Ophélie blushed. “I saw Lord Donnelly come down to visit with my father and assumed you might be along.”
“I’ve been tired from the journey, but I’m better now.” It wasn’t a lie. The time travel had exhausted her, in a way she couldn’t verbalize. She had changed from Norway time to Louisiana time, yes, but skipping backward nearly a hundred and fifty years had an indescribably heavy effect on her. One she couldn’t ever bring up in casual conversation.
She wondered if Jacob was feeling the same.
A month ago, she would have already known the answer.
Ophélie wrung her hands over her torso, brightening with excitement. “I hope one day my husband takes me to Europe.”
Amelia returned the smile, only to realize Ophélie’s enthusiasm rang false. The young woman’s eyes were like the Rosetta Stone to her soul, either backing up or countering any spoken words. She can’t know what I know about her future. Can she?
“I’m sure he will,” Amelia replied, feeling only a twinge of guilt at the lie. All the information and knowledge she’d amassed about her family and this region during her lifetime would be of no use to those living here as contemporaries. One simply didn’t tell a sixteen-year-old girl she would be dead within a year.
Even if she did settle on becoming the soothsayer of Ophélie, throwing down every last bit of historical intelligence she had on life here in the nineteenth century, it would most likely be received as witchcraft and unwelcome.
“I thought I might take you on a tour of the grounds of Ophélie,” the young woman offered, the blush rising to the apples of her cheeks, this time, genuine. “That is if you aren’t otherwise engaged. It may take us several hours, at a leisurely pace.”
“I have nothing planned for today, so I would love that.”
They passed Charles’ office on their way out the door. Amelia’s heart hitched when she saw Jacob seated inside. To his left, a young man turned to look at Jacob, and she caught his profile. He was familiar.
“That’s Marius de Blanchefort,” Ophélie explained, giving Amelia’s arm a light tug to move them along. “I believe you may have seen Victor last night. His son.”
“His… son?” Amelia stopped again, and Ophélie once again urged her along, evidently eager to be out of the house. “You mean to tell me you think Marius is Victor’s father? That man in there, who can’t be a day older than Victor?”
Ophélie passed her a grin and a slight eye roll. “You would not be the first to question it.”
“I’m not questioning it. I’m saying it’s biologically impossible!”
“I know it seems that way,” her young host agreed. She visibly relaxed when they reached the gallery porch, spreading her arms to receive the wave of light heat. A pitcher of amber liquid sat on the wooden bench between two rockers. “But there are many who have conducted business with Marius de Blanchefort for more than sixty years who can bear witness. Would you believe the man is near eighty?”
“Only if you believe I have some oceanfront property in Arizona to sell you on the cheap.”
“Arizona?”
Amelia halted and pivoted herself before Ophélie so they were face-to-face. Her hands rested on both shoulders. “There’s no way on earth that man is eighty, no matter what anyone says. Some people age well, but no one subverts the process altogether.”
Ophélie shrugged. It was clear she believed it. “All the de Blancheforts are like this. Some say it’s because of their time in the islands.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marius’ father, Etienne, had a plantation on Saint Domingue. The family left when Marius was a boy, but they barely avoided a massacre when the slaves rose up and claimed the island. I’ve heard they have a mambo… a priestess of voudou… to whom Etienne sold his soul and the souls of his family in exchange for protection.”
Amelia pursed her lips. “Even if they have a priestess in their corner, that doesn’t explain the lack of any visible aging.”
“There are other whispers, too,” Ophélie said, lowering her voice with a glance around. “But we best not speak of them where ears can hear.”
“Speak of what, my darling?”
They turned to see Brigitte exiting the house. The presence alone of the woman soured Amelia’s spirits. Her empathic strength was muted under this roof, but what remained could not be doubted. She knew in her heart of hearts Brigitte Deschanel was evil. Not in the innate sense of a born psychopath but rather a very intentional malignancy. Everything about the woman was deliberate. Every word, every message sent in other ways.
“Maman, I only meant to bring our ladies’ chatter far from the house so as not to disturb Papa and his guests,” Ophélie replied, head bowed.
The petite woman’s lips twisted in disdain. Brigitte leveled a hard gaze at her daughter. “You have not finished your needlework.” The words were cased in accusation.
“I’m showing Lady Donnelly around the property,” Ophélie countered in a timid voice. She shrank into Amelia’s side.
“Which you may do when you are not laden with unfinished responsibilities.”
When Amelia was a girl of Ophélie’s age, an admonishment like this from her mother would have thrown her into a pout. Ophélie’s reaction was curious. She was angry, that was clear, but the way her eyes narrowed, only briefly but long enough for Amelia to witness, seemed to indicate she was more suspicious of her mother than anything else.
Well, that makes two of us.
“It’s okay, Ophélie, I’ll wait for you to finish, and in the meantime, I promise not to receive a tour from anyone but you,” Amelia promised, positioning herself between the two women so her back was to Brigitte. She didn’t know what Ophélie was capable of as a Deschanel. While they all had talents, there was no written evidence of what their ancestors could do, at least not from this period. But Amelia focused all her energy to send the girl this: I’m your ally. I’m here for you, for whatever you need.
A flicker of shock registered across Ophélie’s face, followed by the faintest trace of a smile. I already know that, Lady Donnelly.
She followed her mother back into the house, leaving Amelia disturbed by what she’d witnessed. Brigitte and Jean were both adversaries of the young girl. Where was Charles in this? From history, Amelia knew he overlooked many of the abuses heaped upon her during the war, but was that true? And what of Fitz?
“Are you awaiting a parcel?”
Amelia snapped out of her daze and turned to see the man from the night before, Victor de Blanchefort, standing on the top step, hands laced behind his back.
In the morning sun, the man was even more preternaturally dazzling. His dark hair took the light and from it bounced shades of purple and pure raven black. His green eyes matched the unusual forested emerald shade of his waistcoat, which was certainly fashionable but not for this century.
She remembered his “father” inside and was immediately suspicious.
“I was just going in,” she replied and started up the steps in a near-sprint, not precisely ladylike. Regardless, something about this odd creature made her believe he didn’t care about such things, and, in any case, his opinion was not her concern.
As she passed by him, his hand landed on her upper arm, and she was jolted to a stop.
“Your husband is otherwise occupied and may be for the next while. Please, walk with me.” In contrast to his firm grasp, his words had a note of pleading.
Amelia jerked herself loose and backed up several steps. “Don’t.”
“My apologies, Lady Donnelly,” Victor replied, dipping into the slightest of bows, “I sometimes don’t realize my own strength. If I hurt you, it was not my intent.”
“I’m fine,” she mumbled, wondering why she felt it necessary to make him feel better.
“Will you, then? Humor a new friend, and walk with me?” Victor’s bright green eyes were unlike any she’d seen on someone not wearing contacts, but those weren’t an option in the 1860s. Clo
ser to him now than she’d ever been, the gold flecks throughout the green—not simply a single shade, but several, competing hues of mossy undertones—could not possibly be real. A trick of light, maybe. Something.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Amelia replied after realizing she’d been caught staring. For science, she thought.
“The best moments in history began with terrible ideas,” Victor replied and held out his crooked elbow. “It’s too lovely a morning to let it go to waste.”
Cautiously, and not without a strong suspicion she’d lost her damn mind, Amelia took the elbow of the peculiar man, briefly thinking of Alice in the moments before she consumed the Drink Me potion that sent her careening down the rabbit hole.
Amelia led the way, her innate knowledge of the intricacies of the property guiding her through the fields and outbuildings that kept the plantation running. It was a shock to the system to see the farm in its prime, with dozens more working shops and kitchens than still stood in the present. A blacksmith toiled over a forge in an open wooden stand. Nearby, several women gathered around a large kiln, dipping in the steaming liquid bedding and clothing they stirred with a long pole. The plantation was a village, everyone working toward their own task, keeping the land alive and thriving.
Today’s Ophélie was a shell of its former self, at least outside the Big House. Half the buildings had been demolished or burned down, the other half repurposed for storage or guests.
Victor, with a knowing smile, called her out on her confidence. “Are you certain this is your first visit to Louisiana, Lady Donnelly?”
Amelia faltered for a split second but recovered, hopefully before he noticed. “We wandered a bit yesterday,” she said. “I have a strong memory.”
His smile continued on, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to. Victor’s expression conveyed his skepticism clearly enough.
In a quick move, he lifted her up and over the root of an oak she hadn’t seen and almost tripped over. Her breath faltered at the odd intimacy of the gesture, at how his hands came around her waist with a possessive firmness. Turn around. Go back.
“Let us speak of intentions,” he said. “Yours interest me a great deal. For instance, the truth behind why you’re here.”
Amelia’s lips parted, only to realize she and Jacob still had not conspired on a cohesive story. Undoubtedly, Charles was asking the same thing of Jacob at this very moment. “We’re cousins of the Deschanels,” she answered, hoping this was safe, praying it did not conflict with whatever Jacob had laid out for their host.
“The Deschanels undoubtedly have many cousins,” Victor answered. “But it is a long and expensive voyage from England to come without purpose.” He guided her away from the business of the outbuildings, through the rows of oaks. Away from others, she thought.
“Lord Donnelly has business with Charles Deschanel.”
“Secret business, then?”
“Not secret.” Her mouth felt full of cotton. She had never taken pleasure in lying, nor had she learned the skill to do it well. What had Jacob said to Charles in the ballroom? “Um… land. We’re interested in land.”
“So secret even Charles himself was unaware of it,” Victor mused, ignoring her explanation. “You both voyage here, unannounced, toward aims you refuse to disclose.” He leaned in close and whispered the next, “Ahh, perhaps you are spies for the British!”
“I just told you why we’re here. We aren’t at war with you,” Amelia countered, falling into character. “We lost the Battle of New Orleans, as you may recall.”
Victor’s laugh rang across the oaks? “Me? No, I’m afraid not. That was nearly half a century past. My father does.”
“You mean that man in the house? Marius?”
“I might suggest you refer to him as Monsieur de Blanchefort as a more socially amenable alternative,” Victor teased.
Amelia sighed. “But we’re talking about the same man? That young man inside? You are seriously going to try and convince me he is your father?”
“I wouldn’t deign to convince you of something that’s a recorded fact. He is my father.”
“Bullshit.”
“What a lady you are!”
“I’m no lady any more than that man in there is your damn father!”
Victor stopped at the base of one of the larger oaks, a behemoth with several branches sweeping the dewy grass like benches. He leaned into the tough bark. “Why are we talking about my family when your background is so much more interesting?”
Amelia’s hands perched on her hips. She began to question her own motivation for following him, or, at a minimum, her judgment in doing so. It didn’t feel at all like something she would do, and yet she’d done it with little prodding. “Why are we here, Victor?”
His grin spread even further, deepening the beds of his dimples. “Are we on a first name basis now, Amelia?”
She recoiled. “I never told you my name.”
“To return to your question, I know a great deal about you,” he said. “I know, for instance, you’re not here on any business with Deschanel. I know you’re not from England. And I know you are, quite certainly, no lady.” When her face flushed red, he added, “Of the peerage, at least.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she spat through clenched teeth. Her hands twitched, and she quickly linked them behind her back. Bad idea or not, walking away now, without resolving whatever strange and inexplicable suspicions Victor de Blanchefort possessed about the two of them, would leave them vulnerable. “Our business with Deschanel is our own.”
“Truly, for even he lacks knowledge on the subject.”
Amelia snorted, continuing on her quest of unladylike behavior. “And how would you know anything about it? Are you his business advisor? Are you the spy?”
“I know things in the way you know things when you should not,” Victor answered, this time without any of the mocking from before. “I know who you are, and from where you come. Or should I say, when?”
It all happened so fast. Blood rushed to her head in one powerful, overwhelming burst. The sky flooded across her vision, passing by in a long, dramatic arc. Her feet flew off the grass and into the air.
She cried out, then felt nothing.
Slowly, the world around her returned to focus. Amelia looked up into Victor’s concerned face. She leaned back against something. His arms.
“Are you all right?”
“What did you say? Before I passed out?” Amelia shook her head and tugged at his arm, pulling herself back to standing on her own, a challenging feat in her constricted dress. She staggered into one of the long arm branches, and Victor was again at her side. She shoved him away. “Never mind, don’t tell me. I need to get back to the house.”
“You know what I said.” The words flowed with the first kindness she’d heard from the man. “And now you know I know.”
“I understand you’re completely mad,” she panted. “And we’re done here.” The weakness of moments before hadn’t entirely fled, and she needed to be far, far away from this creature, who was taking something from her now as surely as Baldur had stripped her of everything in Ireland. It didn’t matter what he thought, not right at this moment because she needed to be free of him before she completely lost her mind.
“You might convince yourself of that, to avoid the truth,” he said. “An understandable self-deception. But you came here safe with the knowledge no one would know your truth. Naturally, you did not count on finding me. In all the countries, in all the cities, in all the world, there are so few like me, like us, that this assumption was a reasonable one. But you are here, from a time foreign to me, and I am here, awaiting you, and our meeting is not without purpose.”
“I’m going back to the house,” she said again, thinking of Jacob. Of what he might think when he realized she’d been off with the very man he’d considered a threat the night before. The man she now knew to be one, but for very different reasons.
Tears tickled her eyes. She sensed the danger in Victor, but it was the other emotion, the one she could not fully distinguish, that kept her rooted in place. “Then who are you?”
Victor kissed the corner of her mouth, a lingering act that was somehow both abhorrent and enticing. He backed away to afford her space. “Who I am is not nearly as interesting, or controversial, as who you are, my darling.”
VII
The deep chime of the grandfather clock at the far end of the ladies’ parlor was what finally brought her to the present. Her thoughts had been wandering to recent developments in her life, how dreams had shifted from the usual, nonsensical images to very specific messages she knew were meant for her.
Ophélie gaped at her needlework with sharp panic as she realized she had retraced her backstitch at least two dozen times. She saw no immediate fix for her blunder. The linen was ruined.
Unfortunately, her mother also noticed. “Utter failure,” Brigitte mumbled, nodding toward the blank linens on the end table between them. “Would that I had a daughter with more talent than a mouth that never ceases to run.”
“Sorry, Maman,” Ophélie whispered, setting aside her ruined design to begin anew. She could be here until she produced an item of quality, something her mother approved of. The last had taken her well over an hour, and even the thought of starting fresh made her soul sink into the velvet chair. “I will do better.”
“Hmph,” Brigitte huffed, leaning back in her rocker. Her precise stitches never faltered in pace or accuracy. “I blame your papa. None of us have been as we were in France since arriving in this godforsaken swampland. We may as well be nothing.”
“You never speak of France,” Ophélie said, with a tentative glance at her maman. She hoped to draw the conversation somewhere safer, or at the very least, away from her own ineptitude. But she had also always desired to know more of their family history.
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 6