* * * *
Back in my room, I settled upon the enormous bed and began to read the faded letters eagerly, hungry for any knowledge of my mother, welcoming any link with her past. The first few letters were brittle and yellowed with age. They had been written long ago, shortly after my mother had left Evangeline to go north with my Yankee father, Jeff Moreland.
These first letters to my mother seemed to be the ramblings of a very hurt, lonely old man. I felt my eyes grow misty as I read about his shock and anger following her elopement.
“ ‘At times, I believe that I have convinced myself that I understand you, my daughter. Blinded by love, you were lured away by his false promises’ “ The next part of the letter confused me. “ ‘At least, my darling May,’ ” it read, ‘I have the bitter consolation of knowing that you won’t go hungry in these troubled times ...’ ”
Won’t go hungry? Did he mean that Jeff would provide for her? Or was there some deeper meaning to his words, some meaning I knew nothing about?
Something in the tone of the next letter had changed. The anger had dissipated, dissolved into heart-rending grief. “ ‘I have a granddaughter whom I have never seen. Is she beautiful like you, May? Does she have your eyes, your hair, your smile?’ ” So he had thought about me! I had believed my grandfather to be a cold, uncaring old man, but these letters revealed a different side to him. A tear slipped unguarded down my cheek, blurring the next words. “ ‘If only I could swallow this foolish pride and forgive you for taking the jewels ...’ ”
Unable to believe my eyes, I reread the words. I was aware of my heart hammering in my chest, a painful pounding in my temples. How could it be? All these years Grandfather must have believed my mother had taken the missing jewels when she had gone off with Jeff! I thought of Mother, struggling by on her small widow’s pension, sometimes taking in sewing to make ends meet, and the injustice of it all cut through my heart like a knife.
And then something sparkled in the back of my mind. Once more I saw the brooch, that lovely amethyst brooch with its glittering stone that Mother had always worn. Where had such a jewel come from? Had it once been a part of the Dereux family treasure? Could Mother have sold the jewels one by one throughout the years to make ends meet, until only one was left? No! I would not believe, even under the most dire circumstances, that my mother would take something that did not belong to her!
Only one letter was left. I turned the envelope over in my hands, glancing down at the address, feeling a sudden stab of excitement. This letter was not addressed to my mother—this one was meant for me! A pulse leaped in my throat as I noticed the date. While the other letters had been over ten years old, this one was dated the month of my grandfather’s death!
With shaking hands, I broke the seal. The other letters had not been sealed; it was obvious that Grandfather had never really had any intention of sending them.
I scanned the contents, alarmed at the change in handwriting. I brought the paper closer to me, straining to make out the scribbled, shaky lines. The writing was for the most part, confused and rambling.
“I am weak, Louise. Can feel myself growing weaker by the day. Why haven’t you contacted me? Don’t you understand how important this is?
Please hurry, Louise. There must be a change of plans. Until I hear from you, the guardian will keep our secret safe ...”
The letter broke off abruptly, with only a scribbled signature at the bottom. For a long time I held it in my hands, reading and rereading that disturbing message. What did he mean? Why had this strange letter been written but never sent to me?
The letter demanded to know why I hadn’t answered him. And yet there had been no word from him all these years—nothing except the single letter intended for my mother that had arrived shortly after her death.
A few days later, the package had arrived, the small box of my mother’s jewelry that he had sent.
I ran a hand across my brow, my head suddenly aching. Had there been another letter? One that was missing? A letter that was supposed to have come to me between the one he had sent to my mother and this one, which he had never mailed? A letter, perhaps, that had originally been intended to accompany the small parcel of my mother’s things? Yes, there would have been time for me to have received such a letter. But what had become of it? And what could it have said to have explained all this?
I glanced down at the yellowed papers that now scattered the white bedding, the thought occurring to me that the missing letter might never have been sent at all! My grandfather had obviously been in a confused mental state before his death. He may never have posted it.
Again, I picked up the white paper addressed to me, turning it around in my hand, pausing to run a fingernail across the seal that I had so hastily broken. A missing letter—
An eerie feeling crept over me as I realized that the letters had been in Edward’s possession. Had he read them first, even the sealed one? It would have been an easy task for him to have steamed the seal open, then replace it with another! I felt a sense of violation at the thought of Edward reading letters meant for me.
And the missing letter—Grandfather might have trusted him to send it to me, also. Suddenly I thought of all the letters my mother had sent him through the years, wondering if Grandfather had received any of them!
Suspiciously, I thought of my own message explaining the urgency of my mother’s condition. Had someone purposefully, cruelly waited until they knew that Mother was dead before allowing Grandfather to hear of her illness? At the time I had regarded the delay as an unfortunate trick of chance, but it could have been more. The letter from Uncle Edward wanting to buy Evangeline had followed so swiftly ...
I stepped over to the vanity and took the black lacquer jewelry box that had been sent to my mother from the drawer. Surely the answer to this mystery had something to do with the contents of this box. It was puzzling. Why I had received the box and not the letter. I took out the items one by one and sorted through them, studying the silver chains, the rather garish brooches and earrings, the odd little serpentine hairpin. In the bottom were beaded feather ornaments and strands of bright beads.
If Grandfather believed Mother had taken the jewels, it did not make sense that he would send her more. And besides, nothing in the box appeared to be of any real value. Unlike the missing amethyst stone, these were only pretty baubles, the kind a young girl might fancy. I must have been right all along, that these were no doubt little treasures of my mother’s that Grandfather had kept, then forwarded to me after her death for sentimental reasons.
What then was the meaning of that last letter—the one Grandfather had never sent to me? “ ‘The guardian will keep our secret safe.’ ” What did it mean? Was it meant to be some sort of disguised message? Or was it only the ramblings of an old man?
I must talk to Edward again, I decided. I would show him all of the letters except the one addressed to me. Gathering up the parcel of old letters, I hurried back down to the study.
I knocked upon the door. “Edward?”
“Come in,” he answered immediately. He was still sitting behind the mahogany desk. A thick, heavy ledger lay before him. He looked tired, I thought as he glanced up at me. I noticed the weary lines about his eyes and the corners of his mouth.
I’ve read these letters you gave me, and have found the contents most disturbing,” I said. “Do you know what is in them?”
“The letters your grandfather wrote?” Edward looked surprised. “No. Of course not.”
I handed the packet to him, and sat in silence as he read. He finished, rubbing a weary hand across his forehead. “You didn’t know, then, that your grandfather thought your mother had taken the jewels?”
“No. It’s come as quite a shock.” A bitter, cruel shock. “It’s not true, you know.” Grasping at straws, I added, “Christine told me last night that you thought Grandfather might have hidden the jewels somewhere himself.”
“It’s possible.” Edward’s face seeme
d almost gray. His eyes looked sad and clouded. The jewels were discovered missing soon after May left. Not a word was ever said against your mother. Grandfather kept his suspicions a secret, and there never was any proof. But you must admit it was quite a coincidence.”
“How could you believe that of her? My mother was the kindest, most honest person—”
“I’ve never blamed her,” Edward said with a firm set to his chin. “If my sister took the jewels, and I’ve never been completely certain that she did, then it was because she needed them. It was not an act of theft, but one of survival. She may have considered the jewels part of her inheritance—”
Tears fought anger as I battled for self-control. “That’s not good enough. I know that she wouldn’t have taken them. She was innocent. And I’ll find some way to prove it!”
“Does it really matter that much now?”
“It does to me,” I said firmly.
After a long silence, he said, “Then I’ll do what I can to help.” He opened the desk drawer and drew out a large silver key. “This is the key to Raymond’s room. It’s the one next to yours. I’ve kept Father’s room under lock and key since his death, mostly to keep Christine from snooping around. The room hasn’t been touched. It’s still filled with Raymond’s old books and paraphernalia. I found these letters in his desk. There may be more letters and papers hidden away.”
“You won’t mind if I take a look?”
“The contents of the room all belong to you now. Along with Evangeline, you are entitled to all of his personal possessions, which originally came from the old house. Most of it is junk, but there may be a few valuables.”
“Maybe we can sort through them together. All I am interested in right now is the possibility of finding more correspondence.” Edward handed me back the letters as I rose to leave. “Thank you for the key.”
Once back upstairs, I paused outside the door to Grandfather’s room. It was almost time for me to meet Christine for the promised horseback ride. Though there was time to do little more than peek inside, I could not resist slipping the key into the lock and trying the door.
I stared in at oppressive darkness. Heavy curtains filtered just enough light for me to see a dreary, airless place with dark, heavy furniture. There was a four-poster with a delicate white spread much like the one upon my own bed, a walnut chair, and an ornately carved armoire. The walls were lined to the ceiling with shelves cluttered with leather volumes. I stifled a sneeze. A strange, musty odor hung in the air—the combination of dust and old smoke. Most of the books and furnishings must have survived the fire at Evangeline.
I ventured over to the desk and looked inside a few of the drawers. Loose papers fluttered in disarray. I shuffled through old accounts and ledgers, some of them curled and scorched about the edges. The missing letter was nowhere to be found.
Even if it was in the room somewhere, finding it was going to be a considerable task. My grandfather had been something of a pack rat. Maybe later I could go through some of the books and boxes.
In the middle drawer of the desk, I found a loose picture. I stared at the pale, faded image of a dark-haired man with a little girl on his knee. My mother.
Looking closer, I could see the shadow of a house, the backdrop of roses. The gardens at Evangeline. How long ago had this picture of my grandfather and my mother been taken? I wondered who had taken it, and for what occasion? My mother wore a stiff white frock, and her fine, coppery hair was curled in ringlets about her face. Grandfather wore solemn black, which made his hawk-like eyes seem deeper, his thick brows and strong features more prominent. I don’t know how long I sat staring at the ancient photograph, feeling as if I were a part of another place and time. I peered closely at the face of my grandfather, wondering what made him look so different here from the few other pictures of him I had seen. Suddenly I knew what it was. The man I had always pictured as a stern, unhappy stranger was smiling.
With a start, I realized that I had lost all track of time. Christine was probably already waiting for me at the stables. I slipped the picture back into the drawer, then returned to my own room.
Reluctantly, I put the packet of letters away in an empty dresser drawer, along with the black lacquer jewel box. I hastily donned the riding habit that had been sent up to my room earlier. Then I hurried down the stairs, still so lost in thought that I almost collided with Lydia.
“I’m so sorry!” I gasped.
Lydia stepped back, startled. She was poised upon the stairs like some frightened bird, brushing a hand nervously through her bright hair. “Christine is waiting for you,” she said, still breathless.
“Yes. I’m on my way to meet her now. I’m afraid I’m a bit late.” I hadn’t meant to startle her. She looked small and dainty in her rustling silk like some exotic bird poised for flight. My hair pulled back, and wearing the heavy riding habit, I felt awkward beside her.
“Be sure to come back in time for dinner. I’ve a nephew coming in from New Orleans.” Lydia’s pale face was suddenly animated. “I haven’t seen him for ever so long!” It was clear to me that this nephew was someone special to her, that she was looking forward to his arrival with great anticipation.
“I’ll be delighted to meet him.” I started to pass her on the stairs when Lydia’s frail hand caught my arm. Hers was a surprisingly firm grip. “Be careful this afternoon, Louise.”
“Of course I will. After all, I’m new to riding.”
Her pretty eyes darkened. “Christine has her father’s devil-may-care spirit.” Lydia paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “She may not understand your limitations. Don’t let her push you into doing anything unsafe.”
What did Lydia mean by that warning? Was she merely cautioning me because of my inexperience with horses? Or was she trying to warn me about Christine? I was not going to let fear get in the way of either my learning to ride a horse or my budding friendship with the wayward Christine. After all, what young girl is not full of spirit and mischief?
I could see Christine coming toward me through the garden. “I thought you’d forgotten!” she called as I hurried to join her. She wore a twill riding habit and her hair was pulled back loosely and secured by a length of bright yellow ribbon.
“Shall we get started?” I asked with a rather forced enthusiasm. My spirits sank as I caught sight of the waiting horses.
Christine helped me to mount Sugar. As I climbed upon the horse’s broad back, I felt suddenly stiff and apprehensive. I grabbed the reins tightly.
“Relax” Christine commanded, leaping upon Thunder’s back. “Let Sugar take the lead. She knows we want to follow the trail.”
Christine, as Lydia had warned, rode like an expert. She kept leaving me far behind. Every few minutes she would be obliged to slow down to wait for us as Sugar and I plodded along at our slow, careful pace.
Eventually, she grew impatient and began leaving us farther and farther behind upon the trail. Once I feared that I had lost her. I got the uneasy feeling that she was doing this on purpose. I nearly cried out in sudden panic when I saw her ride out in front of me from behind a thick web of cypress. She slowed and laughingly waited for me to catch up with her.
Chapter Nine
I followed Christine down a winding trail of weeds trampled down by hoofprints, slowing only when the path came to an abrupt end at the edge of the narrow footbridge near Evangeline.
“Come on, Louise,” Christine urged impatiently. She had already ridden across the bridge and waited on the other side, the charred, skeletal outline of the old house framing her. Nervously, I guided Sugar across the haphazard scattering of loose boards high above sluggish, gurgling black water.
“Drop the reins and let the horse graze,” she instructed as I dismounted. Thunder already roamed free. “Don’t worry—they won’t wander very far.” She tugged at my arm. “Come on. I’ll show you through the burned wing of the house.”
Edward’s warnings echoed through my brain. “Are you sure it�
��s safe?”
Christine shrugged. “I come here all the time.”
“But what about Nicholas?”
“He won’t mind.” She cocked her head to one side like a little sparrow, turning around to regard me with sharp, bright eyes. “Besides, the house belongs to you now, not him. So what could he say?”
We stood now on the very steps of Evangeline. The charred entrance to the ruined wing yawned before us, beckoning. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious?” Christine demanded.
“Of course I am. But I still think it might be dangerous to go creeping about in there.” As I peered into the hollow, open mouth of the entranceway, my ambition of restoring the house seemed more impossible than ever. The walls were blackened and charred; the entire roof overhead arched and bulging. I felt as if the slightest disturbance might send the roof and walls crumbling down around us.
“Christine?” She had already moved ahead into the first room. Carefully, I picked my way through the rubble of the hallway, stooping low to avoid a jagged-edged, broken beam which swung over my head. Christine had taken up a sharp-edged stick and was absently poking at piles of charred debris.
“What are you going to do with the old house, Louise? Are you going to try to have it rebuilt or tear it down?”
I glanced at the ruin all around me, contemplating defeat. The place seems almost beyond repair!” Almost to myself, I added, “I might be wise to accept Uncle Edward’s generous offer before he changes his mind.”
“He’ll tear it down,” Christine warned. “And put in rice or sugar cane. Then Nicholas will have to leave. I wouldn’t want that to happen.”
“He can’t stay here forever.”
Christine eyed me anxiously. “You won’t turn him out, will you?”
“Of course not. I can’t see any harm to his living here, at least until I’ve decided what to do with the house.” I smiled faintly. “Besides, so far, he hasn’t deemed it necessary to ask my permission to stay.”
The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras Page 10