He ducked into the first room he saw. In modern days, this room had been converted to a guest suite for visitors, but today the space was a lady’s parlor, evidenced by the needlework on the center table. Overhead, an ornate fresco of the Garden of Eden served as a constant reminder of Original Sin as they practiced their sewing.
Once upon a time, in the future, Jacob had kissed Amelia beneath the crystal chandelier in this room and asked her to marry him. Not the first time he had asked, but he had wanted to do it right, with a ring, falling to his knee with all the makings of a memory she deserved.
The recollection lingered upon him like an old scent. He closed his eyes, wondering if there was ever a point to wishing a return to a time when life was simpler.
Amelia and Victor’s steps rang heavy in the hall, startling him. Their voices were low, hushed. He made out only a few of their parting words.
“Please. Stay away from me.” Amelia’s voice shook.
Victor’s steps boomed as he seemed to draw closer to Amelia. “We are here until my father’s business with your… cousin is concluded. Perhaps weeks.”
“You’re joking.”
“I assure you, I am much wittier than that when prompted.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“It seems I am left without a choice in the matter, as my father is determined to complete his business affairs before returning to St. Charles Parish.”
“Then… just… stay far away from me,” she hissed, and her footfalls echoed across the soft boards as she ran up the stairs.
Jacob’s hands turned to fists at his side. The night before, he had known Victor was not to be trusted, and now his intuition was clearly proving to be right.
Cianán, his mother’s voice rang, from nowhere, loudly, clearly. Fists win battles, not wars. You are not interested in battles. You are above such a skirmish. You are a warrior, not a fighter. Everything you have fought for, you have earned, not taken. There is a difference.
“Aye, and some weapon words were spoken when that monster raped my wife,” Jacob railed to the invisible figure dropping wisdom from beyond.
But his words had the desired effect, as taking the moment to stop and assess cooled Jacob’s blood. Since when had he been jealous of other men? Men pursuing his wife was nothing new, and, in fact, had become an ongoing joke between them. Creeper. Five o’clock, he might say. Ah, yes, she would answer. The lonely banker with no ring but a clear indentation on his fourth finger, and the sweat of regret shading his bloodshot eyes. I can already see my walk of shame in the morning.
And this wasn’t the same, not at all. Jacob hadn’t overheard anything from his wife that should lead him to believe she was doing anything wrong. If anything, she seemed to be averse to Victor, seeking to put distance between them.
But why?
He would deal with the man later, but if he must choose between protecting Amelia and harming Victor, he would always choose his wife.
Once Victor’s own steps faded away, Jacob moved to exit and followed his wife. Instead, yelling from Charles’ office stopped him where he stood.
While the house had been built from strong oak and cypress, it did not have the modern soundproofing of new homes. Jacob could hear every word traveling from behind the closed door.
“What you are doing is criminal! It cannot be borne!” Jacob instantly recognized the pitched, animalistic intonations of Brigitte.
“I am head of this household, whether you choose to accept and respect it or not,” Charles boomed in return. Something hard dropped onto his desk, shaking the floors. “I have allowed your treasonous beliefs too long, and our children will not suffer for your wickedness!”
“Suffer? You want to discuss suffering? What of our blood, our gift, our most sacred of blessings? You would throw it away for money!”
“I would save this family from ruin. Ophélie, Jean, Fitz… they will all forge their own destinies and not be bound to the evil at the backbone of ours.”
Brigitte’s anger was so potent Jacob could feel it where he stood. “You know nothing.”
“Your opinion is as useful to me as the blight on last year’s cane.”
Brigitte returned his insult, wielding hers like a sword, with a power suggesting it was all she had against him.
Jacob had heard enough; certainly, far more than either of the hosts intended. He quietly slipped out of the room and up the stairs.
IX
When Brigitte sent for her, by way of the sweet house girl, Clara, Amelia understood there was only one answer to the invitation. In electing to stay in the past, for now, they surrendered the luxury of choice to protect their secret.
She didn’t loathe the idea of passing a couple hours with Brigitte as much as she might have the night before, if only because she was desperate to have the encounter with Victor pushed far from her mind. She couldn’t even think of his words… of their implications. Not usually a fan of self-deception, she saw the value in it now. With her senses already on overload, she had to tackle her surroundings and their reality one step at a time, or she would lose her mind.
Amelia checked her eyes once in the mirror, blotted her tears, and left the room.
She saw Jacob on the way down, but only offered him a fleeting (guilty) smile, mumbling something about tea with Brigitte. Amelia heard him pause in the middle of the stairs; sensed his unanswered questions follow her long after she’d reached the foyer.
Too much for one day. Not now.
Brigitte was already in the ladies’ parlor, seated on an emerald Rococo meridienne. Needlework lay across her lap as she lifted a teacup to her lips, blew across the surface of the hot liquid, and affected the daintiest of sips.
Satan has apparently been to finishing school, Amelia thought while straightening the front of her dress and, drawing a deep breath, entered.
As her pointed shoes made contact with the carpet, Ophélie exclaimed in delight. When Brigitte shot her a sharp look, the girl settled back into her seat, smiled, and said, “Welcome, Lady Donnelly.”
“Yes, welcome,” Brigitte said. “Ophélie was just finishing her needlework. For the third time.”
Ophélie set her linen aside, and hung her head, face flushed.
“I was never very good at it either,” Amelia offered helpfully, which drew a smile from Ophélie and a raised brow from the hostess.
“Indeed? Do they not teach ladies respectable pastimes in England, then?”
“They teach them,” Amelia replied, with a conspiratorial glance at Ophélie, “but not all ladies have the aptitudes of their teachers.”
“Hmph.” Brigitte set her mural aside, a floral arrangement lacking in much actual color but technically precise. “I cannot say I agree. Skill is not a matter of aptitude but focus. Ophélie, despite that you see before you a complete lack of talent now, was far worse when I took her under my strict tutelage. Is that not right, daughter?”
“Yes, Maman.”
“So, you see, practice creates skill where none exists.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Amelia answered, eyeing the teacup sitting before her with increasing suspicion. Poison was much harder to detect in a nineteenth-century autopsy. “The tea is nice, thank you.”
“Charles imported it from Britain, so I should hope so,” Brigitte said. “Lady Donnelly, I would like to know how will you teach your daughters to do things if you have not bothered to learn them yourself?”
Amelia’s heart caught. From the moment she’d entered the parlor, the potency of Brigitte’s dark aura permeated the air around her, threatening to breach the surface of her emotional barrier. Brigitte was baiting her, but why? “I don’t have a daughter, Madame.”
“Sons, then?”
“No children at all,” Amelia said, feeling shame on this fact for perhaps the first time in her life, even though this woman’s opinion meant nothing to her.
Brigitte scowled. Her teacup rattled in the saucer as if dropped there in shock or disp
leasure. “Why, you’re practically an old maid, Lady Donnelly. Are you barren?”
“Maman!” Ophélie cried. The scandalized expression on the young girl’s face piqued Amelia’s curiosity. Surely, she had witnessed her mother’s cruelty on many occasions. That her words now were shocking had to mean something.
Brigitte raised a hand in her daughter’s direction, and continued on, past Amelia’s aghast expression. “If not barren, then there must be an explanation. Do you find it a struggle to complete your wifely duties?”
Heat burned Amelia’s cheeks. Her heartbeat throbbed so hard in her neck she had an urge to clap a hand over it. Anger and… fear. Yes, fear. This woman would harm her if given the opportunity, and not only with her words. “No offense, Madame, but that’s my business.”
This didn’t pause Brigitte’s interrogation. “A mother without children is a crime against nature,” she accused. Her aura grew darker, darker with every word, but her tone suggested she might be discussing her distaste of root vegetables. “For those cursed by God, and fallen women.”
“I’m neither,” Amelia said evenly, trying to equally hide her growing fear of the woman and how deeply her words had cut. You’re the reason I don’t have them, you horrible woman. You and your curse on this family, your hatefulness. Only now that I can see it with my own two eyes do I realize how you could have successfully damned our family all by yourself.
“How can we know?” Brigitte shared a glance with Ophélie as if they were equal in their opinion of Amelia. No doubt she expected this loyalty from her daughter. “You come to us without invitation, and we do not even know how to define your relation to us, do we?”
“Maman,” Ophélie whispered, growing further horrified. The girl’s reaction was more unsettling to Amelia than anything else about this conversation. If Brigitte’s behavior was out of line by Ophélie’s standards, there was only one common denominator in the equation. “She is our guest.”
“My husband will be discussing our business with your husband shortly,” Amelia answered, burying her hands in her dress to disguise her nervous fidgeting. “As for our personal lives, those will not be part of the discussion.”
“I cannot pretend to understand your culture,” Brigitte said, reasonably enough. “Or any culture that would ordain a woman’s role as anything other than mother of her husband’s children. But I request you do not put ideas in my daughter’s head about this… independence of yours. Her life will be nothing like that.”
Amelia hardly heard her. She had wandered elsewhere in her mind, to a cold cabin in the woods, to those few and final moments where she’d first learned about her own pregnancy and had it stolen from her before she could discern what it meant. Amelia would never tell this woman any of this. She wouldn’t give her anything that might allow the horrid woman to hold power over her.
The decision had been made in the cabin. Amelia was done allowing anyone to hold power over her.
Ophélie hung her head, but Amelia saw the tears. “I would never suggest your daughter’s life should be like mine,” she said, drawing her eyes away from Ophélie lest her mother follow and also see the emotion there. “Though I hope she will decide for herself.”
Brigitte cackled. “For herself! What notions you Brits have. No children? To even fathom that. And now, doing as one pleases? I will thank you to keep your reformist propaganda to yourself, Lady Donnelly. It has no place under my roof.”
Ophélie wiped her eyes and straightened herself. “Maman, as you know, I am a most obedient daughter who will always do as you and Papa please. But Lady Donnelly is from a place foreign to us all, and her customs may be different than ours.”
Amelia winced, knowing Ophélie would pay later for coming to her defense.
“They are not simply different. They are wrong,” Brigitte replied. “But let it not be said that I am not a gracious hostess.” With a sharp glance at the grandfather clock, she grunted. “We are late for our afternoon reading from the Bible. Will you join us, Lady Donnelly?”
Amelia, not seeing much of a choice, nodded.
Brigitte lifted the leather book in her hands and pretended to search for the right passage. A series of folded pages gave her away. “Ahh, yes, I believe this will do nicely.”
Ophélie obediently raised her eyes to the sordid fresco above, and whispered, “Oh, Lord, forgive us, thy women, for we are full of sin and have caused all turmoil upon this earth, Amen.”
“Amen,” Brigitte agreed, smiling. “Ophélie, will you read for us from Proverbs? Start at 5:1.”
“Yes, Maman.” Ophélie’s face went blank. Nervous. “My son, pay attention to my wisdom, turn your ear to my words of insight, that you may maintain discretion and your lips may preserve knowledge. For the lips of the adulterous woman drip honey, and her speech is smoother than oil, but in the end, she is bitter as gall, sharp as a double-edged sword.”
“Yes, Lord,” Brigitte whispered, rocking forward, eyes shut in reverence.
Ophélie cast a contemptuous look at her mother and continued. “Her feet go down to death; her steps lead straight to the grave. She gives no thought to the way of life; her paths wander aimlessly, but she does not know it. Now then, my sons, listen to me; do not turn aside from what I say. Keep to a path far from her, do not go near the door of her house, lest you lose your honor to others and your dignity to one who is cruel, lest strangers feast on your wealth and your toil enrich the house of another.”
“Lord, deliver us from the evil sins of woman,” Brigitte joined.
Amelia stared at the mistress of the house, floored by her gall. She wants to stone me. She yet might.
“At the end of your life you will groan, when your flesh and body are spent,” Ophélie went on. “You will say, ‘How I hated discipline! How my heart spurned correction! I would not obey my teachers or turn my ear to my instructors. And I was soon in serious trouble in the assembly of God’s people.’”
“Amen,” Brigitte said, her head moving side to side in a deliberate manner. “Amen.”
“Should I finish, Maman?” Ophélie’s gaze traveled between her mother and her new friend, gauging both reactions with anxious, wide eyes.
Brigitte stood by way of response, crossing her hands over her waist. “Lady Donnelly, you are most welcome here.”
No, that was not what she meant. Not at all. The venom lacing through her words was almost palpable. You are not safe here. I would see the end of you before ever embracing you. You do not belong here. You, and your wicked sin. Stay at your own peril.
Amelia squeezed her temper down, packaging it neatly beside the fear and other blackened emotions threatening to spread the longer she spent with Brigitte Deschanel.
She rose. “Thank you, Madame,” she replied, mustering the last bit of graciousness left within her. “Your hospitality is more than I had hoped for.”
Did Brigitte detect the underlying sarcasm? Maybe. Perhaps she didn’t care. Amelia had the strong sense, though no proof, that Brigitte knew she was not who she said. That she was well aware Amelia was no lady, not from England or elsewhere, and that, sooner or later, this information would be used to harm her.
Once Brigitte was safely in the hall, Amelia released the desperate breath stuck in her lungs.
“I am so sorry. I don’t know what got into my mother,” Ophélie whispered, but hurried after the woman in question, probably afraid of worsening her punishment by lingering with the person her mother had all but labeled a prostitute.
I know what got into her: me. But why?
Amelia afforded Ophélie a brief smile, desperate to be back in her suite, alone, where no one else’s emotions could harm her.
X
Ophélie double-checked the lock at her bedroom. For a fleeting moment, she felt secure again. She didn’t think he would break down the door. Their arrangement—or more truthfully, Jean and their mother’s belief in the sheer rightness of their desires—relied on absolute discretion.
She wrap
ped the shawl tighter, pausing for a moment. Thinking. Just go, she thought. Go to bed, and when you wake up, it will be another day, and there will be no mention at all of the locked door.
To live in a world where she could believe that was her greatest dream. But a dream it was. Ophélie could suffer now, or suffer later, but her lot in this life had been cast long before her birth.
Choking back a small cry, a sound stemming from years of fear and painful knowledge, Ophélie’s tiny hand reached out to turn back the key.
She was once again exposed.
Her governess had slipped out moments before, on orders from Brigitte. Mere seconds ago, in fact, Ophélie had unearthed a brief flash of courage and rotated the key to locked.
Ophélie blew out the flame on the oil lamp and climbed into bed.
She had little choice now but to wait. Feigning sleep would not matter to Jean. To either of them. This situation was not about her, and had never been. In the eyes of Brigitte, the woman who had given birth to her and claimed the moniker of maman, Ophélie’s arrival into this world had always only ever been to serve one purpose.
Only Ophélie, though, seemed to know it would all be for naught. All Brigitte’s planning, her machinations, would come to nothing in the end. Ophélie had seen it all. She saw everything.
Revealing the truth would do nothing but expose her to further abuse and insult. No one would believe her. They would think she’d fabricated the information to protect herself from further injustice.
Ophélie could not decide which was worse: the nightly fear from her dangerous nocturnal visitor, or knowing it would all be over soon. Forever.
She turned in the bed and gripped the quilt tight to her chin. Shivers ran through her, though the room was warm from the coals dying in the hearth. Angry with herself for even allowing the lapse a moment earlier at the door, her only protection from the pain was to accept it. Denial would force her to relive the horrors over and over again. Complacency was her only shield.
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 8