The Secrets Amongst the Cypress

by Cradit, Sarah M.

  “No.”

  Amelia’s eyes closed. Something just shy of relief passed through her before stopping at fear. “And you’ll tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t toy with me, or speak in riddles?”

  “I will tell you what I can,” he answered.

  “What does that mean? What you can?”

  “It means what it means.” He watched her through pained eyes. His hand rose as if to touch her, and when he realized it, he lowered it again.

  “You agreed no riddles.”

  Victor lifted her hand in his and dropped his eyes as he ran a thumb over her fingers. “There are certain truths you must come to on your own. I cannot take that journey for you. You can’t know how badly I wish to.”

  Tears pooled at the surface of Amelia’s eyes, borne of frustration. “But I need to know! I have to know why I’ve agonized, and why Jacob has suffered, and why I can’t heal!”

  Victor dropped her hand with a light sigh. He pulled the blanket tighter around her. “Those answers are within you. They have always been inside you.” His hand rested between her shoulder blades, guiding her toward an eggplant-colored velvet chaise. “Let us see if this is the day you find the courage to draw them out.”

  XXII

  Jacob had ridden in a carriage before. The touristy type, where the horses languished in the Quarter for the sake of impressing a date. He was guilty of hiring one, once in high school, with a girl he hardly spoke to again, and later with Amelia, after they’d broken down the barrier between friendship and love.

  In those early days, though they’d been intimate on other levels for years, he found it especially important to demonstrate his capability of being her partner, and his worthiness. He had to convince himself more than her. Amelia hardly cared about flowers or carriage rides down Chartres, but he did them anyway, until she finally laughed, kissed him, and said… Let’s just do what we’ve always done, Donnelly.

  This carriage was not the same. The ones he had ridden in moved at a leisurely pace, lasting only long enough to have a fill of the niche experience and be thankful it wasn’t the only means of actual transportation.

  Now he was literally discovering that relying on a carriage wasn’t an ideal way to travel.

  Rough, he thought, imagining Amelia asking him to describe the experience in one word. There were two roads into Vacherie, and one was a river. The other, while worn down from the wagon and carriage wheels of others, was rife with bumps, rocks, and uneven patches.

  They only had to travel seven or eight miles, but at their pace, the trip could take half a day.

  When Jean had approached him the day before about the trip, Jacob’s acceptance came from a place of bitterness. A day later, and cooled some, he searched for other benefits. Amelia had held tight to her insistence they were in this time and place for a reason. And with no sign of the reason presenting itself, Jacob wondered if a trip with Jean might turn into an opportunity.

  He couldn’t tell Amelia how badly he wanted to leave… how afraid he was for their safety, how the nagging insistent voice foretelling grave danger would not let up… not when she held tight to the promise of answers… not when Jacob suspected, deep down, she was counting on these answers to heal her.

  He and Jean had been on the road an hour when the first hint of thunder rolled in the distance.

  Jean, in his waistcoat and derby looking ever the man of the house, regarded Jacob from the bench across from him.

  “When will you be returning to England, Lord Donnelly?”

  Jacob, who had been unable to doze with all the bumps, but had nevertheless been daydreaming, fumbled through his response. “Oh. Well, ah, as soon my business with your father is concluded.”

  “And when will that be?”

  Jacob swallowed back a wave of queasiness that hit as soon as he opened his mouth. He was growing less confident his stomach would survive the trip. “Soon, I hope.” It was one of the few truths he’d told on this strange voyage.

  Jean narrowed his eyes and stretched his arms across the back of the carriage bench. Jacob had to remind himself this monster was only fifteen. “Is tomorrow too soon?”

  “Tomorrow?” Jacob repeated. He read the threat but played dumb to avoid the inevitable rise of blood that might lead to something he couldn’t take back. “That’s a very long trip to take for only a few days.”

  Jean snorted. “I know the length.”

  Impudent little punk.

  “Then you understand we’re still recovering from the trip over.”

  “I understand. Whether I care or not is another matter,” Jean replied. Outside, the rain appeared from nowhere, and the exterior soundtrack went from the soft sounds of high noon to the disharmony of the storm’s assault.

  Jacob crossed his arms. “Why am I here, Jean? Why did you ask me to come?”

  “I was tasked with picking up my father’s parcels from the post.”

  “And you didn’t need my help.”

  Jean wrinkled his lips into a maddening shape. Before he could unleash his next string of hatefulness, the carriage came to an abrupt stop. The horses whinnied and bucked, rocking the buggy.

  “That fool!” Jean cried. “I told him no stops!” He appeared every bit the child again. A pouting, stomping brat.

  The sound of heavy boots hitting mud came next, and Jacob was the first to peek his head out. He pulled it back in so fast his neck hurt. “I think I know why he stopped.”

  “A little rain?” Jean shrieked. “Is he afraid to get his hair wet? It isn’t a cursed hurricane, for heaven’s sake!”

  Jacob shot the boy a look and stuck his head out once more. “No,” he called back. The carriage rocked side-to-side as the horses thrashed in panic. “The road is washed out by the flash flood.”

  The door on the other side flew open and the driver, a young man no older than Jean, launched himself inside. Jean beat him with open fists, plainly disgusted.

  “Dude, chill out!” Jacob said to his traveling partner, pulling the shivering man to his side. “You all right?”

  “What did you say to me?” Jean hissed. Jacob wasn’t sure if it was for calling him out or because Jacob had slipped character and used unrecognizable slang.

  “I said calm down,” Jacob repeated, using the right words this time. He comforted the trembling man, who was traumatized from the undeserved onslaught from his master. “Would you want to be outside in that?”

  “He’s a loathsome slave,” Jean said, indignant. His eyes flashed wild with anger. “This one, in particular, is my property, Lord Donnelly. His single purpose in life is to do as I say, when I say it, in the manner in which I demand. And shall I tell you what he is not supposed to do? Come back and tarnish me and my guest with his cursed, abominable—”

  Jacob held his hands up, palms out to avoid making a fist and ending the whole charade right there. “That’s enough, kid. I’m serious.”

  “Get him out of here.”

  “Not until this storm passes.”

  “What did you say? No. He is not remaining here with us!” Jean leveled his rage on Jacques. “And calm those nags before I shoot them and you!”

  Jacob ignored Jean’s tirade and lifted the young man. His face was covered in wetness, a mix of rain and tears. Jacob used his shirt to wipe both away, as Jean moaned in disgust.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jacques, sir.”

  “Jacques. Nice to meet you. I’m Lord Donnelly, but you can call me Jacob.”

  “No, he cannot!” Jean cried.

  “I best not, sir,” Jacques said quietly.

  “It’s okay, Jacques,” Jacob soothed. He forced a smile. “You call me whatever you’re comfortable with. We’re friends now.”

  “Yes, Lord Donnelly.”

  “We need your help. I’m sure as a footman you’re an expert around these parts, is that right?”

  Jacques looked down, hiding his swelling pride. “Yes, sir, Lord
Donnelly. I know th’ parts well.”

  Jean huffed, tapping his foot. He rolled his eyes toward the door, making overt gestures to kick the man out.

  Jacob clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good. We’re still a ways out from Vacherie proper, and it doesn’t seem as if we’re in any shape to get there in this storm. Can you tell us if we are close to anywhere the three of us can take shelter until the storm passes?”

  Jacques’ eyes went up, thinking. “Ah, yessir, there be a parish store not far, just up thereabouts. Last I was there, they had them two rooms for travelers. I ain’t seen the place myself, so if they ain’t up to your standards, I can’t in good conscience recommend them…”

  “Great! If I were to go up and drive this coach, do you think you could give me some good direc—”

  “Absolutely not!” Jean thundered. His face was the color of the red velvet seats. “This has gone far enough. He is not your friend, Lord Donnelly, and I won’t have you spoiling him with this unusual treatment. Jacques, you will take us to this store at once, and I don’t want to hear another whelp out of you about this rain.”

  “Yes, sir, Monsieur.” Jacques’ whole demeanor wilted as he reached for the door.

  Jacob couldn’t help himself.

  He stretched forward and pulled the man into a half-embrace. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be in your debt,” Jacob told him, and the painful groaning sound from Jean was almost as enjoyable as the secret smile Jacques wore, with a light spring in his step, as he went outside to face the storm as their newly minted hero.

  Jean wagged an unsteady finger at him. He was too young, too inexperienced to control his rage in a way that could have served him at the moment and was, instead, an unhinged ball of wrath. “If you ever—”

  “Ah, fuck off,” Jacob said and leaned back into the seat to tune him out.

  Only one room was available, though it had both a small bed and a couch, and with no other option, they took it. Jean demanded Jacques sleep in the rain. Jacob countered Jacques could take the couch, and he would sleep on the floor. Amidst Jean’s apoplectic fit at the suggestion, the owner of the store inadvertently solved the dilemma by declaring no slaves allowed in his rooms except when service was needed. This earned a satisfied smirk from Jean, but Jacob saw to it Jacques found warmth inside in the carriage. Their secret.

  “You have a lot to learn about earning loyalty,” Jacob said when it was only the two of them. Jean leaned over the hearth, attempting to start a fire and wearing a deeply perplexed frown. He’d likely never had to do this on his own before in his life.

  Jean laughed. “I don’t require loyalty from a slave. Only obedience.”

  Jacob had more thoughts on the matter—many more—but he understood a discussion on slave rights would be wasted on a creature who had no warmth or heart to speak of. He treated his sister, his own flesh and blood, no better. Worse, even, unless he was raping his slaves, too.

  He shuddered.

  “You never answered my question,” Jacob started. Standing over him, he enjoyed this temporary position of power, then wondered why he needed it. Jean was a child, even if he had the heart of a fiend. He wasn’t worth the energy.

  “Remind me of the question.”

  “About why I’m here.”

  “I started to when that pickaninny barged in.”

  Jacob’s anger blossomed into a burning heat. Ignore it. Unless you plan to kill him and have Jacques help you hide the body…

  “So, we have time now. Plenty of time,” Jacob added. He peeked out the curtain at the endless sea of dark cloud formations. “It’s clear you don’t like me. That’s cool because I happen to think you’re an asshole. I’m not a fool, for whatever else you might think of me. With that out of the way, let’s talk about what you really want.”

  Jean’s brow shot up. “You’re well on the mark. I don’t like you. I can appreciate your cutting to the point, however.”

  Jacob said nothing.

  “I wanted to speak with you about the night you arrived. And two nights past, as well, if my suspicions are correct,” Jean said. He pulled himself up and leaned into the stone hearth. Jacob was shocked to see he’d actually achieved the fire. Jean looked shocked as well. “You’ve been inserting yourself where you do not belong and have not been comporting yourself with the respectful behavior one expects from a guest. If you have any regard for my family, you’ll realize your error and cease this behavior immediately.”

  Jacob’s heart raced; Jean’s concern over his involvement was all but confirmation of the unholy deed. “I don’t make a point of being nosy unless something is going on that I can’t ignore,” he said carefully. “And a baby crying, all by itself, is something I can’t ignore.”

  Jean threw his head back with a short laugh. “Ah, yes, Maman said you mentioned a baby. You and your silly wife. There are no babies in Ophélie, so either you are mad or… no, perhaps you are just mad.”

  “Both of us?” Jacob pressed. “My wife heard it, too. She and I are close, but we don’t exactly share hallucinations.”

  “I’ve seen no evidence of this closeness, though perhaps it’s because I only see your wife when she’s in the presence of another man,” Jean said, grinning.

  Jacob tried to ignore the slight, but the knife twisted anyway. “We aren’t trying to cause trouble. But we know what we heard.”

  “You presuppose nonsense and know nothing,” Jean volleyed, rolling toward the slowly building heat. “And you are not one of us, no matter how loosely you may tie yourselves to our pedigree.”

  “I know you’re hiding something,” Jacob said. He walked toward the warmth and Jean shrunk into the stone. “I saw the fresh grave on the property. Are you going to explain that away as madness, too?

  “There are some things outsiders cannot understand. Things you know nothing about. I would not come to your house and dig around making accusations,” Jean said, for the first time sounding reasonable.

  “I haven’t made any accusations,” Jacob replied. “But something is going on in your house, something you don’t want anyone to know about. And that’s fine, because, hey, I’m not looking for trouble. Neither is my wife. But we both know I’m not crazy.”

  A gust of rain smashed into the window, and Jean jumped. They shivered in tandem.

  “Oh, you are more than certainly crazy,” Jean said, shaking his head as he ran his tongue along his lower lip. “For allowing your wife to run to the arms of Victor de Blanchefort. For a man who claims to know the business of others, you haven’t made near the effort to know his.”

  “I trust her,” Jacob defended. “Don’t bring her up again.”

  Jean’s laugh, this time, resonated across the wooden room, bouncing off the table and chairs, across the wall. “We both know de Blanchefort will bring her up enough for the both of us.”

  Jacob’s hands turned to fists. No, Cianán, his mother’s voice warned, gently. You know this is not the answer. Not with him. He is not your battle to fight.

  “You want to hit me.” Jean cackled. “But you lack the spine for the task.”

  Jacob spun on him. Something in his face silenced the young man. “You aren’t worth it.” And the price of your blood on my hands would be greater for me than it ever would be for you.

  They passed the evening hours in silence. Had Jean attempted a conversation, he would have been met with Jacob’s quick temper. But Jacob was not surprised when Jean said nothing, and they each slipped into the solace of their own thoughts.

  Jacob had more on his mind on the matter of Jean, but his exhaustion won the battle, and the sooner he rested, the quicker he could wake again and return to Amelia.

  He wouldn’t think about her, either. Although he might not understand her fascination with this strange de Blanchefort fellow, he trusted her. And when he saw her again, he would tell her so. I know you’re hurting. Being around me maybe makes that worse. But just tell me. Tell me what you need from him, and I’ll try to understand.
Getting you through this is more important than any ego.

  Jacob eased into sleep playing the script out in his mind, over and over, hoping the repetition would also bring him courage.

  Instinct woke him. The distinct pinch of steel against his throat brought him quickly to lucidity.

  He lay still, squinting into the dark room. He fully expected Jean to be the man wielding the knife at his neck, but Jean’s pathetic whimpers in the corner brought more of the story to light.

  Jacob didn’t recognize the rancid, oily man leaning over him, but his identity wasn’t important. It never was. Everyone who wielded a weapon to extort power did so because they wanted something. That was important.

  “Give them whatever they want!” Jean cried. As if Jacob had to guess where this craven bastard stood when faced with adversity.

  The face above him came further into focus. Jacob put his hands up and to the side to show he had no weapon of his own. To show surrender.

  “Where is it?” the man demanded. His spit dotted Jacob’s cheeks, and he resisted the urge to wipe it away.

  “Where is what?” Jacob asked. Good. Talking was good. He needed another few moments to take stock of the situation.

  “You know. The gold.” Shuffling across the room. A second man. Of course, Jacob thought. Someone was keeping Jean in line. Were there more?

  “The shopkeeper said you came in with twelve bars,” the other man said.

  Jacob listened with more than his ears. He wasn’t straining for footsteps or voices, only for the air in the room. For the way it reacted to the environment.

  No. Only two.

  “Jean, give him the gold,” Jacob ordered. The source of this issue was clear, suddenly. The shopkeeper had turned his own trouble on them.

  “What? Lord Donnelly, what… what…” Jean stammered.

  Yeah, I know. No gold. Better for them not to know that just yet.

  What? Lord Donnelly? How are you in my head?

  Doesn’t matter. Play along or die. I don’t care.