Corlis recognized her aunt’s implacable tone of voice and took a new approach. “Well… can you tell me if you remember coming across the name Joseph Dumas in the diary?” she implored. “Any little lead, at this point, would be helpful.”
“Dumas… Dumas…” Aunt Marge muttered into the phone receiver, and Corlis could picture the old lady squinting through her spectacles as she thumbed the diary’s brittle, yellowed pages. “My stars, but this is spidery script! Wait one moment, dear… I’ll have to get the magnifying glass. I’m having a little trouble with my eyes lately. They’re just not as sharp as they once were.”
“Oh… look,” Corlis conceded gently. “It’s too hard for you to do it this way. Just do the best you can to get a copy to me right away, will you, darling?”
“If I can get a ride to the copying place, I’ll try to get it done this afternoon, dear.” There was a pause. “And how’s that nice young man I talked to that time? Mr. Duvallon?”
“He’s a source,” Corlis replied neutrally. “So we don’t socialize these days.”
“Ah… yes… well, then,” Aunt Marge conceded. “The next time you run into him on the story, please do send my regards. I liked his voice.”
“I will tell him that you send your best,” Corlis promised, wondering to herself when that would ever be.
By noon the next day she also had reason to wonder when—or if—she would ever receive a copy of the McCullough diary. The FedEx delivery never arrived, and the latest message on her home voice mail was alarming.
“Now, I don’t want you to worry, dear,” a fragile-sounding Marge McCullough said, “but I had a minor fall when I was going through those heavy doors at the copy shop. The good news is the doctor said I’ve only bruised my hip and my right shoulder and arm. The paramedics were so nice… One of them said he’d drive me home from the emergency room when he goes off duty. I didn’t want you to wonder why you hadn’t received the diary. I’m so sorry to have disappointed you.”
Corlis closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. This had long been the kind of call she had dreaded receiving from California. “Poor baby,” she murmured into the receiver.
“And don’t worry about the McCullough diary,” Aunt Marge’s message continued. “Those dear people at the copy shop made sure it was put in my bag when the ambulance came. I’ll be home soon. I’m sure I’ll be able to work my email with my left hand, and I’ll write you a note, just so you know I’m fine, so don’t spend money calling California. Love you, dear.”
Aunt Marge was something else, Corlis thought admiringly. What an old warhorse she was. Disregarding her aunt’s directive, she quickly dialed Marge’s number and was dismayed when the voice mail picked up. Corlis left a message of love and sympathy and hung up.
Well, so much for getting the diary to New Orleans any time soon, she fretted, gazing around her home office. Nevertheless, she had to find out more about that tailor, Joseph Dumas—and fast! Furthermore, what had happened to her namesake, Corlis Bell McCullough, when she was tossed from the carriage, right in front of the door downstairs? Had her two young sons, Warren and Webster McCullough, lost their mother to that accident? Had Julien LaCroix died from yellow fever? And what had happened to Martine Fouché?
Just then Cagney Cat startled Corlis by hoisting his furry bulk from floor to desk. He settled comfortably near the phone and stared at her with a beady gaze. An idea… a bizarre, off-the-wall idea that she would never repeat to another living soul—but one—sprang to mind. She quickly looked up Dylan Fouché’s telephone number at his real estate office and dialed.
“I need your help,” she said briskly, and proceeded to detail her last odd excursion into the nineteenth century, which had been launched from Julien’s former study when they’d shot video at Reverie Plantation.
“I thought you looked pretty wigged-out that day,” he drawled, “especially when you let that terror behind the wheel, Althea, drive your Lexus back to New Orleans.”
“Believe me, the modern version of absinthe is still pretty lethal stuff, even when you just inhale it.”
“And so you think that the fumes from the decanter of absinthe whisked you back to those days in New Orleans, before the Civil War?” Dylan asked thoughtfully.
“And the incense at Saint Louis Cathedral, and the lilies in my apartment, and the pralines at the old warehouse,” she added impatiently. “What I want to know, Dylan, is how in hell can I get back to the tailor shop of Joseph Dumas—or the deathbed of Julien LaCroix, for that matter? Do I have to start sniffing a spool of tailor’s thread or a vial of carbolic acid?”
“What a good idea!”
“Give me a break!” Corlis retorted. “I was kidding! But can you put me into a trance or something? Ask me to recall the past?”
“I don’t think it would be reliable at this point,” Dylan mused. “You’re too anxious about figuring it all out. Whatever you came up with could be merely a product of your own projection… your own wish to come up with an answer—even one invented by your subconscious mind.”
“Well, what do you suggest?” Corlis asked, feeling foolish for even hinting at the possibility of conducting genuine research into the past in such an unorthodox fashion.
“Sit tight,” Dylan announced suddenly. He appeared to have settled something in his own mind. “I’ll be right over. And after you hang up from this call, unplug your phone, and don’t answer the door until I get there!”
***
The shades were drawn in Corlis’s back bedroom, making her enormous four-poster plantation bed appear to loom even larger than it was. In the sepulchral light, its luxurious yellow brocade hangings cascaded from the canopy, much like a stage curtain.
Dylan placed a briefcase on the bedspread and opened the metal catches. Inside were a number of unusual items, including a feather, a box of matches, a thick ivory candle about six inches high, and a brown glass vial.
“Carbolic acid?” Corlis asked dryly.
“Close,” Dylan chuckled. He withdrew the silver bell he had used during his space-clearing session, and a soft linen cloth. “Why don’t you recline on that chaise longue over there?”
She did exactly as Dylan had instructed and lay down. She eyed the brown glass vial. “How’s that going to flip me into Dumas’s tailor shop?”
“It probably won’t,” Dylan responded calmly, dripping a bit of the liquid from the bottle onto the piece of clean linen. “I think we should stick with the types of circumstances that have sent you backward in time on previous occasions.”
“And you think reclining on a chaise like Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire will help?” Corlis teased.
“Did you know that Desire is the name of a street in New Orleans, and it had a streetcar on it in Tennessee Williams’s day?”
“Do tell?” Corlis replied with a smile. “Actually, about twenty people told me that the first week after I moved here.” Then she said quietly, “You know… I’m actually kind of scared. Maybe I’m asking questions I don’t want to know the answers to.”
“It’ll be all right,” Dylan assured her, patting her shoulder. “I’ll be right here with you. I won’t let anything bad happen.” Dylan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Corlis guessed that the former Catholic seminarian was saying a prayer and closed her eyes as well. “Now,” Dylan instructed, “just start takin’ deep, calmin’ breaths. That’s right… in and out… in… and out. Empty your mind of all extraneous thoughts while I light this candle and place it beside you so you can gaze at its flame. Just breathe in… and out… that’s good. Now open your eyes and focus them on the flickerin’ flame and breathe evenly… deeply. Good. Now close your eyes again and cleanse your body and mind of everythin’ but the sound of your breathin’. That’s right. Inhale… exhale…”
Dylan’s hypnotic, melodious voice had a tranquilizing effect, and before long Corlis began to feel wonderfully relaxed as she concentrated solely on the sound and sensation of her own breath. She smelle
d a strange, pungent odor, but she kept her eyes closed, as she knew Dylan would ask her to do if she opened them to identify the medicinal scent.
It was an oddly familiar aroma, she thought idly, an odor that spoke of the sickroom and fainting spells. She inhaled deeply. An acrid smell bloomed all around her, as if to rouse her from her state of stupor, rather than put her into a trance.
The scent grew stronger still—biting, astringent, and quite unpleasant. Then her eyes began to water, and Corlis was forced to swim to the surface of complete consciousness when all she longed to do was sleep… and sleep…
***
“Out of the way, girl!” barked a gruff voice. “I’m a doctor. These smelling salts should do the trick!”
“Mrs. McCullough! Oh, dear God, sir… She won’t wake up! Mrs. McCullough!”
Corlis Bell McCullough was able to identify the high-pitched squawk of Hetty, her children’s mammy, but for the life of her, she was unable to open her eyes so that she might insist that the hysterical woman lower her voice.
Corlis heard the cacophony of voices shouting on all sides, but her eyelids remained heavy as two lead weights. A horse’s whinny told her she was out of doors, and several unpleasant odors she was inhaling—over and above the piercingly sharp fragrance placed beneath her nostrils—confirmed that she was lying in a muddy street dotted with horse manure.
Julia Street!
Now she remembered! Julien LaCroix’s team of horses had shied and thrown her from her precarious perch on the driver’s box.
Oh, dear God! What had happened to that poor man who had been nearly delirious with yellow fever?
Corlis fluttered open her eyelids and found herself staring into the wrinkled countenance of a man with grizzled sideburns growing from beneath his ears to the tip of his chin.
“Dr. Rayburn, at your service, ma’am,” he announced, his breath laced with the smell of the port or claret he’d consumed at his last meal. “How’s your head feeling, my dear? You’ve had a nasty thump, I’m afraid, when you pitched yourself out of the carriage.”
“I did not pitch myself out, sir,” Corlis countered archly. “Those wild beasts bolted, and the reins shot right out of my hands!” She struggled to sit up but sank back, moaning slightly. “Ooooh… I’ve quite a headache.”
“I’m not surprised,” replied Dr. Rayburn. “We’ve taken your companion upstairs to your apartments—”
“How is he?” she interrupted anxiously.
“Not good.” Dr. Rayburn leaned forward and whispered into Corlis’s ear, “And I did not mention to your neighbors the malady that I suspect he’s suffering from. However, I suppose I should tell you, since by necessity, you’re hosting him in your home at present.”
“I know what his malady is as I’ve suffered and survived it myself,” she replied in a low voice, glancing up at the handful of curious bystanders who had gathered around. She smiled at one of the men. “Please, sir…” she said with energy that depleted her just as quickly as she had summoned it. “Would you be so kind as to help the doctor to get me upstairs? I believe I can walk, if I may lean on both of you.”
Fortunately Corlis had not broken any bones, but was merely bruised on her right side, and she continued to suffer a headache for the rest of the afternoon. Julien had been placed in the four-poster bed in her upstairs bedchamber and lay prone, like a corpse, with his eyes shut and beads of perspiration dotting his brow.
After Dr. Rayburn departed, she dutifully sponged Julien’s forehead, wondering if the man would last the night. She had instructed her sons and Hetty to take refuge with a neighbor.
As for her husband, Corlis couldn’t have cared less what happened to the rogue. Randall had obviously spent the last night or two in the stews of Girod Street. Let him remain there! A note on her front door downstairs advised him as much.
A soft knock on the bedroom door roused her from her gloomy thoughts. A handsome, dark-haired young man poked his head into the shuttered bedchamber.
“Lafayette Marchand here,” he announced softly. “I let myself in. Mr. Bates said it was an emergency.” He glanced at Julien’s still form. “Julien?” He looked questioningly at Corlis.
“I’m Corlis McCullough. I found your brother-in-law on Canal Street… taken ill.”
“With what?” Marchand asked, suspicion clouding his chiseled features.
“The doctor and I both believe it’s yellow fever.”
“Good Lord!”
“Marchand?” said a weak voice. “Is that you?”
Julien struggled to sit up, only managing to balance himself on his elbows.
“Yes.”
“I must have you write a codicil to my will. I must…”
“Sh-h, there now,” Corlis said soothingly, easing Julien back onto the pillows. “I will get pen and paper and will write exactly as you tell me then your brother-in-law can cosign.”
“Thank you.” Julien sighed.
Marchand eased his lanky body into the sickroom but stood with his back against the wall, a few feet from the door. “Is my sister, Adelaide, all right out at Reverie?”
“I have no idea,” Julien murmured. “She set out to find you…”
“I’ve been… out of touch,” Marchand said, and there was no need for him to explain that he’d been attending the competitions at Metairie Race Course outside New Orleans proper. “My butler sent word to me after Bates called at Dauphine Street, and I came directly here. Is Adelaide ill, too?” he asked again with a look of alarm.
“In her mind… and soul…” Julien whispered. “We have wounded each other greatly, when that was not our… intent.” Corlis pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat with pen and paper, ready to receive Julien’s labored dictation. “This is my last will and testament… before… these witnesses,” he said, breathing with difficulty. With the economy of a dying man, Julien bequeathed Reverie Plantation to his only surviving white male cousin, Edouard Picot, of Baton Rouge, “allowing my wife a lifetime tenancy at Reverie, perhaps in the garçoniere, and a yearly allowance of eight hundred reals, should she survive me.”
Corlis called a halt to Julien’s strained efforts in order to sponge the perspiration that was pouring from his brow. Then she brought a glass of water to his parched lips. Marchand remained a silent witness to the unfolding drama.
“Drink just a little,” she urged. “It will help you speak.”
“Yes… thank you,” Julien replied weakly. Then he appeared to summon every ounce of his draining energy. “I grant my share of the Canal Street holdings to my infant son, Julien LaCroix, a Free Person of Color… on the condition that his mother will also leave him her share of said buildings, upon her death, and that during her lifetime she will rely upon the wise counsel of Joseph Dumas, the tailor, who is a full partner with Paul Tulane and the rest of our consortium.”
Corlis heard Lafayette Marchand’s swift intake of breath.
“You choose a Free Man of Color to guide your affairs, rather than your lawyer!”
“Joseph Dumas is a fine man,” Julien whispered hoarsely, “as is his son, whom I should hope would one day make a match with Martine’s Lisette.” Unbidden, Corlis noted this request in the will, for she knew that Free People of Color, by order of the Code Noir, were permitted to marry only other free blacks.
“This is not done,” Marchand muttered. “These family holdings should remain with the LaCroixs and be administered through proper channels by trustees.”
“My son, Julien… my half sister, Lisette… and Martine are LaCroixs, you imbecile,” Julien replied with astonishing verve.
Julien sank into the mound of pillows and fell into a paroxysm of coughing. Corlis quickly brought the glass of water to his lips, and in a few moments, visibly weakened by this attack, Julien attempted to continue.
“The warehouse, as well as profits from the sale… of the remaining cane and cotton therein… shall be administered solely by Martine Fouché… who is a capable woman of business,”
he declared in a rasping voice while Corlis frantically scribbled his directives. He glanced across the bedchamber at his brother-in-law, who remained with his back plastered against the wall. “To my wife’s brother, Lafayette Marchand, I bequeath all my horses and carriages.”
Lafayette’s eyes widened with astonishment, but he did not interrupt.
“My brother-in-law has always been… a fine appreciator of equines and… of quality flesh.”
Corlis stared at the lawyer, recalling the bright eyes and expectant feminine smiles ringing the dance floor on the night of the sugarcane festival. Was this debonair bachelor to take his place among yet another generation of gentlemen who married among their class, only to have their pleasure in one of the cottages dotting Rampart Street?
Corlis Bell McCullough slowly shook her head. The convoluted ways of these Frenchies were too dark and mysterious for her simple soul, she thought, shifting her gaze to Julien’s sunken cheeks, whose hollows hinted at the cadaver he would soon become.
“Is there anything else you desire me to write, Julien?” Corlis inquired softly.
“Yes…” Julien said hoarsely. “I wish my estate to grant you, Corlis, a small stipend for your kindness to me this day.”
“You are a good man, Julien,” Corlis said softly. “I will use it toward educating my two sons.” And, perhaps, one day finding a way to take them far, far away from this dreadful swamp!
But “Bless you,” was all she added.
“Marchand, see that this is done. Put that down, Corlis,” LaCroix croaked. “And anyone who mounts a challenge to this will shall, as a consequence, receive one picayune. And please write this: ‘Martine… despite everything… I loved you without prejudice… or reservation…’”
Another fit of coughing erupted from deep in his chest. Exhausted, he stretched out his trembling right hand toward Corlis, his clawlike gesture signaling that he wished to sign the makeshift document. That accomplished, he sank back against the perspiration-soaked bed linen.
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