“I know, but my guys have heard of this place. None of ‘em want to be out here when it gets dark. The lot of them think you’re crazy for staying here at night. Me? I gotta agree with them.” Collin McVey’s Irish brogue rolled off his tongue.
Sophia could have snuggled up to his accent and spent some time with it. Dylan caught her eye and smirked. He was well aware she was a sucker for a man with an accent.
Collin. Dylan. The men seemed to be two sides of the same coin born on opposite sides of the ocean. Their manner. Their stance. Their features. They could have been twins, except for the difference in hair color. Collin was Dylan’s Irish doppelgänger.
Dylan sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “Another hour might finish up the job.”
“It needs at least two.”
“All right then.”
Within ten minutes, the entire crew had vanished down the drive.
Dylan stood with his hands on his hips facing the front of the house. “Guess we’re alone at last.”
Her heart pounded. Every night she spent alone with him brought her one step closer to revealing her feelings. No, her love for him hadn’t died. It had just gone into a deep coma for a while.
He wrapped his fingers around her hand. “Maybe we should look around before it gets dark.”
The heat from his touch raced up her arm, zoomed past her shoulder, dove into her chest, and lit a fire in her heart. Say something. Anything. Don’t let him look into your eyes. Not now. “We should bring a flashlight. Just in case.”
He let go of her hand and retrieved one from his truck. Another few seconds and they’d made it inside the house.
She glanced at his hand, hoping he’d grab hers again. When he didn’t, she clenched her fist to keep from doing something stupid.
He nodded toward the balcony. “Upstairs first?”
She shoved aside her fractured feelings. “Sure. Why not?”
Together they climbed the stairs.
Sophia ran her palm over the balustrade and admired the smooth surface of the wood. Such fine craftsmanship. No doubt the wood had been polished by years and years of hands depositing oils and wearing down the grain.
They had reached the head of the stairs when a twinge of panic settled in her chest. Each breath she took weighed heavier and heavier in her lungs. Did Dylan feel the strain as well? She glanced at him, but he appeared to be fine. No way would she let him know how scared she was.
She halted mid-stride. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” His eyes swept over her. “You’re not gonna freak out on me, are you?”
She shook her head, yet she could have sworn on her Maw Maw’s family Bible that she’d heard footsteps. He grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, and they turned a corner to face the wide upper hallway. As the foreman had stated, the new floor was only partially laid. Almost finished, but not quite.
He pointed toward a closed door. “Let’s see what’s in there.”
He tugged on her hand, and she followed without resistance. What else could she do? She wasn’t retracing her steps alone.
Dylan turned the knob and held the door open for her. She moved past him and took a tentative step. Once inside the room, she surveyed the contents, a broad smile stretching across her face. It was as if the room had been frozen in time. “Incredible.”
“So this is good?”
“Very good.”
She wiggled her hand out of his and crossed the floor, which was solid beneath her feet. Apparently, the bedroom had withstood the ravages of time better than most of the house. Looking up, she appreciated the intricate details of the beautiful artwork that had been sculpted in the material used to construct the ceiling. Each piece of furniture was true to the antebellum period. She dared to run her hand over the bedspread. The dust of disuse ruffled with the cloth beneath her fingers. She rubbed her nose and sneezed.
Finally, her gaze settled on a Victorian-era cheval mirror. She stood before the glass before touching the cool surface with the tips of her fingers. With little effort, she tilted the frame to bring her image better into view.
Her breath caught in her throat. Blood covered the face reflecting back at her. When she lifted her arm to touch her cheek, the woman in the mirror did likewise. No liquid on her dry face. Whose image stared back at her? Horror leapt at her from the mirror and drilled into her psyche. She backed up step, and a scream surged up from the deepest well of her fear, deep inside her soul.
Strong arms wrapped around her from behind. She jerked from the sudden contact. “Let go of me.” She hiccupped and let loose a gut-wrenching scream. Twisting and turning, she tried in vain to free herself from his grip.
Dylan’s anxious voice broke into her hysteria. “Sophia, what’s wrong?”
She pointed at the glass and dared to glance back into his eyes. When she returned her gaze to the mirror, the image had dissolved and left only her wavy reflection.
“Didn’t you see her?”
“Who, Sophia? No one is here but us.”
“In the mirror. She was covered in blood.”
Dylan turned her to him, and she dissolved into tears, her face pressed into the hollow of his shoulder. His arms tightened around her, and she was so, so glad for his strength in that moment. Hers was crumbling around her. The trembling began in her hands and traveled over her body, uncontrollable and frightening. She hated being out of control.
“Soph, what’s wrong with you?”
“Get me out of here,” she whispered into the fabric of his shirt.
He twisted her around and pulled her toward the bedroom door. Running down the hall and then bounding down the stairs, she nearly tripped and fell, but he kept her from tumbling face first onto the recently installed flooring at the foot. Everything rushed past in slow motion. A strange sensation. Like running in syrup.
They were within two paces of the open front door when Brandon Wakefield filled the frame. His eyes glittered with hatred and rage. The desire for revenge played across his distorted features.
“Where are you going with her?”
The blood in Sophia’s veins froze as if someone had given her a transfusion of liquid nitrogen. Dylan pushed her behind him.
A screech that sounded much like the screams coming from behind the gates of hell erupted from his twisted lips before he spoke again. “Are you going to tell me you aren’t sleeping with her?”
Brandon moved closer, so close Sophia could smell the stench of sulphur coming out of his mouth.
“I told you to stay away from her. I warned you, Phillip. You’re a dead man.”
Dylan shoved his hand in front of him and pushed Sophia back another step with his other hand. “Wakefield, snap out of it.”
Brandon spoke over Dylan to Sophia. “I’ll kill you before I let you leave with him.”
Dylan’s hand searched behind him, but it was too late. Sophia had already yanked his gun from his waistband and had aimed it straight at Brandon Wakefield’s heart.
Her hand shook as she confronted her accuser. “Don’t come any closer.” She waved the gun at him. “Now tell me…Who’s Phillip?”
Brandon stopped moving, his hands up. Confusion covered his features, and he pointed toward Dylan. “You’re lover.” He spat the word lover like it was a vile taste in his mouth.
Inspiration seized her. “No. His name is Dylan, and he is not my lover. Now, tell me who is Phillip? Why are you accusing me of sleeping with him? I don’t know anyone named Phillip.” The words shot out of her mouth. But in her gut, she knew there was a deeper meaning to her protest than the obvious. “I’m not Celia.”
Brandon’s face crumpled with pain. “You’re not? No, you’re not. Where is she? You know, don’t you?”
Sophia moved around Dylan. He flinched and tried to stop her, wrapping his hands around her arm, digging his fingers into her flesh, but his efforts were useless.
“Let me do this.”
“I don’t like it.” His answer h
issed between his teeth.
Sophia tossed Dylan a hard glare before throwing another bomb at Brandon. “Celia is gone. She left you, Les.”
“Sophia, don’t do this.” Dylan’s voice had filled with apprehension.
“She left me? She’s already gone?” The tremulous words of a broken man coiled around them.
“You should never have beaten her up like that. She’s never coming back.” She wasn’t sure where the words came from, or the ideas behind them, but they flowed from her lips as if she’d known these things all her life.
Brandon Wakefield dropped to his knees, pressed his hands to his head, and wailed as if a thousand hurts had pierced his heart.
Dylan wrenched the gun from her shaking hand. He checked the safety and once again shoved the gun into his waistband. He grabbed Brandon by his upper arm. “Get off the floor and quit playing games.”
Brandon’s eyes widened into two wide orbs. The blood drained from his face. He pointed to a spot behind them. Sophia dared to follow his outstretched hand with her gaze. Behind her, the brilliant apparition they’d seen earlier that day had descended the stairs, a gown of resplendent white flowing behind her. Her fully formed features displayed mixed emotions of betrayal, fear, anger, and regret.
“Why did you kill me, Les?” the ghost whispered into their hearts.
The apparition moved past Dylan and Sophia, and there was nothing they could do to stop her. Sophia couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. The sounds of Dylan’s raspy breathing rattled in her ear. He was just as paralyzed as she was.
The ghost reached for Brandon Wakefield, and when her bright-white fingers touched his face, he lurched and fell to the floor. As soon as his head bounced on the reclaimed wood, the ghost disappeared and the heaviness that had previously filled the room vanished.
Dylan and Sophia bolted for the door, moving in unison as if of one mind. There seemed to be a silent agreement between them. No words. Just action. If Dylan didn’t call the sheriff, she would. They reached the trailer at the same time, and Dylan yanked the door open. In sync, they leaned against it and placed their hands on their chests. Sophia closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow it’s frantic beat.
“Call Sheriff Soileau.” Dylan’s statement stuttered between ragged breaths. “I’m going back and make sure he doesn’t get away this time.” He touched her cheek and was out the door before she could stop him.
When he returned, he told Sophia that Wakefield had disappeared again.
Chapter Thirteen
Sophia’s research sprawled over every square inch of the dinette table. She’d had the trailer to herself for at least two hours, a welcome relief from the constant interaction with Dylan. Not that she minded his company. Once in a while she needed a bit of space, some down time to refresh and find her balance again.
She tapped the end of the pencil on her chin. Some time in the last few days, her anger toward him had diminished. If she were truthful, she might confess she enjoyed his aggravatingly bewildering presence.
Her gaze strayed to the scene outside the trailer. Night had crawled across the plantation. A faint glow of light trickled through the window next to her into the shadows at the edge of the woods, piercing the blackness that seemed impenetrable. She squinted, straining to peer into the thick growth of cypress trees, Spanish moss, and scraggly bushes. She could have sworn she’d seen movement, just one flicker of light.
Don’t get twitchy, Sophia. There’s nothing out there except swamp critters. That was probably some animal’s glowing eyes. She rolled her shoulders and retrained her focus on her research.
She flipped to the next page in the huge history book she’d brought with her from her apartment. The author had attempted to write a brief history of every plantation along the River Road in Louisiana, complete with pictures and illustrations. His research had been meticulous, doing the hard work for her. The book was a trove of invaluable information, and she was grateful she had stumbled across it in the New Orleans Public Library.
Her finger trailed down the paragraphs. Her eyes squinted at the small font. She stopped and reread the last paragraph she’d come across.
Dylan popped his head in the trailer just as she muttered to no one in particular. “Why didn’t she tell us that?”
“Who?”
An explanation wouldn’t form because she was she still trying to process what she’d just read.
When she didn’t answer, he placed both hands on the pile of books in front of her and leaned forward until his nose was inches from hers. “Sophia, are you okay?”
He’d been very protective of her ever since the encounter with Brandon Wakefield, as if he thought she was fragile. He’d better lighten up. She’d show him fragile.
“You remember I told you I’d found a reference to Wakefield Manor? I just found it again. Listen to this.”
Dylan leaned against the wall next to the door while she read.
Located in St. Denis Parish, Wakefield Manor is one of the finest examples of mid-1800s antebellum architecture, exuding elegance and southern charm. Built in 1839, the construction of the original house was overseen by T. Chachere and constructed entirely by slave labor of bald cypress and clay bricks. During the late 1850s, the owners, Antoine and Amalie Duchesne, expanded the manor house to two stories and coated the exterior brick with a thick layer of whitewashed stucco.
The history of the plantation and the manor house has been marred by tragedy. The oldest Duchesne son returned from the Civil War to discover his mother and father had died of pneumonia and his beloved fiancée, Celestine, had run away with a Union soldier. Heartbroken, the young man refused to handle his affairs, and the property was sold at Sheriff’s auction in 1867 to Simon Wakefield, at which time the plantation was renamed Wakefield Plantation.
Duchesne claimed that Wakefield had stolen his property, although the parish had auctioned it due to several years of outstanding property taxes. Duchesne challenged Wakefield to a duel, one of the last known duels recorded in Louisiana history, under the oak-lined drive in front of the plantation house. Although, both men survived the duel with minor injuries—both apparently had lousy aim—Duchesne’s body was later discovered in the swamp near his old home hanging from a limb in a cypress tree. Suspicion naturally fell on the Wakefield family.
The Wakefields suffered their share of catastrophe and heartache as well. Simon Wakefield deeded the land and house to his eldest son on the eve of his son’s wedding in 1868, but the son’s bride disdained to live in rural Louisiana, much preferring the hustle and bustle of New Orleans, a city which was still struggling to recover from the ravages of the war. At that time, a bride’s refusal to live with her husband created great scandal. The young man hung himself from the balcony of the manor house.
Upon his son’s death, Simon Wakefield then deeded the estate to his second son, Alistair, who by all accounts rejuvenated the decaying property and turned it into a self-sustaining farm once again. In fact, the Wakefields became so prosperous that the family owned much of St. Denis Parish, garnering enough power to have the name of the small parish seat officially changed to Wakefield.
Despite the stock market crash of 1929 and the subsequent depression, the Wakefield family continued to prosper. Simon Wakefield’s eldest grandson, Leslie, took over running the family business in 1938 at the age of twenty-eight. Leslie determined to take a bride from among the remnants of the old antebellum River Road aristocracy. In 1937, he chose the only child of Paul Soileau as his wife and acquired title to the derelict plantation known as The Grove from his father-in-law. Soileau claimed that Wakefield had stolen the property from him by forcing him to sign the deed when he was drunk, but Wakefield claimed Soileau deeded him the property in exchange for satisfying Soileau’s debts. Wakefield’s claim to the property remained in dispute until the day Paul Soileau died.
Although it has never been proven, St. Denis Parish lore suggests that Leslie found his wife in the arms of another man and kille
d her, although Celia Wakefield’s name doesn’t appear on any of the family crypts in the cemetery on the plantation grounds. Perhaps suffering from grief and guilt, Leslie Wakefield hung himself in the same spot as his ancestor had many years earlier.
The Wakefield property has fallen into disrepair as no one has stepped forward to claim heirship to the Wakefield estate.
Dylan seemed to digest the information from the article and then offered another interesting fact. “Jordan said Sheriff Soileau grew up here. So she’s probably related to the Soileaus that first owned The Grove. Do you think she knows that?”
Interesting. Years ago, Wakefield family history had entwined with Soileau family history. Sophia closed the book and slid over to make room for him on the bench where she sat. “If she does, then… I don’t know. She doesn’t act like she knows, does she?” The sheriff was hard to read. “This house… It gets to her. Just walking onto the front porch can do some strange things to a person’s thinking. Doesn’t it make you feel odd and out of sync when you’re inside the house? I do. Like something heavy is pressing down on my psyche.”
“You know… The way Brandon acted it was almost like a spirit had taken over him. Do you think… No, that’s kind of a stretch of the imagination.”
“No, I think you might be on to something. Brandon is a Wakefield, just not the one he claims to be. What if Wakefield blood was speaking to Soileau blood?” Sophia shuddered, and it was like a ripple started at the top of her head and shimmied all the way down her body.
“We keep saying it like we’re joking, but maybe the place is cursed.” His half-hearted chuckle lacked any sign of amusement.
“When I was in the house, I could have sworn I felt death. When we were climbing the stairs… Freaked me out. I swear I almost panicked and ran.”
Dylan turned serious. Gone was his half-hearted attempt to lighten the heavy mood. “Maybe we should leave.”
“Do you really want to? It’s just now starting to get interesting. Don’t you want to wait until Jordan and Chelsea get here?”
“What if we stir up something uglier and scarier than a ghost?”
The Unmistakable Scent of Gardenias (Haunted Hearts Series Book 6) Page 15