Fire on the Ramparts (Sugar Hill Book 2)

by M. L. Bullock

  “Chase?” Athena whispered.

  Chase gripped my elbow and forcibly propelled me toward the door.

  “No! I want them to see me! You can’t just forget me!” I stammered foolishly at him. “I am your wife, Chase!” His face was unmoving, like granite. The redheaded woman had a wretched look on her face. She was not a great beauty, not at all. Her forehead was large and her green eyes even larger. She was petite but fierce looking, like a wild forest creature. I believed she would kill me if she could.

  “Chase, please, listen to me. I have to speak with you,” I pleaded with him. “Please, we must talk. Etienne, she has our daughter. You cannot abandon us!” He did not answer me, but I felt his heavy breathing. He was practically dragging me down the hallway now. I cried and fell on the plush burgundy carpet. Without mercy he snatched me up by my shoulders and continued pushing me to the door. The party tumbled out into the hallway to watch how my husband would deal with me.

  “Chase! Stop, please!”

  No, there was no trace of the man I once loved. He was gone. I had burned out the love he had for me as one would snuff out a candle. And that was the agony of it all—I had done this.

  A servant flitted in front of us. “Open the door,” he commanded him. We were only a few steps away now.

  “No, Chase. Our daughter! She needs us! Help me find her! Despite what you think about me, you must help our daughter. Please!”

  Finally he spun me about and peered into my soul with murderous eyes. “Madam, you are not in control of your mental faculties. Our daughter, if she is mine, is dead. I don’t know what game you are playing. What did you think you would accomplish by coming here? I do not want you here, Susanna.” The ferocity of his words would brand my soul forever. “Now leave. Do not come back, unless you wish to serve as a slave in this house.”

  I gasped. “You cannot mean this?”

  “As far as I am concerned, you are dead. Do not return.”

  “Why won’t you believe me? Ambrose betrayed me—he betrayed us both. I know that now. Please, my husband. Do not send me away!”

  With one mighty shove he pushed me out the door, and I fell in a heap on the porch. I wept and begged him to speak to me. He did not immediately leave but said nothing for a long time. It felt like forever, and I was in misery. If only I could will myself to die! I could die with my daughter. Then maybe we could be together, for I would rather be with her than live without her and without the love of her father.

  “You will not return here. You are not my wife. The only reason I have not served you divorce papers is because…I understand what that will mean for you. Despite your shortcomings, I do not want that. I loved you once,” he whispered as if the thought repulsed him, “but if you return I will not hesitate to do just that. I never want to see you again.” I could not bear the expression of disgust on his face. I watched his shiny black shoes as he went back into the house. The heavy door closed between us, and I was left on the dimly lit porch with the dogs.

  I could not have imagined this. What to do now?

  I felt weaker by the minute, and I was certain I had a fever. For the second time tonight I pulled myself out of the mud and walked like a soulless corpse to the carriage. I didn’t think about my destination. I allowed Fate and the carriage to decide for me. Wherever it stopped was where I would disembark. And then I would find somewhere to die. What was there to live for?

  I closed the curtains and lay on the seat, and soon I fell asleep.

  When I woke again Ambrose was there. I was inside Thorn Hill, I assumed. The blue painted bedroom was filled with a ridiculous number of candles. The place seemed more like a chapel than a bedroom. Yes, I certainly had a fever now, and blood was pouring even more freely down my thighs. How much blood could I have left? Perhaps I would bleed to death! Busy hands patted my thighs, and as I pushed them away I screamed, “Let me die! Let me bleed!” I passed out and woke to just a few burning candles. The room was dim. Someone was near.

  Sulli? Mother? Is that you?

  It was not Sulli but Ambrose and a dark-skinned doctor who clucked and fussed over me.

  Ambrose’s face revealed no emotion as he watched the other man attend to my injuries. The strange little man placed cool cloths on my forehead and examined my eyes. “Now behave yourself, so we gwan get you better. You’s fever is gone, but it is God’s wonder you not dead.” His voice was soothing. I recognized him from somewhere—yes, I’d seen him at the Quadroon Ball.

  Ambrose smoked his cigarette in the corner of the room. He watched the doctor’s ministrations as if I were some sort of specimen, a butterfly he would like to add to his collection. I watched him too. How aloof he was; as always his face revealed nothing. And he had been right. I had been a fool. Twice the fool. Wasn’t that the beginning of a poem?

  For a moment I was back in the gazebo, watching myself make the choice that would change my life. I had spoken the words. They could not be unspoken. Sulli’s magic sealed me to my fate. Yes, I had wrought this with my silly heart. And by doing so, I had consigned myself to eternal misery. All hope of reconciliation with Chase vanished in that moment. I would no longer be a fool for love, for it had taken me low—lower than I’d ever imagined.

  Ambrose had warned me what it would mean if I rejected him. What torments now awaited me?

  Yes, I tumbled into the deepest pit of despair, where no light shined and no relief would find me. This was where I would dwell. I would never love again, and I would forever dwell in this pit.

  But somehow I would find a way to bring Chase and Ambrose down with me.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One – Avery Dufresne

  Dufresne board meetings were refreshingly different from any meeting I attended at News Quarter. The offices weren’t in a glass skyscraper but in a wide, brick building quite by itself. They weren’t located in a commercial complex but rather tucked away off Hickory Lane on a rounded hill. If there weren’t so many pecan trees in the way, I could have very easily seen Sugar Hill from here. With the coming of fall, most of the trees in the county were bare, except for a few lonely pines and other evergreens. There was a wooden sign on the front of the building that read “D & D Properties,” but there was nothing else to identify who and what we were. I doubted that even the locals would know what was happening here. And how could they know? Dufresnes didn’t flaunt our money, but we did put it to good use.

  As matrone, the symbolic CEO of our family fortune, that was my purpose—do good things for as many people as possible. So the humble building suited us just fine.

  Inside was no different; there were no ostentatious chandeliers or spiral staircases, not like what you would see at Sugar Hill. According to Reed, the small office complex was built in 1975. There had been a much lovelier older building here, he said, but it burnt to the ground in 1974 and this was put up in its place. It was a comfortable place with wooden paneling and fantastic mahogany and cedar furniture. I loved the smell of it. It smelled like tradition. So different from my corner office on floor seven of the News Quarter building. There it smelled of nothing except expensive coffee and a mixture of colognes and perfumes, the scents of the affluent who called NQ their work-home.

  As always when we arrived at the board’s building, Minnie Dufresne met us at the reception desk. The young woman had dark blond hair, almond-shaped brown eyes and honey-colored skin. She had a tendency to speak slowly, but she was not unintelligent; she was very careful with her words.

  She smiled politely at me as she handled phone calls and inquiries. We did not chitchat today. Maybe after the meeting, if we got out of here at a decent time, I would have the opportunity to catch up with her. I had no idea what else she did, but she was obviously a lovely young lady. It was such a relief to be here and not at the NQ building.

  There were no shiny anchormen and women here. No fake smiles and hidden knives. No hidden ambition and secret plans for mergers and takeovers.

  No cold-hearted backstab
bers or murderers here.

  This was my family, and these were real salt-of-the-earth people. For all their net worth, they didn’t strut around or flash their money. The Dufresnes seemed comfortable with their wealth, and that was so diametrically opposed to my former life, where being the alpha was all that mattered. For the first time in my life, I felt as if I belonged somewhere. For the life of me I could not understand why Vertie wanted to keep me away from all these friendly faces. It seemed so out of character. Reed had no official information to offer me on the subject, and Summer swore she didn’t remember ever meeting Vertie. She suggested I ask Mitchell. I had not quite worked up the courage to quiz my shy cousin because I desperately wanted to make him my friend. I got the distinct impression that pushing him to talk would only push him away. But if Miss Anne valued him and treated him as her second-in-command, shouldn’t I at least consider doing the same?

  I smiled as I watched Reed work the room. Of all the Dufresne men, he was the most handsome—no, beautiful would be a better word for him. Not in a feminine way but exceptionally handsome, of that there was no doubt. He dressed impeccably and even now, with his suit jacket folded neatly over the back of a vacant chair and the cuffs of his crisp white shirt rolled up, he looked like a man who could easily star in a cologne commercial. He caught me staring and grinned flirtatiously at me. I tried to pretend I didn’t see that. We were cousins, for goodness’ sake! We couldn’t “hook up” or whatever you called it down here in Alabama. That would be too weird, even if he was a beautiful hunk of a man.

  “Good Lord, calm your hormones,” I whispered to myself. Suddenly as if she knew what I was saying, a voice beside me said, “I don’t blame you. If I were thirty years younger, I’d be on him like white on rice.”

  “What?” An embarrassed laugh escaped my lips.

  “We all think he’s gorgeous. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. He’s a man and you are a woman. It’s not unusual for cousins to be attracted to one another, especially in our family when the name means so much. And the bloodline.”

  “No, Pepper, I wasn’t saying that I was ashamed. I mean…”

  She snapped her gum and grinned. “Okay.” She tossed her gum in the garbage can, ignored the receptionist and walked into the boardroom, leaving me behind.

  As a newscaster I had covered many stories about family pride, family perseverance, the enduring love and strength of familial ties. It had always been a powerful thing to hear, but I didn’t quite understand it until I experienced it myself. Since my “return” I felt as if I’d gotten a fair dose of it. Even Pepper, as blunt and in your face as she was—I respected and valued her too. She was family!

  I had family members show up with homemade baked goods every week. Once a week, Dufresne men volunteered to do repairs on Sugar Hill, and one morning a group of Dufresne women showed up to dust the library. It was a strange and wonderful thing to experience. Summer always reminded me I could tell them no, but how could I?

  “Suit yourself,” she’d said. “But one day you’ll want to. And if you wait, you’ll hurt their feelings. Don’t let them get into a habit of doing all these things for you, or else they may make you feel as if you owe them somehow. And you don’t owe them a thing.” I ignored her advice and kept my mouth shut, accepting all their help, their gifts of time and service. It was a humbling thing for sure.

  Next week marked my three-month anniversary. Yes, I’d been at Sugar Hill for three whole months. In that short time I’d gotten quite close to many in my family, including little Dolly Jane, her family, Reed and Summer. Even Mitchell had begun to come around now, occasionally leaving the comfort of Miss Anne’s Rose Cottage to visit me. He didn’t say much at first, and I often felt as if he wanted to say something but never did. Mitchell was kind and frequently looked for little tasks to do for me, like prune the roses or walk the brown and white spaniel that showed up in my house one day.

  And then there was the house.

  It was hardly just a house. It was like a living museum that never gave tours. And maybe we should give tours a few times a year. I would love to see others enjoying the Angel Gallery and hear music playing in the gazebo. I would love to see children playing on the Great Lawn.

  Funny how that worked out. The very things I wanted with Jonah, the white picket fence experience, going to church and working in the garden—all that had come true. Seriously, that argument all those months ago almost seemed prophetic now. Only Jonah had not been a part of the plan.

  As much as I loved the family, I also loved Sugar Hill. It was more than just an old house. Every corner held an important artifact, a glimpse into my newly discovered past. And since the ghosts had vanished, or at least quieted down, I felt much safer in the grand old place.

  Reed broke into my quiet contemplation as he took on his I’m-the-boss voice and said, “Everyone take a few minutes to read over the reports. Let me know if you have any questions.” He slid the last stack of papers to me, and like my fellow board members I flipped through the sheets. This was my third board meeting, and so far I had no questions at all, except maybe, How in the heck did the Dufresne clan come up with this kind of cash? Of course, it seemed very uncouth to ask such a thing, so I didn’t. I swallowed as my eyes fell on the final page. Even three months in, the numbers staggered my imagination. Was I really responsible for overseeing this kind of capital? I gave the report a perfunctory flip-through and waited for everyone else to do the same.

  Officially there were twelve board members. I was the thirteenth person in the room; I wasn’t on the board, but I was the deciding vote in any ties. For the board to operate and vote on anything, only six board members had to attend, but everyone was allowed a vote and could call them in. Then the votes were counted to decide the yea or nay. It was a simple system. I didn’t interfere much, and so far I had not been asked to break any ties, until now. I might make history today.

  Over the past three months I’d met all twelve members except Caspar Dufresne, who had to resign due to illness. At the last meeting we reviewed nominations for new board members, and to my surprise the process was quite contentious. Nobody could agree on a single name, and in the end Reed dismissed us to “think about it reasonably.” It hadn’t helped. After a quick solicitation for nominees at the beginning of this meeting and a few other votes on minor things, we’d once again been given a break, this time for lunch and a review of the previous nominees. Nobody had any questions concerning the finances, but everyone except me had an opinion about who should take Caspar’s coveted spot. Apparently, on a Dufresne board, you served for life.

  “Let’s take up the nominations again, but please keep in mind that we will not leave this room today without having come to a consensus. We are family. We must put the needs of our family ahead of our own personal desires. That’s just the way it is. I hope you will agree with me.” Of course, everyone expressed that agreement with polite clapping, and Reed continued with a gentler tone, “The new quarter begins next week. Without all the board signing off, we can’t approve a budget. But we can’t do that without a new board member. We’ve got important things coming up, like Dolly Jane’s surgery and the Dufresne-Wyncott Project.”

  “And the consideration for the Starlight Foundation,” I added as I raised my hand.

  “Yes, that too,” Reed said. “So please, what can we do to come to some agreement? I still have three nominees here. I have committed votes from those who are absent, but each nominee has four votes. It’s hard for me to believe we remain this divided. Now who’s willing to give here?”

  Pepper spoke first. She was an older woman with jet-black hair and a penchant for costume jewelry. “I stand by my nomination for Alexander James. Yes, he’s my son, but he’s a brilliant accountant with more degrees than most of us here put together.”

  “And he’s your son,” Danforth retorted angrily.

  “I do believe I said that,” Pepper snapped back.

  “I just wanted to make that plain to
everyone.” Danforth rarely spoke, but when he did, it was usually something negative. Why was this guy always angry? Short with thick spectacles and a definitive Southern accent, Danforth didn’t mind sharing his thoughts with the board.

  “I resent your insinuation.”

  Before they could begin arguing again, Reed interrupted, “No extraneous commentary, please. Who else renews their previous nomination?”

  As it turned out, there had been no changes of heart. None at all. That was bad news for me. The same three individuals were put forward again, and again the group squabbled over which of the three would get the spot. This was a problem as Jamie was in town and time was ticking away. After listening to about thirty minutes more of the back-and-forth, inspiration hit me.

  “What about Mitchell?” I asked between sniping. “What’s wrong with him? He’s quick and intelligent, and he was devoted to Miss Anne. It probably wouldn’t take much to get him caught up on all the pending business.”

  Reed stared at me and smiled. “Yes, I agree.” Nobody spoke, no one argued. I could see the gathering pondering my proposal. One by one, they slowly agreed. “So that’s seven. With you included, Avery. That’s all we need, but with your permission, I’ll call the other board members and give them a chance to make their preference known. For the record.”

  “Don’t bother. Nobody is going to go against the matrone.” Pepper gave me a look, and that got my dander up. Her statement more than perturbed me.

  “What does that mean? I hope that’s not true. This isn’t a monarchy, Pepper. It was merely a suggestion.”

  “And a damn good one,” Danforth said, standing and stretching his back. “Can we go now? My show is coming on in thirty minutes, and I promised Margie I’d stop to pick up her beer.”

  The other members rose, including Pepper, who stalked to the notebook and officially wrote Mitchell’s name on the page. Apparently this was also a tradition. Who came up with that idea? So much tradition in the Dufresne clan. And like any other family, we had our disagreements. None of us were perfect—certainly not me. I was willing to let bygones be bygones, if Pepper was.