Day Dreamer

by Jill Marie Landis

  “Does my aunt handle the sale of the sugar and rum?”

  Cord felt as if he were moving through an intricate dance around the truth. Bobo obviously knew the steps well.

  Bobo’s brow knit. He rubbed his hand over his hair, scratched his head and then shrugged. “De neighbor, de man over de next place, he store and sell sugar for her.”

  “And this neighbor, do you know his name?”

  Bobo rubbed the bridge of his nose with one finger. “Reynolds.”

  “Reynolds.”

  “His name be Roger Reynolds. But he nevah dere,” he added quickly.

  Although he hated to be beholden to any man, Cord was thankful that there had been someone to oversee his property. Most of the island’s land was tired, worn out as year after year sugar was planted in overworked soil. Dunstain Place could boast of still fertile land that had not been burned and rutted with troughs for cane. Here tobacco, cattle and sugar all thrived.

  “So my aunt is not really in charge, is she?”

  Bobo was hesitant to admit anything, but finally he nodded. “She been tink so for years. Now you de boss.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be any better at it than Ada Dunstain.” He wanted to try, though. God knew he wanted to succeed, and not only for himself or to spite his grandfather. Cord had promised to dedicate his efforts to Alex, and it was mainly for Alex that he wanted to succeed.

  Within an hour she had fallen in love with the old house.

  Because the breeze rose above the trees, the place was cooler on the second floor than on the first. Almost a dozen bedrooms opened onto a long hall on one side and a wide balcony that connected them all on the other.

  Although in need of paint, new fabrics and many personal touches here and there, the room she chose for herself was nearly as large as the entire house she had shared with Persa. Double doors opened onto the galerie that overlooked the sea. The view beckoned her so profoundly that Celine found herself continually walking back to the open doors and staring out to sea.

  “Miss?”

  She recognized Foster’s voice and found him standing on the threshold. Edward hovered behind him, looking anxious.

  “Come in,” she said, turning her back on the view. She waited while they carried in a heavy trunk and set it in the middle of the floor. “What’s this?” She walked around the old, rolled-top trunk. They had already unpacked the clothing she’d inherited in Jemma O’Hurley’s trunk.

  “Some of Cord’s mother’s things. We thought there might be something in here more suited to the climate that you might like to wear,” Foster told her.

  Celine watched while he knelt before the trunk and opened it. Edward hovered nearby and when Foster lifted the lid, he clasped his hands over his heart and sighed.

  “There’s that wonderful sky blue gown she always loved so.” Edward reached out to touch the lightweight gown. “It matched her eyes to perfection.”

  Foster and Edward leaned over the trunk, exclaiming in remembrance as they pulled out gown after gown along with matching hats and shoes that gave off the musty scent of time.

  “Everything is so beautiful,” Celine said as she ran her fingers over the blue silk dress Foster had just handed her.

  “Some of them are a bit old-fashioned, but we’ll air and press the ones you might like to wear,” Foster told her. “I can see your feet are much smaller than Miss Alyce’s were,” he added as he began to reverently repack the shoes in the bottom of the trunk.

  Celine held the dress up to her shoulders and swayed from side to side. “It will certainly be much cooler than anything I have with me,” she agreed.

  At that moment, Ada stepped into the room. The absent look on her face turned to one of confusion as she stared at Celine and the gown she held up to herself.

  “Alyce?” Ada whispered. “What have you done to your hair?”

  “No, Aunt Ada, it’s Celine. Cordero’s wife.” Concerned, Celine handed the dress to Foster and stepped toward Ada. The older woman had perched herself on the bed, which was covered in a faded spread of tropical flowers worked in crewel embroidery.

  Ada shook her head and smiled. “Of course you are, dear. But for a moment there I thought you were Alyce and that you had done something to change the color of your hair. Although, come to think of it, I’ve never spoken to her in this particular room.”

  Celine glanced at Foster and Edward. The taller man appeared merely puzzled, but Edward’s eyes went wide and he pressed his fingertips to his lips. Both men waited expectantly to hear more.

  Celine had a niggling feeling that Ada would have an explanation. The logic would be apparent only to herself.

  “She always slept in the master suite with Auguste. They were very much in love, you see. What I should have said was that I’ve never heard her spirit speak to me in this room. Of course, I’m not in here very often, as there are so many things to see to in the house.”

  Edward stepped just to the right of Foster’s shoulder. They were both looking expectantly to Celine.

  “Her spirit?” Celine said.

  Ada tried to fluff her hair, which was limp from the humidity. “Alyce’s ghost, I suppose. The slaves call her a duppie …”

  “Is that the same thing as a jumbie?” Celine wanted to know.

  “I believe so. Such wonderful words, don’t you think?”

  “You’ve spoken to Alyce in this house?”

  “Oh, yes, and in the gardens.” Ada looked toward the open doors and the sea beyond. “She loved the gardens so. I’ve tried to keep them up the way she would have liked, but it’s too much for one person and the slaves always seem to be so very busy with the crops and their own gardens that I’m hesitant to ask them for help.”

  So, a ghost walked the halls of a house where the mistress of over ten years was afraid to bother the slaves. It was all too curious. Celine walked over to the bed and sat down. Foster and Edward didn’t even pretend to be working as they stood there waiting for the exchange to continue.

  “Do you hear her often?” Celine asked, hoping the voice of Alyce Moreau was nothing more than a figment of Ada’s imagination. If the spirits of the dead could roam the earth, it might mean that Jean Perot’s—not to mention Captain Dundee’s—might find her here on St. Stephen.

  Ada shook her head. A smile twinkled in her eyes. “Only when I need someone to talk to.”

  “Does she talk back?” Edward could hardly contain himself. He was practically quaking with fear.

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, my,” he said.

  “Obviously Alyce’s presence means no harm,” Celine said, more for Edward’s reassurance than her own. She had more to fear in her present situation than Alyce Moreau’s ghost.

  “That’s exactly what I told the obeah man, but he didn’t care to listen.” Ada’s smile faded. She shook her head.

  “The obeah man?” Celine asked.

  “An old man the slaves believe is some sort of a magician or sorcerer. He holds a very powerful position among them. I’ve seen him try to cure the sick by waving a bone rattle around and throwing vile-smelling potions into a fire. When I first arrived, I couldn’t get anyone to work in the house. The place had been closed since poor Alyce died and Auguste committed suicide at sea. The slaves were convinced the house was cursed. Finally, I think because he was afraid of a slave insurrection, Bobo convinced me to let the obeah man come in and impart some incantations. But Alyce is still here.” Ada’s beatific smile showed her joy.

  Edward whimpered.

  “You’ve no need to worry, Lang. Alyce always liked you,” Ada assured him. “Besides, I’m the only one she talks to.”

  Celine brushed off her skirt, then pushed her hair back and fanned her hands to cool her face.

  “Now, I came up here for a reason. What was it?” Ada muttered to herself, then snapped her fingers. “You don’t intend to sleep in here, do you Celine, dear? If Cordero is anything at all like his father he will be very upset when he finds
you have set up camp, so to speak, in this room. Why don’t you have Lang and Arnold take your things into the master suite?”

  Celine colored immediately and looked at Foster and Edward.

  “I think she’s right. Don’t you?” Foster nudged Edward.

  “About the ghost?” Edward still appeared chagrined.

  “No, about moving into Cordero’s suite,” Foster explained, a bit impatiently.

  “Ah. Yes. Much better idea.” Edward nodded vigorously.

  “I’m staying right here in this room,” Celine said in a tone that she hoped sounded convincing. “Cordero will be busy with the duties of running this place and adhering to a schedule. I’m sure he won’t mind in the least if I prefer not to be disturbed.”

  Ada stared at her with a look of shock.

  “But you’re newly married. Don’t you want to …”

  “Of course you do! So we’ll just move this trunk—” Foster began, hastily starting to toss the gowns back inside.

  “Stop! Please.” Celine held up her hand. Foster quit tossing the gowns into the trunk. “I’ve already made up my mind. This is the room I’ve chosen, and I would appreciate it if you would all abide by my decision.”

  Foster began pulling the dresses out again and draping them over Edward’s arms. Ada frowned, trying to understand. Then she brightened.

  “At least Cord will be close by.”

  Celine felt her heartbeat escalate. “What do you mean?”

  Ada pointed to the door in the wall opposite Celine’s bed. “Why, the master suite is right through that connecting door.”

  * * *

  Cord moved through the dark house, as familiar with the place as he had been as a child. The absence of light hid the shabbiness that had aged the once beautiful furnishings and wall hangings. He walked through the dining room, where memories loomed around him in the shadowed shapes and forms of the massive sideboard, the long dining table, the chandelier. He could almost hear his father’s voice and his mother’s answering laughter in this room where they had so often entertained.

  A self-protective mechanism, an inner alarm kept him from dwelling on old memories, memories of times long gone that only brought him pain, the old deep-seated pain he refused to let himself feel. He had run from them earlier, just as he had run from Celine, but it was late now and there was no way to avoid the place.

  He had spent the day with Bobo riding over the estate, from the sloping hillside covered in cane to the wide crescent beach below. He had taken his meals with Bobo, eating whenever and wherever food was offered—fruit from the trees or slave fare of corn, plantains, sweet potatoes, beans and salt fish. Bobo had seen to it that the slaves had been given their weekly rations of rum and molasses. Many had offered Cord more than a swig.

  Surprisingly, Dunstain Place had thrived over the years in an unfettered way. A wide field of tobacco planted for slave use had expanded into a thriving second crop. The sugar crop had been staggered so that the sugar fields would ripen in succession from January to May, the driest and best months for harvest. A small herd of healthy cattle grazed in the coastal grasslands.

  After a day of close inspection and discovery, Cord was convinced that no one on the island realized that Dunstain Place had thrived under the direction of his addlepated aunt, a slave who worked as boiler and gang boss, and an often absent neighbor named Roger Reynolds.

  Tired but refreshed by a swim in his favorite pool, situated beneath a rushing waterfall, Cord crossed the sitting room. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and rested one hand on the cherry-wood pineapple atop the newel post. Beside him, a window was open to the stars and the night breeze. The rustle of palm fronds and the cry of green monkeys in the distant forest mingled with the cloying scent of night-blooming jasmine. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Beside the long, open windows, panels of lace, like gossamer phantoms, shifted with the breeze.

  As he started up the stairs, he realized he had no clear notion of where he was headed. He recalled the room he had slept in as a child, but suspected Foster and Edward would have seen him ensconced in the master suite. A vision of Celine waiting for him in the bed his parents had so lovingly shared flickered through his thoughts. Then the cynical smile of a realist curved his lips. After this afternoon she had no doubt found a room as far from his as she could manage, then promptly barred the door.

  He took the stairs two at a time and then strolled the length of the wide hallway, listening to the hollow sound of his solitary footsteps. The quiet, empty hall was totally different from the way it had been during his childhood, when it rang with laughter and gaiety. He wondered if Dunstain Place would ever know such joy again.

  He found the door to the master suite ajar and lingered for a moment in the hallway, steeling his emotions before he stepped inside. The last time he had been in this room, his father had been lying in bed staring out to sea, a beard of stubble shadowing the lower, unbandaged half of his face. His remaining eye was bleak, as if his soul had been snuffed out with Alyce’s death. That was the day Auguste had told Cord that he was sending him away.

  Propelled by the old anger, Cord shoved the door open. The room was darker than the night sky but even so, he could see that Celine was not there waiting for him. His anger quickly dissipated and was replaced by a rush of ancient loneliness.

  He left the room bathed in darkness and walked to the foot of the bed. It was massive, set upon a raised dais and draped with yards of mosquito netting. Seeing it now, as a man, he could only imagine it as his parents’ playground.

  Unable to predict what his reaction to Celine might be right now, he remained determined not to seek her out. He unbuttoned and stripped off his shirt and tossed it over a nearby chair, where he then sat to remove his boots. He peeled off his socks, then stood and flexed his shoulders and biceps. Clasping his hands together, he stretched his arms high overhead. Riding across the property had left him sore but feeling more alive than he had in a long while.

  He was still on edge, his mind crowded with all he had seen and learned today. He wanted a drink, but decided to step out on the balcony and listen to the pulsing sound of the sea rather than prowl the house in search of liquor. He crossed the balcony and walked to the railing. Far below the overgrown garden that bordered the house, past the sweeping hillside and the open grassland beyond, lay the sea, a black jewel shimmering beneath the scant light of a crescent moon. Starlight danced on the water. The surf pounded against the shoreline, the sound drifting up to him on the gentle wind.

  Over the sound of the sea, he heard a swift intake of breath, a gasp of surprise. He turned. Framed in the open French doors of the room next to his, Celine stood poised on the threshold.

  “I didn’t know you were out here,” she said softly, unable to hide the tremor in her voice.

  The sleeveless white gown he had given her billowed about her bare ankles, brushed against the tapered arch of a foot. She reached up to sweep her hair off the side of her face, where the wind pressed it to her cheek.

  “Not much of a witch after all, are you?”

  He thought she would turn away. The acid drip of his tone should have sent her running into the shelter of her room, but she didn’t move. Instead, she chose to stand there with the wind caressing her wild, midnight hair, tempting him with her innocence, her silence. With a concern and a caring he did not want or need.

  Finally she spoke. “Why did you do it?”

  “What have I done now?”

  “Why did you kiss me like that today?”

  He looked out across the sea again, unable to bear the sight, knowing she was naked save for a yard or two of sheer cotton, incapable of looking her way without wanting her.

  “You live to torment me, don’t you?” he said softly.

  “Because you are so easily tormented. So willing to revel in your pain. Let it go, Cordero.”

  Cord crossed the balcony in two strides and stood over her, afraid to touch her. Afraid it might prove t
oo much. The spell she so easily wove around him angered Cord more than his inability to control his need.

  “You’re nothing but a pampered merchant’s daughter who bought herself a husband with a fat purse. You play at life, concocting fantasies about a gypsy father and a life in London. What do you know of pain?”

  “Enough,” she whispered. “And I know enough not to hoard it and guard it like a miser’s treasure the way you do.”

  “What would you have me do, wife?”

  “Let go of it, Cord. Forget the past. You are here now. You have land and a home, faithful servants and an aunt who loves you. Be grateful for that. Let them love you, and love them in return. Choose what you want to believe about me, but never assume I know nothing of heartache just because I don’t choose to wear it on my sleeve like a hard-won trophy.”

  She began to turn away, but before she could, he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder. The warmth of her skin through the thin fabric snaked like a shock wave up his arm. His fingers tightened on her tender flesh and he felt her flinch, but he could not let go. He pulled her to him, slammed her against his bare chest and buried his face in her hair. He closed his eyes and breathed in the heady scent of her.

  He slipped his hand down to her hips, cupped her buttocks and pressed her against him so that she might feel and be aware of his raging need.

  Cord drew back slightly, framed her face with his hands and was once again reminded how small she was, how vulnerable. Starlight and hope and even fear shimmered in her eyes. She was breathing hard, as if running for her life. Her pounding heart echoed the beat of his own. His breath whispered against her ear. “I want you, Celine. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything on this earth. And I want you now.”

  Thirteen

  “I want you now.”

  Starlight and the sound of the sea bathed them in silver and thunder. Cord’s hands cupped her face. His intense gaze locked on her eyes. Celine was powerless to refuse him anything.