It’s where you’re supposed to reassure me you’re not going to run off with him and leave me with all these eccentric millionaires.
He looks a little bit like you… his hair might be nicer, though. Who the hell is his stylist? And those eyes…
Feeling somewhat insecure over here.
I think we have bigger problems right now than an enigmatic, handsome, dreamy—
Glad to see you’re feeling better.
Sarcasm intended?
Ophélie continued her recantations of the remaining guests, and when she finished, she began with those not present at the party, reciting the name and lineage of every River Road family from New Orleans to Natchez.
Long after Jacob and Amelia’s eyes had glazed over, an imposing figure cast a long shadow over their small corner party. The gentleman looked down on them across his Grecian nose, the signature pale blue eyes of many Deschanels taking their measure.
Jacob needed no introduction. No less than five paintings of his image hung in present-day Ophélie.
Charles Deschanel extended both hands, clasping them over Jacob’s right. “My daughter informed me we have members of the English peerage under our roof this eve. A fine surprise! You are most welcome here, Lord Donnelly. Lady Donnelly.”
Amelia rose and affected a curtsey that wasn’t fooling anyone. Jacob was never more grateful they had the excuse of being foreigners on their side.
“We appreciate the hospitality, Monsieur Deschanel. And the clothing. Our trunks were unfortunately lost at sea,” Jacob answered.
“A shame this continues to happen,” Charles said with a sympathetic cluck. He set his generous jaw into a tight scowl. “My son, Jean, lost one on his return from his Grand Tour. My daughter, I see, has assumed the role of hostess on my behalf. I apologize for not offering a finer greeting, my lord. Your notice of arrival must have been lost in the same manner as your trunk.”
Jacob tensed. The words were delivered lighthearted enough, but he couldn’t forget they were skating on thin ice. “We truly are sorry for any inconvenience. We can find other accommodations—”
“Nonsense,” Charles boomed. Others in the room stopped their chatter and turned to look. “We’re honored to receive you. And tomorrow, when the remnants of the party have scattered to their own homes, I can afford you a proper welcome.”
“I’d like that,” Jacob said. “We’re here about land.” Land… the word popped into his head in the same obtuse way time dancing had seemed a great idea.
“Land?” Charles asked, nodding in approval. “It’s not only the French and Spanish anymore who see the value in the riverlands, then. Are you seeking to emigrate to the States, or is your interest investment minded?”
“Time will tell,” Jacob answered, proud of the reaction he garnered from their host at this enigmatic response. Amelia flashed him a look he couldn’t read, but the mystery was quickly solved. Not bad, Donnelly.
“I enjoy a man who leaves his options open!” Charles declared, accepting a refill on his wine. He tipped his glass toward Amelia. “Lady Donnelly, you are a delight. A glass of cool rosewater on a sweltering summer afternoon. How fortunate your husband is to have you on his arm. I’m reminded of the porcelain beauties of the French court, in your blessed presence.”
Amelia smiled but said nothing.
Charles’ gaze hung on her another uncomfortable moment, then he seemed to remember himself. Clearing his throat, he shifted to, “Have you met Madame Deschanel?”
On cue, a tiny, dark-featured woman appeared at his side. Madame Deschanel’s hair was braided at the nape of her neck in a complicated plait. Her knowing, black eyes made Jacob more nervous than anything Charles had or had not said.
To his side, Amelia’s entire body tensed. When he clasped her hand to his, it trembled.
What is it?
It… it’s her, Jacob. My empathic senses have been muted since we arrived, but my God… she’s… something is wrong. Very, very wrong.
I agree, about her. Are you okay?
Maybe for now, but I can’t be around her. We need to figure out a way out. God, it’s strong. She’s just sent my empathic feelers into hyper drive.
Breathe, honey. I’ll get us out.
“Ophélie, it’s well past your retirement,” Brigitte chided. Amelia had turned her head to the left, hiding breathing exercises. A sinking, hollow feeling filled Jacob’s belly.
Ophélie flushed. “I was acting as hostess for our guests from across the sea.”
“We really should—” Jacob started, but he and Amelia were seemingly forgotten in the tension.
“Nonetheless. When you’re married, you may stay up with the other ladies as you please. For now, it is not proper, and I will not have tongues wagging that Madame Deschanel lets her daughter run as wild as the bayou beasts.”
“Maman!”
“I’ll see her upstairs,” Charles said, flashing Ophélie a wink out of Brigitte’s purview.
“No. Jean shall see her upstairs.”
Charles frowned. “Jean, then. She’s been a tremendous aid to me tonight while I entertained the throngs.”
“Nonetheless,” Brigitte repeated, glowering.
“Thank you for keeping us company this evening,” Amelia said in a tone heavy with charm, bringing Ophélie’s hand to her mouth for a brief kiss. Amelia dropped into another curtsey, but Jacob sensed these actions were her way of maintaining control in the midst of her burgeoning fear. His wife carefully avoided looking at Brigitte. “You were a most gracious hostess, Mademoiselle Deschanel.”
Ophélie blushed even darker, hiding a smile. “The honor was all mine, my lady.”
Charles signaled his son, Jean, who rushed over. A fit, sturdy young man with a strong genetic resemblance appeared. Jacob startled at how familiar he was. Many of the male Deschanels in present day resembled him, including Amelia’s brother, Ashley, and her cousin, Markus. Pale hair and eyes, high, drawn cheekbones. “See your sister to her room.”
“Yes, Father,” Jean said, holding his arm for Ophélie. She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow, but her entire bearing had altered in her brother’s presence. Ophélie slumped lower, and the radiant light of her face blinked out.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she murmured as her brother led her up the staircase.
Brigitte brightened, her knowing smile following the two children as they ascended.
Did you see that? Amelia asked.
I sure did. Now, let’s go.
IV
Amelia choked out several desperate breaths as Jacob released the stays of her corset. The color slowly returned to her cheeks.
“There has to be an alternative to that.” Amelia sneered, pointing at the boned monstrosity lying in a heap in the corner. “Maybe that’s why I was sent here. To invent one.”
Jacob chuckled. “It’s called not giving a shit, but you’re right, that hasn’t been invented yet. You’re stuck.”
“Just wait until they put you on a horse, Donnelly.”
Joking seemed natural. It felt like them. At the same time, every word shared was a delicate dance, a careful choosing of each single syllable. Who would step over the line first? What were the consequences?
Jacob would be hurt to know she’d rather be wrapped up like a sausage, struggling to breathe, around strangers from another century, than alone with him.
It hurt her
, too.
Jacob’s brows stitched together, and for one horrifying moment, Amelia feared she had left her mind open to him. Then he said, “Where on earth are those pajamas they left for us?
Amelia exhaled slowly and pointed toward the rosewood armoire with the carved, angular frame. Also, Louis XVI, she thought, wondering at how easily the details were coming back. “Top drawer.”
“Ahh. The ever-elusive dresser,” he mumbled and yanked the nightclothes from the drawer.
She watched him. How he paused at the armoire as if considering the contents, when in fact, she knew he was thinking of her. Unlike earlier in the evening, his mind was not wide open. If Amelia wanted to add betrayal to her list of sins, she could sneak into his mind, undetected, and withdraw the exact contents. But she’d never done that before, not unless he’d left it open for her, and she wouldn’t now. Amelia would always tell him. Not telling him would be akin to the offenses Baldur had committed on her.
“Interesting night,” he offered as he slid out of his clothes, a much easier task than it had been for her. He tossed her a high-necked white lace gown.
“It’s curious how almost no one talked to us. Don’t you think?” Amelia returned, as Jacob quickly changed into his sleeping garments. He regarded her with curiosity when she only turned hers over in her hands. A look of tragic understanding passed over him, and he turned his back.
Her heart skipped, leaping into her throat. Had it really come to this? Was she so damaged she couldn’t even disrobe before the person she trusted most in the world?
The answer wasn’t welcome, but the result was the same. Quickly wriggling out of the remainder of her dressing clothes, she slipped into the gown.
“Yeah,” Jacob said, pretending to look out the window into the darkness. He placed both hands against the glass, straining his gaze. “I guess I don’t know much about what’s customary, though. Maybe they were waiting for Charles to introduce us.”
Amelia couldn’t bring herself to say the words in her mind. You can turn around now. Further proof and implication of how she had changed. Instead, she signaled the same by crossing the room toward the pitcher of water. He caught her in his peripheral and turned.
“One day, that will be in a museum,” he said, bemused, as she stood facing him. “With your great-great-great-whatever Grandmother, Marianne.”
“Not if I burn it first.” She was no longer thirsty, but since she’d made a show of coming for water, she poured a glass. “Maybe you’re right about them waiting for Charles, so why didn’t he?”
“I got the distinct impression Brigitte is the one wearing the pants here.” Jacob watched Amelia for a reaction. “How are you feeling now? I was worried downstairs.”
“Better that I’m not in her presence anymore,” Amelia answered, swallowing the warm water, which was surprisingly okay. She remembered hearing that while some of Ophélie’s water in the nineteenth century came from two working wells on the property, they “imported” the rest from Sabine’s freshwater to impress their guests. “That’s only happened to me a few times in my life, and each time it was for good reason. Something is not right with that woman. If I could tap fully into my empathic touch, I might have a better answer, but Aidrik’s ward is intact, it seems.”
“I forgot about that. Doesn’t that mean Charles and his family are benign, then? The way Nicolas and his family were all those years?”
She shrugged. “I would say yes, but whatever abilities they were born with were more than likely completely fine in France, so I doubt the ward completely squashes them. It’s probably more as it is for me, you know, where my ability still works, and it’s just muted. That’s often how I felt growing up, too, at Ophélie. As if I wasn’t completely myself, but I never entirely lost it.”
“Great. Now we get to find out what crazy shit they can do.”
“Which could matter for us. I got the distinct sense Brigitte was sizing us up, preparing to place us in her crosshairs. I didn’t like how she talked to Ophélie, either.”
“You remember what your cousin Katja said. About how the Deschanels had inbred for years to avoid dilution of all your crazy abilities? And Brigitte being dead set on continuing this here in Louisiana.”
Amelia nodded. “She also believed Brigitte cursed the family for Ophélie’s death because it meant she failed. I don’t know if I believe that, but it only matters what Brigitte thinks. Our views drive us.”
“I believe it,” Jacob said, firmly, not waiting for her response, or more likely, rebuttal. “And when she got weird about who escorted Ophélie to bed, I was never more convinced. Some Flowers in the Attic bullshit. She’s clearly terrified of her brother.”
Amelia’s brow shot up. “The mother didn’t push her children to fornicate in Flowers. She locked them in a damn attic, and they had to create their own sense of normalcy.”
“Yet fornicate they did, Doctor.” Jacob was unruffled by Amelia’s light reprisal. “As I’m sure Ophélie and Jean have been doing.”
“That’s not fornication, that’s rape.”
The color drained from his face as he realized his error. “I wasn’t trying to make light of it, Blanca. I’m sorry.”
“I know.” She exhaled what felt like days of anguish. “Maybe that’s why we’re here. To help her.”
“I thought we couldn’t change the past?”
Amelia sank into a crimson plush armchair. “You’re right, but… still. If we’re not supposed to have any impact on the future, why else would we be here? To watch? What good is that for anyone?”
“Observing can leave a bigger impact than you think,” Jacob answered, straddling a chair on the other side of the room, facing her. “Take that de Blanchefort fellow, for instance.”
Amelia affected a slight eye roll. “Again? Really?”
“I’m not jealous,” Jacob defended. When she pursed her lips at him, he conceded. “Okay, a little. But that’s not really what got me. It was how bold the dude was. Like he didn’t see me sitting right damn next to you, or worse, didn’t care.”
“So he’s a jerk,” Amelia said evenly. “What does that have to do with us?”
“I don’t know.”
“We don’t live here. We won’t be here forever, and, chances are, we won’t see de Blanchefort again.”
“I know.”
“It isn’t as if he can hop in a car and come over. Travel takes forever to get ten miles. They plan these types of visits for weeks.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“But you’re still upset.”
“Yes, I am.” Jacob rose. He pivoted again in a fidgeting manner, the way one did when they’d just met someone and hadn’t established a level of comfort or familiarity. Amelia supposed, in their case, there was some truth to the theory. She’d entered that cabin on the edge of the Quinlan forest as one person and emerged someone else entirely. So had he.
“If it makes you feel better, I saw de Blanchefort watching Ophélie the same way,” she offered.
Jacob glanced up and shook his head. “It should make me feel better that he was also undressing a teenager with his eyes?”
“I’m only pointing out… he seems to be an equal opportunity sleaze.” She sighed.
“It’s late. We should take advantage of all the sleep we can get in this crazy place.”
“You said we needed to get our stories straight,” Amelia said, wondering what provoked her to engage him in even more uncomfortable conversation. Pragmatism? Guilt?
“And we do. Let’s try again after some sleep. I don’t know about you, but I’m about to pass out where I stand. I’d love to see some studies on the coinciding natures of time travel and jet lag, and the offset to your circadian rhythm.”
The words were all said with his most serious face, and she could see that, yes, he was too tired to banter. So was she, though time travel was only one offender on the list of blame.
“Tomorrow, then.”
Amelia didn’t come to bed rig
ht away. Her thoughts floated, watching her husband’s fitful rest, his mouth parted in a half crescent. Were his dreams colored with nonsensical plots or was he plagued, as she was, with returning to the scene where their world had shifted off its axis?
The moon was near full and shined through a gap in a clouded sky, illuminating a path across the cypress floors. As a girl, she’d slept in almost every single suite, all the cousins piled in room after room on a hot afternoon following a family picnic. Twists of tiny bodies, no concerns worth caring, while the adults sipped mint juleps and streetcars in the double parlor or, when the river offered a breeze, the gallery. Sometimes drinking too many. Afternoon would fade to dusk and evening, and there might be as many as thirty Deschanels sleeping under one roof. Amelia’s mother was known for saying those were the nights her heart sang the loudest.
With a dull smile, Amelia considered she was sleeping in the same house as five Deschanels… five that no one, not her mother, not anyone living in her contemporary life, could ever claim to have met.
Later, perhaps, this would mean more. The weight of what Amelia experienced here might or might not wake her in the middle of the night, or give her pause. She might wonder about it, maybe even study the phenomenon that brought them here. When Amelia traveled abroad, first as a girl and later as a student and adult, visiting Scotland or Morocco or any number of wondrous places, she believed only half of her was enmeshed in the experience; the other half wasn’t capable of grasping everything her eyes translated to her brain. The full array of colors and sounds and sensations would come to her when she returned, sometimes all at once but usually in waves. Amelia considered the experience a gift.
Whether or not their visit home in another time would prove to play out the same way, she couldn’t guess. But what she’d told Jacob was something she believed utterly: They were here for a reason. And this was not only a product of Jacob’s abilities surfacing for their needs but also her own sixth or seventh or eighth sense as a Deschanel. She knew it inherently. Her fear was only that knowing, discovering, would bring more knowledge but not the peace she craved.
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 4