All Hallows' Eve Collection

by Sarah M. Eden

  Simon lowered his arms and crossed to the bed. This time, when he sat on the mattress, Joan didn’t draw away. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until midnight to know if the curse has really been lifted.”

  This surprised Joan. “So, you don’t believe it’s completely real?”

  “It’s real,” Simon answered in a somber tone. “I just hope our marriage is enough to break an evil that is decades old.” He reached for her hand, and she let him grasp it.

  The action brought new tears to her eyes. If nothing else, they were in this together. And now she had to ask the hard question, the one that had kept her up all night, more so than dwelling on her childhood. “Do you think the curse requires that our marriage be consummated?”

  Simon didn’t move, didn’t seem to be breathing.

  Joan wanted to take the words back, but what if theirs wasn’t considered a true marriage until... Her face went hot. But there was no hiding now.

  He didn’t release her hand. If anything, his grasp tightened. “The curse was spoken long ago, so there is no way to know if the threat has changed in wording over the years. But I would never take advantage of you. When you are willing and ready, Joan, then I’ll be happy to live the truest form of husband and wife. Whether it’s in a month, or a year.”

  Joan stared at their linked hands. She had watched Simon from afar for many months, much of the time wondering what sort of man he was. Now she knew.

  “Are you like other women then?” Simon’s voice was soft. “You want a love match? A man to woo you until you swoon?”

  “I am not so far removed from reality as that,” Joan said, wishing she could hide the melancholy of her voice. “I was raised as an orphan in an abbey, after all. I never had many expectations beyond those stone walls.”

  “Surely you had dreams.”

  Joan couldn’t deny this. She gave a slight nod but didn’t meet his eyes. And she couldn’t deny that some of those dreams were about Simon himself, although she’d never tell him that.

  “Then I have work to do, Wife.” Simon leaned forward, until he was close enough to kiss her. He smelled of grass and wind and sky. “You are generous and beautiful and intriguing. And even though the circumstances surrounding our marriage are not made of a young woman’s dreams, I feel blessed. I don’t think it would be too hard to fall in love with you.”

  Joan didn’t know whether to inhale or exhale. The heat from his body seemed to touch her own skin. And then he pressed his lips against her cheek, ever so briefly.

  Before Joan could respond, he let go of her hand and stood. “I will send word to your father that we are both well.”

  His words startled her in a new way. She had not considered her own life to be at risk, but of course it was. She was a Belrose and now a Rousseau.

  She could only nod, for it seemed that all her words had fled.

  Chapter Eight

  Was it possible to fall in love with a woman that he had only spoken to for the first time the day before? And was now married to? Simon removed the small key from his pocket and opened the intricately carved wooden chest stored in his parents’ former bedroom. He had not looked upon his mother’s miniature portrait for years, but today, he felt an urgency to do so.

  He had something to ask his mother. Whenever he looked at the miniature, he felt her presence, as if she were somewhere close watching over him. The lid protested as he opened it, and he lifted the layer of linen that covered the miniature. Taking out the picture, he turned it toward the oil lamp he’d brought into the curtained room.

  As the years had passed, Simon had remembered less and less about his parents, but he never forget his mother’s deep brown eyes and the warmth and kindness there. Genevieve was her name.

  “Mother,” he whispered, “my new wife is sweet and delicate like a bird. She will bring new light into this house, and I think I’m falling in love with her already.”

  His mother didn’t respond, of course, but he was sure that she would approve of Joan. How could she not? Who else would dare marry into a cursed family? And who else would gaze at him with such trust in her blue eyes?

  “What is your advice?” he whispered to the picture. “How shall I woo my wife?”

  He thought of the small bits that he did know about Joan— how she’d been watching him from the copse of trees for months and how he finally took the initiative to speak with her— the fairy-like woman he’d seen in the woods. She had been reticent, yet she was wholly untouched and unaffected by the world. Her innocence shone brightly from every part of her. How could someone born to such darkness carry such light? And how could he preserve it?

  Simon looked at the portrait of his mother a moment longer then placed it back beneath the linen and closed the lid. He knew now that he would do everything in his power to bring happiness to Joan and to push out the darkness from the Rousseau estate.

  That was when he heard a scream.

  Joan was his first thought, and Simon tore out of the bedroom, and ran down the corridor, his feet pounding on the wooden floor, rattling the portraits on the wall, and the oil lamps on the tables, as he passed by.

  Passing down a flight of stairs and around a corner, he burst into Joan’s room. He stopped cold when he saw Joan. She lay on the floor, her body twisted, her head turned facing the ceiling. Blood trickled down her forehead, pooling on the carpet beneath. Disbelief and anger rocked through Simon. Was she still alive?

  “Joan!” Simon called out, crossing to her and kneeling. He touched her throat with a shaking hand. Her skin was warm and pulsing with life. “Thank the Almighty,” he said, leaning close to stroke her face. “You’re alive.”

  She blinked her eyes open, then she groaned. Tears filled her eyes.

  “You’re all right.” Simon touched her hand. “What happened? I heard your scream, but...” He looked from the gash on her forehead to the floor. Had she fallen and hit her head on a table?

  “There was a man...” Joan said faintly.

  Simon stared at her. “Someone did this to you?”

  “Yes,” she said, then she closed her eyes.

  “Joan, stay with me,” Simon said, pulling her carefully into his arms and lifting her near weightlessness. He carried her to the bed and laid her upon it. Then he rushed to the door and called to Madame Mauriac.

  When the housekeeper came bustling into the corridor, Simon explained what had happened and told her to send for the physician. Once she’d left, Simon turned back to the bedroom. Joan’s eyes were still closed, and he didn’t know if that was a good thing. He went to the wash basin and soaked a cloth, then started to clean up Joan’s forehead. Thankfully, the bleeding had stopped, but its swelling might prove to turn into a deep bruise.

  Joan’s eyes fluttered open.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “He tried to kill me,” Joan whispered.

  A cold shiver pricked the back of Simon’s neck. Who had been in the house and why did he attack Joan? Then the shiver traveled to his heart, twisting it in a suffocating realization— since today was All Hallows’ Eve, people believed that someone in their families was supposed to die today. Except Joan and Simon had now legally joined the estates, so the curse should now be broken.

  “Simon,” Joan said, her voice raspy.

  Her eyes had cleared, and she was staring straight at him.

  “What if there wasn’t a curse after all?” she asked. “What if it was a story created by someone at your home or mine to conceal a murder?”

  Simon wanted to tell her no, that it was impossible, and that the curse was real. But... these thoughts had impeded his mind too. If what Joan was suggesting proved to be true, that would mean a murderer had lived among them for decades. An evil man who carefully chose a new victim every five years. Someone who had killed both of his parents. That didn’t explain how Joan’s mother died in childbirth, but perhaps there was something sinister behind that as well.

  Joan grasped Simon’s arm. Her ey
es had grown wide and reflected the fear that he felt growing in his heart. He laid his hand on her shoulder, feeling an overwhelming urge to lock every door and block every window in his home and protect Joan. “Do you remember anything about the man who attacked you? What he looked like? What he was wearing?”

  She shook her head, then winced at the motion. “I didn’t see him,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. “He came in while I was looking out the window. I didn’t even hear him until it was too late to turn around and see who it was.”

  Simon let out a breath. “Did he speak to you?”

  “No,” Joan said, her voice drifting away. “Although I sensed he wasn’t much taller than me. He wasn’t a large man, but he was strong and determined.” She shuddered.

  Simon pulled her into his arms, holding her gently against his chest. She leaned into him, and her softness blended into the edges of his body.

  “What if he knows he’s failed,” she whispered, “and he goes to find my father?”

  Simon drew away from her. She could very well be right. “I’ll send someone over to check on your father and warn him.”

  “We should insist that he come here, and we can stay together as a group.”

  “Joan, the entire staff at both households are at risk.”

  “Don’t you see, Simon? The attacker must already be a member of one of our households.”

  Simon thought through his employees, Madame Mauriac, Jacques, the newly hired stable boys, the two kitchen maids, the butler, and his valet. The only employees who could have carried on a decades-old plan would be Madame Mauriac and Jacques— both of whom Simon immediately dismissed. They were like family to him.

  “What about your father’s staff? Did you meet any of them yesterday and have any impressions?” He could see that Joan was trying to think, but the pain must still be throbbing through her head.

  “I met the housekeeper, Monsieur Carriveaux,” she said. “And the older servant who fetched me at the abbey in the first place.”

  “What was his name?”

  Joan drew her brows together. “I don’t recall. But he was at least as old as my father.”

  “We’ll find out,” Simon said, turning toward the doorway as a man entered. It was the physician, and the man hurried in and set his black bag on the table near the bed.

  “She’s awake and talking?” the physician asked. Without waiting for an answer, he crossed to Joan. “That’s a very good sign. I’m Doctor Colville. How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” Joan said, grimacing as the doctor probed the skin around the gash. “But I didn’t sleep much last night either.”

  “Drowsiness is to be expected,” Doctor Colville said. “You need several days of rest, and I’ve brought a salve to apply three times a day.” He looked over at Simon. “What happened here? Do I need to report this to the police?”

  “Yes. She didn’t see the attacker, but we don’t think this was his first attack.”

  The doctor raised his brows. “What do you mean?”

  “There may be a killer behind the curse. But I need to write up some things,” Simon added. “So the police can have a full report of my suspicions.”

  The doctor turned back to Joan. “I need to do a few sutures. It will only take a moment.”

  Simon crossed to the other side of her and held Joan’s hand as the doctor began his work. She closed her eyes, clenching her jaw tight, but she did not make a sound. When the doctor finished, he applied the salve to Joan’s forehead, then cleaned his hands. “If you remember anything more,” he said, “no matter how small, write it down.”

  “I will,” Joan said, her eyes an even deeper blue against her pale face. “Thank you.”

  The doctor turned to Simon. “She was very fortunate. The bleeding was minimal, and it closed up nicely. But the attacker meant business.”

  Chapter Nine

  Darkness had fallen by the time Joan opened her eyes again. Simon had been in and out of her bedroom, and when he hadn’t been there, Madame Mauriac had stayed with her, the door locked. Every man was a suspect since the one thing that Joan could be sure of was that the person who’d attacked her was a man.

  Now, Madame Mauriac stood by the window and turned toward Joan. “You’re awake again, Love. How are you feeling?”

  Joan reached for the glass of water by her bed and took a deep swallow. Her head ached, but her mind was clear. “Better, I think,” she said, drawing the covers off and moving her legs to the side of the bed.

  “You shouldn’t get up yet,” Madame Mauriac said, coming toward her. “The physician said—”

  Joan held up her hand. “I just want to walk about the room a little bit. I’ll sit down again if it’s too much.”

  Madame Mauriac pursed her lips, but stepped back to let Joan stand.

  Her head immediately began swimming, and she paused, taking several steady breaths. She didn’t know if it was the head injury that made her dizzy or just the event itself and the thought of what might have happened to her.

  “Where’s Simon?” she asked, walking slowly to the wash basin. The water had been changed, and she dipped her fingers into it, and splashed her face with the cool water.

  “He’s with your father and the constable now,” Madame Mauriac said, hovering close to Joan as if she expected her to collapse at any moment.

  Her father had arrived a couple of hours ago— safe. But even then, Joan felt like she had been thrust into a convoluted world, one in which she was a married woman, had a living father, and was now in fear of her life.

  “I must see him,” Joan said, looking toward the windows. The curtains were pulled shut, and the only thing beyond was darkness.

  “Your father?” Madame Mauriac asked.

  “Simon,” Joan said. “Take me to him.” She couldn’t explain it. But she knew she wouldn’t feel better unless she was in his presence.

  “Let me go and fetch him.”

  “No,” Joan said, reaching for the woman’s arm. “I don’t want to be in this room any longer.” Bits of the memory were returning. The feeling of knowing someone was in the room with her... The half-moment when she started to turn and was struck and all went black.

  And now, the walls seemed to be shrinking around her.

  Joan kept ahold of Madame Mauriac’s arm as they walked out of the room and down the corridor. As they descended a flight of stairs to the main floor, Joan heard voices coming from one of the front rooms— the library? Or a parlor?

  When Joan opened the door, three pairs of eyes turned to look at her. Despite all of her tumultuous feelings about her father, she was glad to see him.

  Simon spoke first, stepping forward to meet her. “Joan, what are you doing out of bed?”

  Joan reached for his hand. The very touch of his warm skin calmed her troubled heart. “I don’t want to be in that room any longer.”

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice faltering. Tears burned in her eyes, and she realized she should have just stayed in bed, even if she did have to deal with the horrible memories. She didn’t want to break down in front of him.

  “Come and sit,” he said, guiding her toward a set of chairs next to a cheery fire.

  For some reason, the sight of a perfectly normal fire brought her a bit of ease— that, and Simon was near again. How had she come to depend on him so quickly?

  He pulled a second chair close to her and sat. “Better?”

  She tried to smile, but the tears started again. Simon held out a handkerchief, and she took it gratefully. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  Simon called over Madame Mauriac and asked her to bring Joan something to eat.

  At the mention of food, Joan realized she was famished. She’d eaten a bit of soup after the physician left, but nothing since. As they waited, her father and the constable continued to speak in low tones. It sounded like her father was telling the c
onstable about the deaths that had occurred every five years on All Hallows’ Eve.

  A shudder passed through her at the thought of all the wasted lives over the years. “Has there been any progress?”

  Simon leaned closer. “The constable has sent out all of his runners to question any man who works or has worked on either of our estates. I’m afraid we don’t know much more than that.”

  Joan nodded and leaned her head back. If all these years the curse had been a cover-up for a sinister killer, then her childhood spent in the abbey had been in vain. She loved the sisters she’d been raised by, but she’d also missed out on what her true life should have been. She was still motherless, that she knew. But what about her relationship with her father?

  She watched him from her chair as he waved his hand at something the constable said. His hair was white, although his shoulders and back were straight, as if age hadn’t traveled to the rest of his body. He also had a certain vulnerability about him; she could see it in the lines about his face and the somberness of his eyes.

  She now didn’t view her father’s choices to banish her to the abbey as cruel and heartless, but she saw them as actions made by a man who was afraid, a man who grieved for his wife and wanted to protect his daughter from a terrible curse.

  A loud knock sounded at the front door. Simon stood and crossed to the half-open doors of the library. The butler must have opened the front door because Joan soon heard the voices of men coming from the entrance. She half rose to her feet as the voices grew louder.

  Suddenly, the library doors burst open, and a man came in, half dragging a boy with him. “This lad’s got something to say.”

  Joan recognized the cap the man wore— he was one of the runners sent by the constable.