Outside, a fresh, powerful breeze whipped through the oaks, creating a reverberating hum that bounced from tree to tree.
Inside, Victor’s candle flickered.
“You know nothing of my house. Of my family,” she said carefully lifting one bare foot and resting it behind the other, backing away slowly. “Or our honored guests.”
A peaceful smile settled over his face. “Ophélie, I am not your enemy.”
“What are you, then?”
“Someone who would see you whole were it in my power. Someone who will do the same for Amelia, if I can.”
“One has nothing to do with the other.” Ophélie’s hand trembled. She wondered if it had done so all along.
Victor’s smile broadened, and he tilted his head to the side. Watching her. “You say that with the conviction of one who does not believe her own words at all.”
“Only one who is tired of odd words from a strange man!”
He reached a hand to her cheek. Ophélie recoiled her face but was rooted to the carpet, unable to move. She needed to know what would happen next and summoned the courage to find out.
His palm cupped her cheek, and a wave of warmth passed through her. She did not know why she leaned into his touch, or why it comforted her. Why she craved it.
Victor pressed his forehead to hers. “I will kill him. I should have already, but I feared for your life.”
Ophélie saw no point in lying to a man who knew her truths. She recognized this now, even if she understood nothing else. “No, I don’t desire that, even after everything.”
“And I would not move toward a destination you did not desire.”
“It matters not,” she went on. “Certain truths are unavoidable. You would think me mad if I were to share them, but my fate has already been spoken by the lips of God.”
Victor’s eyes had a glassy sheen. “Would that I had the power to change it.”
He cannot know what I know, but what else could he mean? Dear Lord, who is this man You’ve placed in my home and why has he shaken up my world? I have accepted my fate, and yet You continue to throw obstacles in my path when I have done nothing but be Your faithful servant.
She lifted her head from his hand. “Why should my burdens be a concern of yours?”
“That is not the question, Ophélie.”
“Then, pray, what is?”
A light press of his lips on her forehead was the only answer she received.
“Amelia stirs. You should return to your room before others are alerted,” he encouraged.
“Dismissed like a child,” she whispered in a pout. She was angry at herself for not understanding Victor’s riddles; at the truth being dangled before her, but too high for her short reach. “Why are you here, Victor?” After tonight, she had earned consent to use his name.
“I am here as much for you as I am for her. But only one of you can yet be saved,” he answered, now turning away from her, toward the door, toward Amelia.
XVII
Infant cries infiltrated his sleep.
Jacob was almost not surprised to see the empty spot next to him on the bed. His initial reaction was bitterness, but the emotion dimmed as he realized Amelia probably had a head start on the sound.
He wasn’t going to follow it again. He’d told himself this lie, further validating it with truthful but pathetic reminders. Whether a baby cried or not wasn’t his problem. Whatever happened under this roof was better off staying that way if he wanted to avoid more concerns of his own.
However, if Amelia had chased the sound again, he couldn’t very well leave her vulnerable to whatever attack, verbal or otherwise, Brigitte would be ready to level upon her.
When he arrived at the alcove, Amelia wasn’t there.
The attic stairs, though, were down.
Had she gone up alone?
His heart did a quick dance and sunk to the floor. Dang, Blanca, really?
Jacob saw little choice in the matter. He set the candleholder on steady flooring and glanced up at the opening with a sigh.
When he started to climb, the creaky rungs sang out in defiance, and he winced, certain discovery was inevitable. But if his wife was up there, turning back wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t leave Amelia to deal with the repercussions alone, even if she hadn’t solicited his help.
Halfway up the ladder, the cries stopped altogether. He hurried to catch up so he could investigate.
At the top, the sound of two voices, competing in low, vicious whispers halted him. Neither belonged to Amelia, but they were nonetheless familiar, and not in a way that gave him any relief as he perched at the opening, vulnerable.
Brigitte and Jean.
“It is done,” Brigitte said. “Why do you never trust your maman?”
Jean’s usually snide tone was more subdued. “Maybe his health would have improved, Maman. We are not doctors. How can we know what ailed him wasn’t curable?”
A loud crack resonated, followed by a sharp cry from Jean. “A doctor! Next, you will recommend we alert the rest of the parish as to what you and your sister get up to every night!”
“At your command,” Jean answered in a quiet, retreating voice.
“You dare,” Brigitte hissed. Her bare feet made small pats. Jacob imagined her circling her son in the ghastly nightgown, buttons popped open at the top. “I give you the world. I give you everything. I only require one thing of you. Is she so hard to look upon, Jean?”
“She is my sister. If anyone found—”
“You put your faith in doubt, not me! In Satan, the king of doubt! As soon as we find her with child again, I will ensure your father marries her to the de Blanchefort imp posthaste. There will be no legal question as to the father.”
“Papa says de Blanchefort won’t agree to a marriage until Lestan is nineteen.”
Brigitte laughed. “Then she will not marry Lestan! There are other boys in this parish, and along this river. Other men. We can send her farther away if need be. I am not opposed to shipping her back to France once she has also borne a son by Fitz.”
“Papa is insistent that it must be de—”
Brigitte smacked him again. “Who has seen to your future, Jean Charles? Not that craven Frenchman who calls himself your papa. He would see all our family has worked for, for centuries, end to make an alliance for money. He cares not for our heritage. The man pulled us from who we were in France, intent to leave us torn from our roots. Do you want your children to share your abilities, or would you also see them suffer?”
“I want what you want, Maman,” Jean said. “I only wish we could have done more for him. He was so little, and…”
Brigitte’s voice took on a tender note, but the lack of sincerity rendered it an evil sound. “I know, sweet darling, but you are my strong one. You are my heir. Fitz lacks the strength of his older brother, and his time away has turned him into nothing more than a ragdoll, though I suppose he will perform his duty easier this way when the time comes. Yet, he will never be you. He will never have the conviction to make impossible choices. Do you think me heartless?”
“No, Maman.”
“Are we clear, then? Do we once again share a vision?”
“Yes, Maman.”
“But?”
Jean’s voice dropped. “But… how will this help, if we’ve lost who we are by leaving France? You’ve told me how wonderful it was, but I have never experienced this for my own self.”
“Do you not understand? Only through our continued devotion will we return to glory! We must, or we are nothing. We become nothing.”
Jean didn’t reply.
Brigitte’s steps were the only sounds ahead. Then, the soft muffled melody of lips against skin. “Now we put this behind us. Go to Ophélie. We have not a single night to waste.”
Jacob strained to hear what she whispered next, then it dawned on him their discussion had ended. They were headed his way.
He quickly descended the ladder, his foot slipping near the end a
s he landed with a thud. With a stumble, he backed into the wall and rolled off the corner, sprinting back down the hall toward the staircase.
Jacob didn’t look back. Surely they’d heard him, but if they didn’t see him, they would never know who had been listening to their malevolent exchange.
He heaved a sigh of relief as he reached the door to his room. When he pushed it open, he caught movement from the corner of his eye.
Victor, returning to his room.
Jacob, in the excitement, had forgotten… he had never found Amelia.
He tried to sleep, but the attempt was fruitless. Thoughts of the exchange in the attic, combined with worries about his wife and what she had been up to in the middle of the night with Victor de Blanchefort, taunted him, forcing him to consider the answer to questions he wasn’t ready to ask.
When Amelia slipped into bed a few minutes later, he found he didn’t have the heart or the courage to begin.
DAY
FOUR
XVIII
Four days.
Four days they had been roaming around the past where they didn’t belong.
Four days of being interlopers, faced with new dangers.
Four days without direction or answers to why they were sent there, in this time, of all the times and places in all the world.
Amelia’s urgency to leave was tied only to her own cautious fear of the unknown. The rest of her was drawn to this place and time, tethered to the prospect of finding the answer that would send everything in her life neatly back into place.
She and Jacob weren’t talking. More precisely, they were not speaking beyond the pleasantries reserved for strangers or distant acquaintances. He might comment on the weather, and she would ask him to check if her hair was straight.
“We’ve been invited to tea on the rear gallery,” Jacob said as if tea with their ancestors was a standard activity in their social calendar.
Amelia’s eyes were fixed on the paper he clutched in his hand, watching him turn it over. “Sounds lovely.”
Amelia was disappointed, though not surprised, that Ophélie had not been invited. Instead, they were left to socialize with the last people on the plantation she had any desire to spend an afternoon with. Brigitte and Charles, of course, and the de Blanchefort men.
Marius and Charles were deep in discourse about a land deal they’d closed that week. Amelia strained to listen, not the least bit interested but far more eager to engage in whatever they were discussing rather than being forced into any kind of conversation with Brigitte.
They’re going into the tobacco business, Jacob explained, opening the channel between them. Sorry. I don’t know if you’re okay talking like this, but you weren’t closed, so I went for it.
It’s fine, she said. A shiver passed down her spine: nervousness. She was jumpy around her own husband.
“Lady Donnelly,” Victor chimed in, lifting his teacup her direction. “How lovely you look today. The yellow in your dress catches the sun fetchingly.”
“Thank you,” she replied. Her response began as a mumble, slowly climbing in volume as she remembered the need to appear politely interested.
“And my suit?” Jacob said. “Does it also catch the light fetchingly, Monsieur de Blanchefort?”
Amelia’s mouth popped open.
Victor nearly dropped his teacup. Once recovered, he grinned in delight. “I’m afraid the black has a more reflective quality, but you are equally dazzling, Lord Donnelly.”
Brigitte watched them both like a buzzard assessing which animal would be left for prey.
I think he believes you’re being playful.
Jacob’s eyes stayed trained on Victor. I don’t believe he thinks at all about what others feel.
He’s not worth it, she sent back, only to realize she might be opening a discussion she didn’t quite know how to have.
No? Sure seems as if he’s worth it to you.
A surge in Amelia’s pulse sent the heat directly to her cheeks.
Charles watched her. “Lady Donnelly, are you quite all right? You look flushed, my dear.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Thank you.”
“Winters here are cold by our standards, but your constitution is tempered for a much colder climate.” He seemed frazzled at seeing his guest discomfited.
“Lady Donnelly is merely blushing at a compliment from our esteemed de Blanchefort,” Brigitte said sweetly. Her words were saccharine and arsenic. Amelia had to block the pushback from the escalating darkness of the woman’s aura.
“My son often forgets the rules of decorum around a lovely lady,” Marius added, by way of apology for Victor. Did it make her feel better, or worse, that she was not unique in his affections?
Amelia shook her head. “No, I’m fine, I promise. It’s my fair skin. I sometimes get hot flashes. I’m not accustomed to any humidity in the air.”
“Indeed?” Brigitte asked, sipping her tea. “Are these hot flashes always in the company of comely, wealthy landowners?”
Amelia flushed deeper. All eyes at the table rested on her, in anticipation of her next words. She couldn’t look at Jacob for support when he shared Brigitte’s suspicions.
She glanced her husband’s direction anyway, but he looked down. Amelia didn’t require her empathic touch to sense the sadness flowing through him.
“Now, now, Lady Donnelly is our guest,” Charles chided his wife. “She may not be used to our good-natured playfulness.”
“Playfulness infers a lack of solemnity or strong intention,” Brigitte answered, still smiling like a debutante on display. “If Lady Donnelly does not wish to confirm she enjoys the affections of the younger de Blanchefort, we may take her silence as affirmation.”
“Madame,” Charles warned.
“My wife isn’t used to this weather, as she mentioned,” Jacob said, but his voice lacked volume or enthusiasm, and most of those around the table didn’t register his words. Amelia’s shame deepened. Here he was, defending her against her own actions.
“Lady Donnelly has a husband far more charming than I could pray to be.” Victor, again, to her rescue. “If I flatter her, that is my doing, not hers.”
Amelia wanted to thank him. She also wished him to leave and go far, far away. “This is my first time to America, and I just need time to adapt,” she answered while hoping to end the topic.
“My father was born in France,” Marius said. “And has said it took him nearly a decade to adapt to the climes of Saint Domingue. I don’t believe he ever adjusted entirely to Louisiana.”
Amelia wondered about Marius de Blanchefort… his young face, the soft, disarming quality in his delivery. He didn’t seem to share Victor’s impish nature, but neither did he discourage it. And where Charles was concerned with propriety and not being viewed as a remiss host, Marius seemed to care about Amelia’s discomfort in a more personal way.
“I would love to hear some of your father’s stories about living on the island,” she said, smiling.
“I also lived there in my boyhood. And I would be honored for any time you might spare an old man to wax about his childhood memories.”
Old man. There was no way he was a day over thirty. And once again, she was as suspicious of the father as she was the son.
“So, the two of you have purchased more land for tobacco, then?” Jacob asked Charles.
“We shook hands yesterday.” Charles glanced at Marius with a wary smile. “We may yet come to regret this venture, but my partner is confident in the investment.”
“As you should be,” Marius said. He turned over a scone in his hand, regarded it with mild curiosity, then returned it to the silver tray in the center of the table.
“I would love to pick your brain. My wife and I are hoping to purchase several plots along the river,” Jacob said, forcing a smile in her direction.
“Pick my brain?” Marius frowned.
“An English expression,” Amelia said in a rush, followed by a short laugh. Colloquialisms
would be their downfall.
“A curiously painful one,” Marius returned, eyes wide.
“Many things are unusual about our treasured guests,” Brigitte said. She arched her brow.
“Monsieur!” All eyes turned toward a man running toward the group. Amelia recognized him from their first day. Edwin.
“Yes, Edwin,” Charles answered, breaking his pastry in half. “What is it?”
Edwin bent over, out of breath. “You… have… a visitor… sir…” he panted, gasping out each word.
“Unannounced?” Charles asked with a brief shrug toward his guests, oblivious to the excitement of his servant.
“This seems to be a recurring plague upon our household of late,” Brigitte quipped.
“Sir…” Edwin wheezed.
“Calm down, boy,” Charles said. He shared a glance with his male peers, laughing. “I’m not selling you to the traders just yet.”
“She…” Edwin stood up straight, trying to pull himself together. “Your guest, sir. She says… she says…”
“Well, get on with it!”
“She says she’s your sister, sir.”
“My…” Charles furrowed his mouth. “I have no sister. She is confused, certainly. Correct her and send her on her way.”
“Sir, I…”
Edwin’s words were choked off not by his hesitancy this time, but by the pitched voice of a tiny young woman fervently marching around the porch, a terrified slave in tow.
“Charles!” she cried. “Charles Deschanel! Brother, I have traveled far to see you!”
Brigitte whipped her head around so fast Amelia thought she might snap her neck. What a shame that would be. “Edwin, get rid of this trash! Monsieur has no sister.”
“I have no sister,” Charles echoed his wife. “Mademoiselle, you are either confused or after a swindle, and neither are welcome on my property.”
Amelia assessed the young woman who stood at the corner of the gallery, one hand spread across the Corinthian column, the other pointing in their general direction. She was familiar… so familiar, in a way that she knew would hit her, at any moment…
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 13