Amelia dreaded closing her eyes each night to the sharp cut of Baldur’s nails on her skin as he bandied her around, torturing her for hours before the inevitable rape.
She feared Jacob’s presence in this memory would forever tarnish the deep, abiding love she once believed could be torn asunder by nothing.
Most of all, she panicked at the complete loss of herself. She was afraid Baldur had won, at the cost of her soul.
Amelia climbed into the tall half-tester bed, one Lucienne would later sleep on for seventeen years. She tried to calm her rising pulse before waking Jacob. Breathe. Slowly in. Slowly out. Her throat throbbed wildly like a jackhammer, more anxious lying next to a man she’d lain beside for years than she had been her first time in bed with a man.
Jacob’s breaths maintained the same sleepy consistency, but he couldn’t hide his body tensing as she slid in beside him. Bless him, she thought. He’s pretending to sleep for my sake.
Amelia turned away from him and, at once, he was behind her, his arm wrapping over her waist with a lazy, languid effort she recognized from almost every night of their relationship. Familiar. Terrifying.
His hand traveled across the small of her back, and the sharp cries of darker memories sounded out across her soul. Of Baldur, resting his hand there, a near gentleness to the touch, moments before he’d pressed the knife into her belly.
Please make it stop, she prayed, scrambling to the opposite edge of the bed, as far from Jacob and the memory of Baldur would carry her. Please don’t take everything from me. I love you so much, she thought as she stared at her husband’s back, but she didn’t give voice to the words. Amelia couldn’t risk him rotating again, and touching her, triggering another horrifying memory. This was the worst of all that had been taken from her: her husband.
She waited until his tension again faded to real sleep before attempting to find some for herself.
DAY
TWO
V
The chorus of the bayou woke Jacob.
While pretending to sleep the night before, he’d considered the best use of his time. Amelia had it in her head she was searching for a sign, some signal to indicate what they were doing here and why they shouldn’t take the next time travel train home to the present. That they both believed this reinforced to him, he should search for his own usefulness.
In the “win” category, they’d spent an evening in 1860 or 1861 Louisiana and woken in the same time without bursting into flames or going full-on event horizon. No one had died. The world hadn’t exploded.
To his right, Amelia dozed. Whatever sleep she’d garnered through the night was never very consistent. Jacob had held her when she’d cried out, her mind fleeing a terror he knew all too well. He could have offered her so much more but she wasn’t in a frame of mind to accept, and he knew better than to force it.
Charles had extended an invitation to speak with Jacob today about their business there, and the sooner they had that discussion, hopefully, the less anxious he and Amelia would feel like outsiders. Without a timetable, Jacob wasn’t comfortable tiptoeing around their host for an inestimable period.
The Big House already bustled with activity, from housemaids to cooks and governesses, moving to and fro with soundless energy. Slaves, all of them, though the ones in the house were well dressed in comparison to the men he’d seen in the fields the day before. A pit rose in his stomach that, for a single moment, he’d allowed their slightly improved circumstances to affect him, when, no matter how they were dressed, they enjoyed none of the basic rights as their masters. In fact, it was upon their backs in which this house and all the luxuries enjoyed within were built.
At least, Jacob took comfort in knowing the injustice would not last much longer, though the road ahead for freed slaves wouldn’t be much easier for some time.
The house had two offices. One on the third floor, where the heir conducted private business. Then a larger one on the main floor, for all public commerce. Jacob wasn’t comfortable venturing uninvited to the third floor, which also housed the heir’s private suites, so he ventured down to the first floor. The pendulum on the oaken clock had chimed eight times, late morning for a planter, so it was a fair bet Charles had been up for a few hours already.
He stopped halfway down the staircase. At the bottom, a man inspected an oil rendering of the Deschanel’s chateau in France. Jacob recognized the painting… and also the man.
Victor de Blanchefort.
As if called by name, de Blanchefort pivoted toward the new intruder and his face erupted in a warm, broad smile.
Jacob wasn’t fooled.
“Lord Donnelly. I regret we did not receive a formal introduction last night.” Victor moved toward the stairs. As he did, Jacob realized he had taken a step back.
“I’m sure you do,” Jacob replied, eyeing the man’s extended hand with acute distaste. He questioned his disgusted hesitation. Why do I care this much? It isn’t as if he’s a real threat to my marriage. Just a nuisance.
De Blanchefort missed Jacob’s sarcasm, taking him at his word. “Allow me to remedy this. I am—”
“I know who you are.”
“Last I found myself in England, a handshake was still customary.” The man’s eyes twinkled with a hint of controlled playfulness. Maybe not so obtuse, after all.
He saw no other choice. Refusing a pleasantry would be a great way to draw further suspicion to their already tenuous appearance.
Descending the staircase with an inward frown, Jacob took Victor’s hand. It was soft and inviting, like a satin glove, as if he’d never touched a thing in his life. The effect was both unsettling and rather curious as if coming across an artifact from another time or place.
“Now we are well met,” de Blanchefort decided, returning his hand to settle upon his other, across his torso. “And where is Lady Donnelly?”
Wouldn’t you like to know, Lord Byron? “Resting. It was a long journey.”
“Understandable. I find it most important to protect the delicate constitutions of the gentler sex.”
Jacob sighed, already exhausted trying to decipher what had been earnest comments from the man, and what was intended as sarcasm. “I’m looking for Monsieur Deschanel. Have you seen him?”
Victor smiled. “He’s in his office with my father.”
Jacob couldn’t stop himself. “And you’re here because…”
“My father’s attendant. He’s grown less than fond of travel in his elder years.”
Jacob’s nod was more reflex than interest, considering his options for extricating himself from the conversation. “I’ll come back later, then, when he’s not engaged.”
Jacob recoiled when Victor’s fingers wrapped around his shoulder. “I’ll interrupt them on your behalf. They should be nearly finished.”
“No, don’t intrude. I’ll come—”
“Lord Donnelly. I insist.”
His words—or not so much the exact ones de Blanchefort said, as much as the hollow, commanding tone in which they were delivered—gave Jacob pause long enough for Victor to rap twice on the office door and enter to announce himself before any invitation was extended. He then proceeded to insist Jacob should join their meeting, even though he had no compelling reason to be included.
Jacob couldn’t fathom the testicular fortitude of this creature. The boldness at which the man had coveted his wife, openly, publicly, and now, barging in on a man doing private business in his own office with all the delicacy of a conquistador.
If he didn’t perceive de Blanchefort as a nuisance (maybe even a threat), he might have found himself mildly enamored.
“Lord Donnelly is welcome to join us,” Charles huffed, standing. He seemed less annoyed at the affront and more like an ornery parakeet whose feathers had been ruffled. “Though I cannot pretend to offer anything more engaging than the tedious negotiations of a betrothal.”
“Unutterably dry,” Victor agreed, only loud enough for Jacob to hear, as if they
were secret conspirators.
“I would hate to interrupt,” Jacob insisted, but the protestation was pointless. By now it was apparent, between Victor’s boldness and the position the disruption had placed Charles in, that it mattered not if Jacob was intruding. Asking him to leave would be socially untenable.
“Nonsense. Have a seat,” Charles said, gesturing toward the empty one to the right of his guest. From where Jacob stood, he could only see the elder de Blanchefort’s back, though he was immediately struck by the old man’s full head of black hair.
Jacob avoided catching a glimpse of Victor, both out of a desire to be rid of him and also for fear the man might think Jacob was thanking him for his behavior.
I just have to seek out something to make myself useful.
The heavy door clicked closed, and Charles settled again into his tall-backed chair behind the mahogany desk. Jacob took the seat offered moments earlier, and chanced a glance at de Blanchefort.
Jacob did a double take. The man was no older than his son! And he’d said this was his father? No, this must be his brother or a cousin; there was no other explanation. If Jacob owned a bar, and this man came in to order a drink, he would have carded him faster than lightning.
Where did the games start and end for Victor?
“I’m truly sorry to disturb your meeting,” Jacob said, heart racing with an emotion he hadn’t quite landed on.
Charles brushed aside the apology and instead aimed a hand at the man to Jacob’s side. The gentleman clearly no older than he, maybe even younger.
“Lord Donnelly, allow me to offer a formal introduction to Marius de Blanchefort, master of Coquillage plantation down in St. Charles Parish. You’ve already met his son, Victor de Blanchefort.”
Jacob reached a hand out, trying desperately not to stare at the creature with the pale, unlined skin and black hair… all pepper, no salt.
Marius ignored the gesture and affected a subtle nod, eyes closing briefly, like an exhausted old man who was up way past his bedtime. Jacob dropped his arm. Warmth flooded his cheeks. He realized he’d been holding his breath.
“De Blanchefort,” Charles continued, relaxing back into his chair, “is a business partner of mine. His father’s experience in coffee and indigo on the islands has proven invaluable, and, together, we run one of the only prosperous coffee and indigo productions in the region.”
“That’s great,” Jacob offered weakly. He kept his eyes focused forward. If not, he would undoubtedly gape at Marius until he could make sense of the age discrepancy.
“On this day, however, we are here to discuss other business,” Charles added with a weary sigh, as if already tired of catching up his guest. “The son of Victor, grandson of Marius, who goes by the name Lestan, is to be the husband of my Ophélie.”
A hushed, chocolate voice filled the room. “Lestan is yet fourteen. On the eve of manhood, but not yet over the precipice.” Marius also kept his eyes trained forward. “Charles wishes to see the ceremony complete by the commencement of summer, a rush he has chosen not to explain. In 1866, Lestan will be nineteen and a man prepared to be head of household.”
This was not the face of a man in his twilight years, nor the voice. To the contrary, he was beautiful, in the way angels in Italian frescoes caught your eye and held your focus. Bewitching. Victor had the same look, though it had taken Jacob longer to this realization due to his distaste for the man.
Jacob had no idea what to make of any of it.
His mind rewound a few moments to Marius’ last words. In 1866, Lestan will be nineteen. 1861, then. To Amelia’s fear, they had landed in the year of the commencement of the Civil War. January, then, because if it were December, they wouldn’t be troubled with betrothals anymore. War would be the only word on any tongue.
Charles’ face wrinkled in disgust, but his eyes held a wild, panicked look. “And Ophélie will be twenty-one by that point! If your family were to choose to break our contract of betrothal, she would be left in a very precarious position. Her prospects would be much reduced from what they are now.”
Marius remained stiff. “I’ve given no reason you should believe I am not to be taken at my word.”
“And yet, we are bearing all the risk of this trust.”
“By demanding we progress ahead of what is natural, you are asking me to bear the burden of your daughter in my home for the next five years.”
Charles pulled back. His eyes narrowed, but then, regaining his composure, he smiled one he clearly did not mean. “I would be pleased to assume the cost of her upkeep. This increase would be accounted for in her dowry, with interest.”
“You miss my point.”
“My Jean will be taking the Bonapartie girl as his bride at sixteen,” Charles emphasized the latter half of this proclamation, speaking slowly to ensure Marius understood. “Fitz, at thirteen, is set to take Montgomery Anderson’s oldest daughter at an even earlier age. At fifteen.”
“What you choose to do with your sons is no business of mine.”
“We would send them into battle at thirteen, to die, but they are not yet man enough to take a woman to bed or run a household?” Charles scoffed.
Marius folded his hands over his lap and regarded his host with the same even expression. “We are no longer in the Middle Ages, Charles. There is no benefit to living in the past. Our children will not die at the age of thirty.”
Jacob’s attentions traveled between the two men as they continued their discourse; Marius, using strong language but without visible fervor; Charles, who appeared on the verge of a frenzy and only avoiding one with extreme self-control. Jacob was by far no expert on marriage contracts of the nineteenth century, but even he was having trouble understanding Charles’ anxiousness.
“What if the couple were to stay here at Ophélie?” Jacob suggested. Before either man could respond, he regretted inserting himself into this game of loggerheads.
Charles snapped his head in Jacob’s direction. He opened his mouth to protest, stopped, tried again. The suggestion unsettled him, but, for whatever reason, he wasn’t willing to share an explanation. “We are, of course, happy to take in Lestan, but such an arrangement would be highly unusual…” He turned to Marius for support, but Marius examined his fingernails.
“Here. There. Both would be unusual because Lestan needs to reach an appropriate age before assuming the burden of a family. I will not conceive to place him into such role until he is ready. I have already advised of my intention to build the couple a property of their own, near Dauphine, which as you know was a gift to my sister upon her marriage to Remy Destrehan.”
“They could have separate suites…” Charles ran his hands over his hair, which was now as disheveled as his expression. He wanted Ophélie gone now. But why? He couldn’t know she would be murdered by Union soldiers during the war… or could he? Charles was a Deschanel, and all Deschanels had a touch of something. Perhaps he had divined this and hoped to change it.
But unless Jacob and Amelia had landed in an alternate version of history, Ophélie would die, and within the next year.
Marius rose suddenly, though Charles was in mid-speech. “I wish for some air. I am old now, as you know.”
Charles’ eyebrow arched in marked skepticism.
“We have more to discuss,” Charles insisted.
“On the subject of tobacco, yes. We can reconvene this evening. Regarding the betrothal, you have my word Lestan will live up to the terms of the contract—when he is nineteen,” Marius said and excused himself before Charles could find a reason to compel him to stay.
Jacob shifted awkwardly as Charles huffed and sighed, twisting in his seat. He didn’t know whether to stay or excuse himself.
Charles waved a hand in the air and squared his shoulders. A peacefulness seemed to come over him, and the man who had all but dropped to his knees and pleaded with his guest, was replaced by the figure Jacob had imagined when reading about the builder of this majestic, successful plantation
.
“Please stay, Lord Donnelly. I’ll send for coffee, and we can find ourselves better acquainted.”
VI
Amelia heard Jacob rise and leave, and she let him do these things despite being awake herself, despite that the sounds he took for sleep were contrivances.
She longed for his comfort, but the very thought of his touch made her skin crawl. Amelia had never hated herself more for these things. Baldur, the monster responsible, had turned her into another kind of monster, one who walked and talked and breathed but no longer knew what it meant to live.
Amelia didn’t know why they had traveled to this particular time and place, but she held on to a tiny, secret hope that it would help her find her way back to who she was and wanted to be.
Even the thought was daunting.
Once she knew Jacob was gone, she slipped out of bed and dressed in one of the pieces the housemaid had left for her. It was decidedly less abhorrent than what she’d worn the night before, though it still left her grateful for having been born in a time where jeans were the norm.
Downstairs, occupants of the house were awake and alive, and she supposed she’d risen late, though she could always claim to be affected by the time change. Jet lag wasn’t a thing yet, but surely they knew about different time zones, if not as a point of fact then at least in experience. Charles and Jean had both enjoyed Grand Tours of Europe. Fitz, Charles’ youngest son, who must have been thirteen or fourteen at this point in history, would be along on his in short order as well.
She hadn’t yet spotted Fitz on this trip. Like Ophélie, he was destined to die young, but not until he had a son of his own.
Ophélie perched at the bottom of the stairs, her expression welcoming.
“It’s as if you’ve been waiting for me,” Amelia teased, as she descended the final steps. Relief came over her to see a familiar face, and it occurred she had been thinking about seeking out Ophélie since leaving her room.
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 5