Lady Donnelly sensed it. She poured them both some lemon water and settled back on the quilt. “Ophélie, what’s wrong?”
Oh, how much I would welcome a confidante. But it isn’t safe, for either of us. “My room was too warm last night. I slept very poorly.”
Lady Donnelly’s mouth twitched, and she cast her eyes down. “Have you tried this candy? It’s incredible.”
“The trifles? The de Blancheforts brought them. Their family sent them from France.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about them,” Lady Donnelly said. The look that followed was peculiar but guarded. “And their visit here.”
“Oh, yes. The de Blanchefort family has been here far more in the past year, but they are regular guests at Ophélie,” Ophélie explained. She didn’t add that Victor’s presence unsettled her. That she sometimes dreamed of him. “Marius de Blanchefort is Papa’s most trusted business partner.”
“But is it always only the two of them?”
“The women come if we have a fête, such as they did for my birthday celebration. It wouldn’t be appropriate for them to visit on business unless my mother invited them for a social call. But Maman is… as you may have gathered from yesterday… not always a natural hostess.” This was not a false statement, but Ophélie still puzzled over her maman’s particular aversion to Lady Donnelly.
“No, I mean…” Lady Donnelly paused in mid-thought, in debate with herself. “Is it always Victor who accompanies his father?”
If it were anyone but the lady, this line of questioning would make Ophélie uncomfortable, but she felt as if they had been friends many years and no questions were off limits. “Yes, usually.”
Lady Donnelly tilted her head to the left. “Does he not have other children, then? Other sons?”
Ophélie brightened at the opportunity to share more useful information. “Ah, yes! He has a daughter, Marion, who married Jacques Bonapartie, and their daughter, Julianne, is betrothed to my brother, Jean.” Observing her friend’s patient smile, she got on with it. “He has one other son, Philippe. He and Victor are co-heirs, as they are twins. Twin heirs are uncommon here, but Marius solved this by willing Coquillage, his plantation, to Victor and building one identical in every way on the adjoining land, called Petit a Petit. In true twin fashion, both men have always copied one another. They each even married ladies from the Roman family!” She lowered her voice. “It is said they are even building rival tombs between the two houses so they may be equal in death, if you can believe the rumors.”
Lady Donnelly did not seem entertained by this notion. “Why doesn’t Philippe ever accompany his father?”
Ophélie considered this. “Why, I don’t know. One would suppose he might, from time to time, but I have only seen him on occasion, and never on a business call.”
“And no one else finds this peculiar?”
“I don’t suppose I’ve heard anyone but you mention it.” She looked down and away as the words left her lips, for they were at least in part a lie. She had wondered these things but had not believed it appropriate to ask. She wished she had a female confidante to speak to. One who might understand when she relayed how Victor’s eyes on her, all these years, left her feeling both exposed and protected.
Ophélie watched Lady Donnelly who was pitched back on her elbows, a position far more appropriate for a man, her snowy hair cascading against the red and blue checkered pattern of the blanket. She was witnessing the woman with her guard down, in a moment where she’d utterly forgotten who she was and how to be that person.
Ophélie loved her then.
But also, with her façade laid briefly aside, Lady Donnelly was not only exposed from without but also within. Whatever she had carried with her on her voyage had been stowed deep, for no one’s perusal but her own. Yet Ophélie could see it as if her new friend was painted with a brush of opaque black.
Her upbringing dictated it wrong to request her friend share with her when she wasn’t ready to reciprocate, but Ophélie did not know how much time they had, so none should be wasted. “My apologies if this is too forward, my lady—”
“Amelia,” the white-haired fairy lying across from her corrected. “Forget the formalities when we’re in private. They’re tedious.”
“Amelia…” Ophélie blushed. Even the thought of referring to her elders, especially married ones, by a given name, without even an added softener of a title, made her feel like seeking penance. “I know you may find this odd for me to say, but I can sense things in others. Certain truths, you might say. And I perceive in you a great injustice done to you by an unspeakable evil.” The red in her cheeks deepened to a dark burgundy. “I know I shouldn’t say such things, but I find it easy to talk around you.”
Amelia’s expression was impassable, but her eyes traveled to somewhere far from where they sat under the afternoon sky. Then, to Ophélie’s great surprise, she said, “Something terrible did happen before we arrived here. It isn’t an event I would ever want to burden you with, sweet Ophélie, but I thank you for noticing and caring enough to ask.”
With anyone else, Ophélie would only need to reach with the invisible fingers of her mind and parse through the memories to find the full answer. Her maman would be angry if she knew Ophélie could do this, especially after sharing how her own abilities had all but disappeared when coming to Louisiana, so she had always kept this strange gift to herself. No one ever suspected, and she never let anyone in on the secret. This unusual ability to read minds was how she knew her father’s love for her was genuine, and her mother’s was not.
Yet Amelia, from the very beginning, had been blocked to Ophélie.
Amelia was undoubtedly special, but Ophélie sensed more than that. Much more. And, as she began to associate her strange visions with the possibility they might, in fact, be memories, she knew Amelia’s sudden presence in her life was no coincidence.
“You can talk to me,” Ophélie said, placing a hand against the soft down of Amelia’s arm. “I would never share your confidence with others, and you might find I understand more than most believe me to.”
“Oh,” Amelia said, with the start of a smile, “of that I have no doubt.”
Ophélie blushed again. “You and I have our secrets, La… Amelia. We both have experienced situations we wish had not happened.”
“Everyone has,” Amelia said quickly. With a steady, thoughtful breath, she added, “If I can do anything, anything at all, about…”
When Amelia faltered, Ophélie finished for her. “There’s nothing you can do about Jean. That mold is long set.”
Amelia’s eyes widened, perhaps shocked at the easy confirmation. “Ophélie, you don’t have to allow it! You have rights, too, even if you might have been convinced otherwise.”
“It isn’t about personal freedom. Did you not have rights when you were hurt?”
“They were stripped from me, as yours are being stripped now. In both cases, the offense was criminal.”
Ophélie leveled her gaze. “And when have we known criminals to obey the laws of either society or government? Isn’t that what they are, by the very definition of a criminal, someone who has no regard for either?”
Amelia sat forward, throwing her arms up. “He is your brother!”
“Yes, he is. And my mother should also be a protector, but instead, she has taken another role. My father would protect me, but cannot,” Ophélie said, far past sadness in the matter. “Lord Donnelly was your protector, but either could not or would not when it mattered. Is that right?”
Amelia turned away. “He saved my life. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for his quick thinking.”
Ophélie’s voice dropped lower, kinder. “Yet he could not save you from the tragedy altogether. Do you understand now?”
“No, because you’re implying we’re victims to whatever the world wants to do with us,” Amelia argued. Her hair had fallen over one shoulder, and her cheeks blazed with emotion. “That no matter how str
ong we are, or who we have on our side, there’s certain inevitability in bad guys winning. Ophélie, that’s a tragic line of thought. It’s beyond nihilism. Do you really believe that?”
How could she explain that it was not the inevitability of evil prevailing, but certain patterns were destined to repeat? The dilemma now was her own fault for leading them there.
“Ophélie!” Her mother’s voice grated across the grass. She wasn’t safe from it, even beneath the protection of the mighty live oaks. “There you are!”
Ophélie shared a brief glance with Amelia. They knew what was coming. “Maman! We were having the picnic I promised Lady Donnelly yesterday. Would you like the join us?”
Of course, she wouldn’t. Brigitte hadn’t arrived for a social call.
“We’re going to be late, child,” Brigitte chastised, lifting her skirts over the damp grass, appearing as if she might strike down the gods for allowing the wetness to graze her skin.
“For what, Maman?”
“Tea at Valcour Aime’s, of course!”
Ophélie had not been informed of tea at the Aimes until that very moment, so she was certain her mother had contrived to get them an invite at the last minute, which was not only nearly impossible but also impolite. “I did not know. I’m sorry. Shall I change my dress?”
“At once!”
Ophélie apologized to Amelia by way of a quick glance. Any words on the matter would lead to a further scolding by her mother and mistreatment of her guest. “We can try again tomorrow?”
“Sure. Enjoy your tea,” Amelia replied, flashing a quick wink only they could see.
Her mother had her by the elbow, nearly dragging her toward the house despite Ophélie keeping pace. When they reached the stairs, a thought occurred to her.
“Maman, should we not also invite Lady Donnelly?”
Brigitte spun on her with a glare that stopped Ophélie’s heart. “What did I tell you? You stay away from Lady Donnelly!”
XIII
Ophélie was wrong. Unusually wise for a girl her age, but also completely and utterly wrong.
Growing up in a tenuous world, in a family beset by tragedy, it would be easier for Amelia to believe such deeds of evil could not be prevented, but to do so would also strip her of her agency. It would mean the difference between a single Baldur and thousands of them, all intent on ripping her power to shreds, over and over, with nothing to stop them.
Not only did she not believe this, but she also had no choice in that skepticism if she wanted to survive. She had been on the verge of emotional collapse for days, and her faith was all she had left.
One of the housemaids appeared to collect the remnants of their picnic. Amelia had looked forward to her afternoon with Ophélie, who, despite their age and time differences, she felt an intense kinship with. She might say Ophélie was her friend.
Moving to rest her palm against the thick bark of the oak to steady herself to rise, Amelia found it a feat worthy of a medal in the restricting dress she was wearing. Instead of her hand making contact with the tree, however, it landed upon soft cotton and a firm, muscular arm.
Amelia gazed up with a start. Victor de Blanchefort cast a long shadow that ran across her and up the bark. Before she could resist the help, he had pulled her onto her feet anyhow, and even boldly dusted off the back of her dress.
“I thought I was very clear.” Her pulse quickened as his words from the day before returned to her in a rush. I know who you are, and from where you come. Or should I say, when?
“I figured your words were impulsive given you’d lost consciousness prior to saying them,” Victor said reasonably, offering his arm again. She gawked at it with outright hostility, and he dropped it again.
“You accused me of lying,” she returned, lifting her skirt to avoid the dewy grass as she rushed her steps.
“And you insinuated my father is someone else entirely. We are both full of accusations, it seems, though when I speak them, I make sure they are true,” Victor replied, eyes alive with playfulness.
“Once again, you mistake me for someone who enjoys being toyed with.”
“You continue to underestimate my sense of humor, Lady Donnelly,” he said, brow raised. “Or am I overestimating yours?”
Amelia came to an abrupt stop halfway down the line of oaks. Her hands splayed at the top of her hips, her back ached from the third day of wearing torturous attire. She had no patience for whatever mischief he’d brought with him. “What is it you want from me, Monsieur de Blanchefort?”
Victor clutched his chest as if wounded. “We have devolved back to our respectful titles? You could have at least warned me.”
“Answer the damn question, Victor.”
The teasing behind his expression faded only slightly. “I want to know you better. Is that not evident?”
“And why would you? There’s no reason for it,” Amelia said. Her head shook furiously, expelling the idea and him. “We’re both married, and I’m not even from here.”
“Oh.” He grinned. “Yes, you are. Or about a half hour, as the crow flies.”
The first beads of sweat formed at her décolletage. “I’m from London.”
“We both know you hail from New Orleans, although it looks decidedly different now than it will when you become a regular occupant.”
Her stomach dropped in an instant. She hardened herself, not willing to lose it again in front of this man. Whatever he thought he knew, she couldn’t allow it. If she didn’t confirm his ridiculous accusations, he would be forced to drop them. “I will ask you again.” Her words were slow, measured. Each one enunciated with a particular deliberateness. “What do you want from me?”
“And I already answered,” Victor said. He backed up one step, affording her space to breathe. “I truly have no ulterior motive, Amelia. I know who you are, and I know you come from a time no one currently living will ever come to see. You are fully aware of this too, but you’re simply too shocked to realize that I know it and wish to have a conversation on the matter. I already assured you I have no designs on sharing your well-guarded secret with anyone else and no aim toward harming you. On the contrary, I have very good reasons to see you safe, and more, happy.”
“What reasons…” She couldn’t finish. Her mouth was a bed of cotton.
“You need water,” he said quickly, and directed her toward the back of the house, to the well. Amelia allowed this, all the while wondering to herself, at how easily she had allowed him to guide and comfort her. She’d fallen into it in the natural way she had always succumbed to Jacob’s efforts. One part of her needed him and his accusations to go far, far, away, and the other followed him with the blind ease of someone familiar to her for years.
They said nothing on the short trek to the rear of the house. Amelia tried to clear her mind of Victor’s words, for any attempt at analysis would require a call to action on her part. She had nothing, not at this moment, anyway. Her strength ebbed and flowed, and not ever in any logical manner.
Victor drew a bucket from the well. Resting his hand on the back of her head, he tilted the heavy bucket in his free hand with surprising ease. The cool water burned her throat, but the relief was immediate.
“Thank you,” she managed.
“My pleasure.” Victor offered his arm again, and this time, she took it. “Have you spent much time in Brigitte’s Garden? I have not found its equal on our soil, except at Valcour Aime’s St. James Refinery.”
Amelia said nothing. Her feet, one after the other, followed where he led.
Vivid floral arrays of the garden, of camellias, azaleas, of lilies, awakened her again, restoring her own vivacity. The foliage also shielded them from prying eyes of the workers, who were everywhere, always.
“People are going to start talking about us,” she said, taking the bench across from the one where he settled, rather than easing in beside him. “They would be wrong, but that won’t stop them.”
“I’m not in the habit of givin
g credence to what others say about me.” He leaned forward. “And neither are you.”
“I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. Not our hosts, and definitely not my husband.”
“They were talking about us before you arrived,” Victor laughed. “Aren’t the sewing circles just as bold in your time?”
“You keep saying these bizarre things about my time as if I’m supposed to understand what you’re talking about.” It was weak. She knew it was pitiful. He knew it too.
Who are you, Victor? That’s the question I should be asking. That’s what I need to make myself ask.
Victor grinned. A light breeze whipped through the soft, short curls at his neck. “You’re not ready. That’s quite all right.”
Amelia began her counter move, but any rebuttal with him, on any topic, was futile. He had an answer loaded, always. Victor was the person you would have wanted on your college debate team, but one you’d run fast and far to avoid if he tried to join you for drinks after.
“Are you going to continue to appear from thin air anytime I’m out and about?” she asked.
“I might.”
“It’s weird.”
“That is not the worst thing someone has called me.”
“No, it’s more than that… I think you’re upsetting Jacob. My husband,” she said. Jacob handled her carefully now, so he hadn’t mentioned Victor since that first night, but she knew he wanted to. If the roles were reversed, she would.
Or, at least, the Amelia before Baldur would have.
Victor appeared properly chastened. “That won’t do at all. I’ll find occasion to speak with him.”
“I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” she said. “What would be better is if you just left me alone until we both leave.”
“Better for whom?”
“For all of us.”
“Your sensibility, you mean.” The playfulness of earlier had returned. “It is always far more work to address the truths of our lives than to avoid them. I believe it was Robert Frost who said, ‘I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’”
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 10