The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras

by Vickie Britton

  As I listened, trying to understand, I realized how much my mother must have been like Raymond Dereux. Evangeline had never died for her, either. It had been indestructible, thriving and flourishing upon her dreams and fantasies. “I may have been disappointed in the house,” I said finally, “but that does not mean I’m sorry that I came. I do want to become acquainted with my mother’s family. My father had no living relatives and ... I’ve been very much alone.”

  “Say no more! Family is the most important treasure there is!” I was amazed to see a sentimental tear moistening Edward’s eyes as he took both of my hands in his. “Your mother was dear to me. I hated the thought of you going through the funeral alone like that. Lydia and I would have come to St. Louis if your grandfather hadn’t been so ill. I want you to feel most welcome to stay here with us. And don’t worry about Evangeline. I’ll be more than happy to take it off your hands. I can always use more land.”

  Edward turned to collect wineglasses from the tall cabinet nearby. “Why don’t we all have some sherry?” he called to Nicholas, who stood pacing near the doorway. “Nicholas? Won’t you join us?”

  Nicholas took the glass that Edward offered, but did not sit down with the rest of us.

  “The land around Evangeline seems as wild and neglected as the rest of the swamps,” I said. A vision of abandoned fields overgrown with weeds filled my disenchanted mind. “I wouldn’t want you to give me more than it’s worth.”

  “It’s going to take a lot of work,” Edward agreed. “But I am always interested in expanding. What I’d like to do is tear the old house down, put in some wild rice or indigo.”

  I glanced over at Nicholas. Something dark and unreadable glittered in his eyes. “You will not tear the house down!”

  “Now see here, Nicholas.” The room was awkwardly silent. I could tell by the way his hand tightened around the glass that Edward was growing upset. Before he could say any more, the outside door flew open.

  A rather plain young girl bounced in, closely followed by a husky, curly-haired youth of around sixteen. “This is Christine,” Edward introduced. “The daughter of my only son, Racine.” Sadness, deep and heavy, darkened his eyes. “I lost my dear son in the war, you know.”

  “Yes, Mother told me. I’m so sorry.”

  “And this is Nathan,” the girl announced in a bold, breathless manner, for Edward had pointedly ignored the shy, rather shabbily dressed young man who stood awkwardly by her side. “My fiancé,” Christine boasted, her eyes challenging Edward.

  Edward’s gaze narrowed as he regarded the young man. Nathan’s clothes were faded and worn, the breeches splattered with white. “Where the devil have you been? Out riding? I’m paying you to whitewash the patio, not make cow’s eyes at my daughter,” Edward scolded.

  The boy looked down, stammering something I could not quite understand—the same strange Cajun dialect that Cassa had spoken.

  “Oh, Edward. Only a short ride,” the girl placated with a winning smile. Christine was tall, and slender as a reed. She seemed a bright and lively girl. Her little face was thin and rather pointed, her cheeks were flushed, and her long, chestnut-colored hair tousled by the wind and the horse ride. I was a little surprised that Edward allowed her to run about unescorted with the boy, Nathan, for she seemed quite young. Unless she was older than she looked, she must have been around fourteen. I supposed that the rules governing courtship might be more relaxed out here so far from the city.

  “And he’s not your beau,” Edward said gruffly, as if he was reading my thoughts. “You’re far too young to even think of a beau.”

  To my surprise, she agreed. “Maybe you’re right, Edward.” I saw her bright gaze had fallen upon Nicholas, and a strange, wistful expression filled her eyes. “Why, Nick! I didn’t even see you!” The bold, defiant girl of a moment ago seemed suddenly as shy and awkward as the young boy at her side. “What—what are you doing here?

  “I came to bring you your cousin, Louise.”

  Christine turned to stare curiously at me. “So that’s who you are. I thought you’d be much older. And not quite as pretty,” she stated bluntly.

  “I must be going.”

  Nicholas’s words caused her to whirl back around to him. “Oh, so soon?” I was a little amazed at how swiftly the shyness turned to a beguiling coyness. “Please stay a while,” she begged. It’s been so long since we’ve seen you.”

  Nicholas ignored her pleading eyes. “I’m afraid I must go.” He began to move toward the door.

  “Nicholas, wait!” Like an anxious puppy, Christine bounded forward to catch up with him.

  “Christine!” Edward’s sharp command drew her back. The girl hesitated. An ugly scowl was beginning to cross her petulant features. But she obediently moved back toward Edward and the rest. I took the opportunity to step forward.

  “I’ll see you out, Nicholas,” I said, taking his arm in mine. “And thank you for all the help you’ve given me.”

  We stood for a moment out on the veranda. “Something tells me you’re not quite the welcome guest in Edward’s home,” I commented, once we were out of hearing range of the others.

  A smile lightened his black eyes, making the dark speck dance. “You’re quite perceptive, Miss Moreland,” he agreed. The black eyes began to cloud again, becoming murky, as the surface of a muddy lake becomes when it is disturbed by sudden motion. Something—unpleasant memories?—was stirring their opaque depths. “There’s no love lost between us,” he admitted. “In fact, this is the first time I’ve been here since—” He did not need to finish.

  He unexpectedly took my hand in his and held it tightly for a moment. “Louise, promise that you’ll have a word with me before you sign any contracts with Edward. Your inheritance may be worth far more than you realize.”

  “Are you saying that my uncle might try to cheat me?”

  Laugh lines appeared on either side of his well-sculptured mouth. “Oh, not intentionally. Edward has plans—and you are simply in the way of them. It would be much more convenient for him if you would agree to sell your inheritance so he can put Evangeline out of his sight and mind forever”

  “I don’t like it.” I shrugged. “But what else can be done?”

  “I thought you intended to restore the house.”

  A small ray of hope flickered in my heart. “But you said—you said it was beyond repair!”

  The black eyes challenged mine. “Oh, but that was when I wanted you to leave. I had hoped that maybe I could frighten you away. Now that I know you are here to stay, I am prepared to help you.”

  “You would help me restore Evangeline?”

  “Under one condition.” His eyes had grown dark and solemn again. “The house must remain as it is, undisturbed, until the Mardi Gras.”

  “Time is not so important. But, Nicholas, do you think it can be done?”

  “The damage looks worse than it is. Only the right wing is in total ruin. The other part of the house is more promising. Of course, it will take time—-and money. You’ll have to come over and see for yourself what needs to be done.” His hand tightened almost possessively upon mine. “Soon.”

  “I will.”

  I would have my Evangeline, after all. Nicholas would help me! As I watched him walk away toward the carriage, my mind was filled with thoughts and plans. I would have another look at the house. I felt a slight fluttering in my heart, remembering the strong touch of his hand. And yes, I would go soon.

  How could I trust him? The dark voice, almost the voice of conscience, thundered like a dark cloud over my bright horizon. Surely he was mad! His insistence that he remain undisturbed in the charred and blackened ruin of a house until after the Mardi Gras was proof of that! How could I favor his advice over the counsel of my own flesh-and-blood uncle? And yet, for the first time since I had arrived in Iberville, I began to feel hope. Hope for Mother’s beloved Evangeline—hope for myself. It was as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my heart.

  Whe
n I returned to the parlor, a tight-lipped servant was collecting the wineglasses. “Christine, show Louise to her room,” called Edward from one of the high, stiff-backed chairs near the mock fireplace. “I’m sure she would like to rest before dinner.” The coolness in his tone made me realize that I had displeased him by escorting Nicholas to the door. My welcome was over.

  As I followed an equally huffy Christine down the corridor I was beginning to wonder if I was going to like this newfound family of mine.

  “Dinner will be at seven,” Edward called to us without looking up as we began to climb the stairs. “We dress formally, of course.”

  Christine was taking the polished stairs two at a time. I had to hurry to keep up with her. The upper rooms of the house formed a huge square with a small courtyard in the middle. They all overlooked the courtyard as well as the outside gardens. From the upstairs hallway there was also a view of the downstairs rooms on the opposite side of the polished stairway. I leaned lightly upon the banister to gaze down into the pleasant little courtyard that offered much privacy.

  “Not too close to the edge, Miss Moreland,” Christine cautioned.

  “Please call me Louise. Miss Moreland sounds like some ancient maiden aunt or prim schoolmarm, and I’m not so much older than you.”

  “How old are you?” she demanded. Curious gray eyes, which reminded me of Edward’s, probed mine.

  “It’s not really polite to ask a lady her age. But I be eighteen next month,” I confided with just a touch of pride.

  “I’m almost as old. I’ll be fifteen soon!” She smiled, her teeth pearly against her unfashionably tanned skin. “I was afraid you’d act stuffy like ‘they” do,” she added, making a face. “Now be sure you are to dinner at seven, Louise,” she minced, “and be sure to dress just right.” I was a little shocked at her disrespectful mocking of Edward, but at the same time I could not help but be amused by her exact imitation of his tone.

  “That was your grandfather’s room,” Christine said as we passed by one of the many closed doors in the corridor. “It’s locked. Edward locked it the night of his death and no one has been in there since.”

  “Are all his—things still in there?”

  “It’s just as he left it.” She wrinkled her nose. “A real mess.”

  The door next to my grandfather’s room was wide open. “This is the main guest room,” Christine explained. “I guess it’ll be yours now.” I looked beyond her into a room that was spacious and elaborate. Though the windows were both open, a slightly musty smell hung in the air. The handsome furnishings had a blank, impersonal look about them, as if they had never belonged to any one person. The thick mesh mosquito netting and heavy four-poster seemed out of sorts with the white silk curtains that streamed and billowed from the open windows. In the middle of the room, near the imposing oak wardrobe and smaller, mirrored vanity, my trunks and hatbox already waited.

  I began to busy myself with unpacking my necessities, while Christine made herself quite at home upon the white bed, her dusty riding habit shedding a thin, powdery trail upon the lace coverings. As I began to hang up my dresses and arrange my toilet articles upon the vanity, she released a steady stream of questions about my mother.

  “I grew up hearing all about your Mama, May Dereux, how her Union soldier swept her away. What a wonderfully romantic tale,” she sighed wistfully. “To be banished from the family and give up everything for the one you love!” I remembered Mother’s loneliness, the restless unhappiness that she tried so hard to keep concealed from me. I had to remind myself that Christine was but an innocent girl, hardly more than a child. Obviously enthralled with dime-novel romances, she was too young to begin to understand the heartbreak my mother’s estrangement had really caused to both herself and the family.

  “My father was a great hero,” Christine boasted suddenly. “Racine Dereux. There’s a portrait of him in Edward’s study. And you’ll hear Edward talk about him.” She gave a little sigh and rolled her gray eyes. “Sometimes I think that’s all he talks about. He likes to ramble on about all those battles, and how terrible it was for Papa to have been killed just a few weeks before the war ended.”

  “And your mother, Christine? What was she like?”

  She shook her head, her expressive eyes clouding. “She died in childbirth. Both my parents died before I could even remember them. I don’t miss them—it’s almost as if they never were. Mrs. Lividais, the housekeeper, says that if I wasn’t so much like my father, she’d swear I was a changeling. You know what that is, don’t you? It’s when the fairies steal a baby and leave one of their own in its place.”

  “I see.” Anxious to change the turn of conversation, I asked, “Who was the young man I met in the parlor? He seemed very nice. Is he really your beau?”

  A flush spread over her cheeks and she turned away, shrugging. “Not really. I only say that to bother Edward. Edward doesn’t like Nathan,” she confided. “He says he’s not good enough for me.” Barely pausing to draw a breath, she added angrily, “Edward doesn’t want me to have any beaux at all. Did you see the way he acted about Nicholas? He wouldn’t even let me talk to him!”

  “I can see why Edward might not approve of Nicholas. After all, he’s a little old for you.”

  “Oh, that’s not the reason he’s ordered me to stay away from him. It’s because of what Nicholas did to our family name.”

  I felt my throat constrict. “Does Edward believe that Nicholas might have had something to do with his wife’s death?”

  Christine’s laugh was ugly. “Edward could probably have forgiven him for murdering Elica! He never liked Nicholas’s wife. In fact, he was so angry because Nicholas had the gall to marry her in the first place!”

  “Why didn’t Edward like Elica?”

  “It wasn’t the woman he didn’t like, but what she was.” Christine shrugged carelessly. “Edward, he’s all caught up in bloodlines and ancestry and such. There was some silly talk about her not being of Creole blood.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Creoles are the old families like ours, the true aristocrats, you see ...” she began to explain. I smiled to myself, thinking how much like Edward she sounded. “We are of pure French blood. That’s what being a Creole means,” she said proudly. “French-born Americans. Now, the Cajuns, their blood is all mixed up with the common folk, but not us Creoles. That’s why we don’t mix. That’s why Edward doesn’t want me marrying a Cajun boy, like Nathan. That’s why he didn’t want Nicholas marrying Elica.”

  “Elica was a Cajun, then?”

  Christine gave me an exasperated look. “Of course not! No one knew a thing about Nicholas’s wife—she just appeared out of nowhere. That was the problem. Edward didn’t know who her people were. Nobody did.”

  “Did you know her very well, Christine?”

  Christine nodded. She raised her chin defiantly. “She was strange and quiet, but I liked her. She rather liked me, too, I think.” A little of that unexpected shyness had returned. “She gave me this.” Christine unloosened a locket from around her neck. “I wear it always. It’s her miniature. Wasn’t she just beautiful?”

  I took the locket that Christine offered me. Indeed, the face in the miniature was one of striking beauty. Luminous black eyes stared out from a heart-shaped face framed with hair so dark and thick that it seemed to shine blue like a raven’s wing. There was something foreign, almost exotic, about the woman with her sad, widely spaced eyes, perfect nose, and full, sensuous lips. She wore a deep-blue dress which clung to her ripe bosom and accentuated the deepness of her hair and eyes.

  Christine’s eyes grew as dark and smoldering as the eyes of the beauty in the miniature. “Some still believe Nicholas murdered her,” she said. As I handed back the locket, I felt a sudden chill in the room. “Killed her on their wedding day.” Then, almost in the same breath, she added, “I don’t believe it, though, not for a minute.”

  “Don’t you think he’s handsome?” Her voi
ce was dreamy. “Nicholas Dereux.” After a brief pause, she added, “Do you think Elica would mind terribly?”

  “Mind?”

  “If I marry Nicholas instead of Nathan. When I grow up, I mean. After all, she’s been dead almost a year now. He can’t go on mourning forever, and he’ll need a wife.” I stared into those strange gray eyes, feeling a sense of shock, almost horror. For the life of me, I could not tell whether the girl was jesting or absolutely serious.

  Christine tossed back the slightly wavy hair which fell almost to her waist. It was golden where the sun had warmed its rich strands, but the thick mass beneath was dark, almost the deep brown shade of my own hair.

  She rose suddenly. “Quarter to six. I’d better let you dress. Wear the lime-colored silk,” she suggested as she turned and skipped out into the hallway in a most unladylike fashion. At the doorway, she turned once more. “I think you and I will get along just fine,” she said. “But stay away from Nicholas. He’s mine.”

  I did not know what to make of her sudden warning. It was obvious that she had a crush on Nicholas. But who could blame her? To a child of fourteen, the dark, handsome man with his aura of mystery must seem like the prince out of some romantic fairy tale. And the fact that Edward had forbidden him no doubt made him, in her eyes, even more attractive.

  I suspected that, despite his stern manner, Edward had spoiled Christine rotten. After all, she was the daughter of his only child, a son he had apparently worshipped. I wondered what Racine, the war hero, had been like. Part of Christine seemed wild and untamed. I could almost believe that she truly was a changeling, a fairy child, the product of the wild woods and swamp.

  Chapter Six

  Soon after Christine left, the same unsmiling woman who had collected the wineglasses in the parlor appeared at my door with two steaming buckets. “Here’s hot water for you to wash up in,” she said.