The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras

by Vickie Britton

  “Look at me.” His eyes were warm and soft like velvet. His mouth brushed mine, a feather-touch. I trembled as his gentle lips traced a fiery path across my throat. When his mouth, still soft and teasing, eased up to recapture mine, I was no longer frightened. Sighing, I clung to him, lacing my fingers about his neck, burying them in his thick, glossy hair. In the end, it was Nicholas who broke our embrace.

  Together, we walked through the bleak, tangled gardens. A scattering of wild yellow roses still grew among the weeds that clambered to take over the forlorn paths.

  “The gardens aren’t such a pretty sight anymore,” Nicholas commented, a faraway look in his eyes, as if remembering a time when sweet-scented flowers grew in the same abundance as the weeds.

  I remembered the photograph that I had found in the desk drawer of Grandfather’s study. My mother and her father, smiling against the backdrop of flourishing roses. I tried to paint a picture in my mind of the gardens as they must have been, but my imagination wouldn’t stretch that far. I was glad when we reached the water’s edge, where natural vegetation grew lush and earthy under the shadow of Spanish moss.

  Sugar was grazing contentedly beneath the cypress trees near the bridge. On down the trail, through a fan of thick moss and tangled tree branches, I saw Christine running after Thunder.

  Nicholas seemed restless, ill at ease with me now. Glancing at his strong profile, I saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. “Louise, I’m sorry. I had no right to kiss you,” he said in a low, husky voice. “Forgive me.”

  I lowered my eyes away from his searching gaze. “It was my fault, too. I—I’ve never felt this way before.” It was a helpless feeling, like drowning. I was powerless to stop this attraction I felt for him. I thought fleetingly of my mother and Jeff, the handsome Yankee soldier, of their forbidden love. Had it been like this between them?

  “I have no right to become involved with you. Not under the circumstances.” Even as Nicholas said the words, my arms were reaching for him, pulling him toward me. I heard his soft moan as his lips parted, returning the warm pressure of my mouth.

  “Don’t tempt me like this,” he pleaded.

  “But I want you to hold me, to kiss me,” I whispered against his hair.

  “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” he cautioned. “I’m no saint, Louise.”

  Once again, I raised my mouth to his, eager for the taste of his lips, the dizzying sensation of his kisses. I felt a slight tremor pass through him as, instinctively, my body molded its contours to fit his own. His mouth upon mine was suddenly hard and demanding. His arms had tightened around my waist until I found it hard to breathe. The crosscurrent of emotion left me stunned, a little frightened. I cried out, startled by the change in him. “Please! Let me go!”

  Shuddering, Nicholas released me. I could see his chest heave beneath the coarse shirt, his breath rise and fall in sharp, ragged waves. Dazed, and a little frightened, I stared at him. I shivered at the stark look of desire upon his face. Nothing but midnight could match the smoldering blackness of his eyes. “Someday,” he warned in a voice that was rough with unfulfilled longing, “my kisses may not be so gentle!”

  The sudden whinny of a horse startled us. Christine was standing with Thunder in the shadows nearby. “It’s time to go, Louise,” she called. Something in her voice gave me an uneasy feeling. How long had she been there, watching us? Had she seen us kiss? Nicholas caught Sugar’s reins for me. His eyes, dark and intense, met mine as he touched my arm one last time. “Take care, Louise,” he said. “I’ll see you—soon.”

  Christine had mounted Thunder and now waited just ahead of the trail for me. Her back was stiff, her head high and proud. As I hurried to catch up with her, I wondered what thoughts and feelings were going through her mind.

  Just as I came abreast of her, she moved briskly on ahead. I caught a glimpse of her eyes, glowering and accusing, as if I had somehow betrayed her.

  I knew that a young girl can often become infatuated with an attractive older man. And Nicholas, with his rugged good looks and aura of mystery, made a perfect target for such schoolgirl fantasy.

  Christine’s sullen impatience continued as we rode on into town. As we reached the edge of Iberville, she slowed for the first time to wait for me. In the light of the day, I could see that Iberville was a pretty little place. There was a sprinkling of wooden houses, a general store, and even a small bakery. Pirogues floated in the marshy swamp that trailed in long, thin fingers alongside the streets. The salt-smell in the air was tangy with shrimp and fish.

  “Come on. I want to show you something.” We turned the horses down a narrow side street, where rows of primitive wooden carts painted in reds and blues and yellows waited.

  “These carts are for the Mardi Gras,” Christine explained, her grudge against me momentarily put aside. “For the parade.”

  The first cart, now chipped and cracked, was clearly once a shimmering silver and gold. “The king and queen of the Mardi Gras ride upon that one.” I frowned. The cart looked more fit for hauling hogs and cattle than royalty.

  “You have to use your imagination a little,” she said. “On the night of the Mardi Gras, all the carts will have a fresh coat of paint. The float of the king and queen will be decorated with a bed of white roses, and they will sit upon golden thrones.” She cast me a sidelong glance. “You can’t even imagine, can you?”

  “I’ve never seen a Mardi Gras parade. It’s hard to visualize it.”

  Christine threw me a superior look. “You just wait. You’ve never seen anything like the Mardi Gras.” She gave a wistful sigh. “Oh, what I’d give to be queen of the Mardi Gras this year!”

  We tethered our horses to a post just outside the general store. The smell of spice assailed my nostrils as we stepped inside. I followed Christine past wooden hogsheads of sugar and flour toward a long counter near the back where a red-haired young girl lazily dusted the shelves.

  She glanced up from her task in surprise, then grinned widely. “Christine!”

  Christine was glancing around the store. “This is my cousin, Louise. We’ve come to look at the new material. Where is it?”

  “Over there.” She pointed to a long counter near the back where heavy bolts of silks and satins rested. “And wait until you see what’s come in!”

  I stood aside as the two of them exclaimed over the bright hues and rich textures.

  “This color would go nicely with your hair, Christine,” Chantal enthused, holding up a piece of forest-green satin. “And what do you think about this pretty white lace?”

  “Oh, how will I ever decide? I want a fabulous gown for Christmas, and something really special for the Mardi Gras. I’m going as a princess,” Christine explained.

  Chantal laughed. “You’ve already changed your mind twice.”

  The two began to talk excitedly about the holidays. Momentarily forgotten, I wandered slowly about, pretending to study the bolts of brightly colored silk. The Mardi Gras was not until a few months after Christmas. Where would I be then? I thought that coming to Louisiana would settle my future. But now it seemed more uncertain than it had ever been.

  I could hear the girls whispering in hushed, excited tones. “I got my fortune told!” Chantal giggled.

  “Really? When?” Christine seemed more than a little interested.

  “Last week. Brule said that I would marry Jack Hull!”

  “Jack Hull!”

  Chantal giggled again, wrinkling her small, pert nose with its generous sprinkling of freckles. “Well, Jack’s a fine man, even if his hair is a little thin. Did you know that he’s already asked me to the Mardi Gras?” After a slight pause, she added, “Has Nathan asked you yet, Christine? Do you think that Edward will let you go with him?”

  “Oh, who cares about Nathan!” she replied saucily. “I may not even go with him!”

  “Then who would you go with?”

  “Listen!” Christine moved in closer toward the girl who was now leaning agai
nst the long wooden counter. “You’ll never guess who I just saw. Nicholas!”

  Christine pointed to me. “My cousin Louise here owns Evangeline now, you know. She inherited it from the old man.”

  “No!” The greenish eyes widened as Chantal glanced my way, obviously impressed.

  “And we were just there!”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “We were. And what’s more, he asked us inside.”

  “Ooh, my maman would skin me alive if I so much as walked past the place. She says it’s haunted, and that Nicholas is the devil himself!”

  “Oh, but what a handsome devil!” Christine replied, undaunted.

  I smiled a little to myself, silently inclined to agree. It appeared that the man who lived alone in the ruins of my mansion was somewhat of a local legend.

  “Anyway, he gave us coffee and ...” She lowered her voice until I could just barely make out the words, adding, “He paid me ever so much attention.” Her gray eyes sparkled like diamonds as she lied. “He says he’s going to take me to the Mardi Gras!”

  “We should be on our way, Christine,” I said.

  “Put back the green silk for me,” I heard her call as she willingly followed me out of the store.

  Christine was happy now, humming under her breath as we climbed back on our horses. An odd feeling stirred in the pit of my stomach. Did she really believe that Nicholas was interested in her? For the first time, I was aware of how much Christine must live in a fantasy world.

  “Christine—”

  She had her back turned to me. If she heard my voice, she made no response. It didn’t matter. What could I say to convince her that she did not love Nicholas? Suddenly, I pitied us both, Christine with her puppy-like infatuation, I with my woman’s love. Nicholas would never belong to either one of us. In a ruined, empty house he waited for another woman, a dead woman, to return from the grave.

  Chapter Ten

  “Christine!” I called. “Christine!” I could see her now through a parting of cypress branches, waiting impatiently near the water’s edge. She had been riding just as fast as she could since we had left Iberville. Though I suspected that she was trying to leave me behind on purpose, it was impossible for me to hasten Sugar’s plodding gait.

  Christine paused until I almost reached her, holding the high-spirited Thunder back with a firm hand on the reins. I could not read the expression upon her face as, with a quick motion, she started up again, leaving me once more far behind.

  The path along the bayou was hazy with late-morning light. Cool cypress shaded the path and the slight wind that whispered through the hanging moss made a welcome breeze. Birds rustled through the branches overhead as I traveled the path alone. Except for the lazy gurgling of the brown water, only the occasional whoop of a crane broke the peaceful stillness.

  Christine stopped to wait for me at the fork in the path. Through the trees I could see Cassa’s cabin—our destination. But instead of taking the way that led to the cabin, Christine continued to follow the trail near the bayou’s edge.

  “Where are we going, Christine?” I asked.

  Christine slowed at the sound of my voice. For the first time since we had left town, she allowed me to ride alongside her. To visit Brule,” she replied with a casual toss of her head.

  Brule. The voodoo man. A chill brushed over me like a breath of icy wind as I recalled my initial fear of Brule in New Orleans, my strange encounter with him on the Swamp Prince. Despite Nick and Cassa’s reassurance, I still was not totally convinced that he had not been following me for some evil purpose. I was wary of the man with his deep, penetrating eyes which supposedly held the “gifts of sight.” I did not relish the idea of paying him a call.

  “No, Christine. I don’t believe we should go.”

  “But I want to get my fortune told like Chantal did,” Christine pleaded. Her eyes were bright, her voice animated. The anger that she had displayed toward me over Nicholas seemed to have vanished into thin air. “You’ll just have to go with me.”

  “I don’t think Edward would like it at all.”

  She gave a capricious little shrug. “Who cares?” With a shake of her long thick hair, she began to move briskly away. “Very well, if you’re afraid of Brule, then wait for me here. I’ll just go alone!”

  I knew by the stubborn set of her small, pointed chin that Christine was determined to get her fortune told. Nothing I could say or do would stop her from going to Brule’s cabin. I didn’t trust Brule, and I could hardly let the wayward child go alone, not when I had promised Edward that I would watch over her. Reluctantly, I began to follow her. She glanced behind, her eyes glowing with triumph, believing that her taunts had moved me to her will.

  Our horses trotted slowly, spraying us with shallow brown water as we led them down the swamp trail. Christine slowed Thunder and dismounted, leaving him untethered near the bayou’s edge. I left Sugar grazing contentedly beside him. Together, Christine and I walked down the planked cross-over that led to the dilapidated shanty. A lean-to porch, supported only by long poles, hung dizzily suspended above the water.

  I gasped, startled by the sudden likeness of an old man’s face. He was grinning down at us from the ragged top of one of the cypress poles which rose from the water like spears near the entrance to Brule’s cabin.

  “Brule carves masks for the Mardi Gras,” Christine explained as we passed below the face. The old man was skillfully crafted, the nose a huge, crooked cypress knot, the hair and beard a long, loose tangle of gray moss.

  The face was intended to be comical. But what was it about the mask that made me continue to stare in morbid fascination? Maybe the empty, hollow eye sockets, which gave the illusion of death? Or perhaps the thin pole on which the mask was hung, giving the unsettling impression of a beheaded man?

  “Come on, Louise.”

  Still trying to discover the source of my uneasiness, I glanced away.

  The door to the cabin swung open. Almost as if he had been expecting us, the tall, hollow-cheeked voodoo man stood in the doorway. He wore a long, flowing African robe of dusky purple, and in his hand was a thick, long-handled knife.

  I could not lift my eyes from that knife. I stared spellbound, frozen by the sight of it.

  Christine, too, quivered a little. Her eyes were enormous in her thin face, and her skin paled as her eyes slipped to the wicked blade in Brule’s hand. “We—we came to get our fortunes told,” she explained rapidly, stammering over the words. “We don’t mean any harm.”

  Brule’s mouth split into a huge grin, revealing his large, startlingly white teeth that were beginning to yellow at the roots. “Ha. This knife not for you!” His voice was soft and smooth, thick with some heavy accent. “Big knife is to cut the shrimp traps,” he explained. He laughed again, softly, at the relief that spread over Christine’s face as her fear dissolved. He gestured toward the entrance to the wooden shack behind him. “Wait for me. I see to my supper first. Then I will be happy to see your future.”

  He began to walk away down the wooden plankings.

  Christine stood watching Brule, then turned back to me. “Wait here, Louise. I’ll be just a moment. I must see to the horses. We really should have tethered them. They are beginning to wander.” She began to hurry after Brule.

  Puzzled, I watched her go. The horses grazed contentedly almost in the same spot where we had left them. Christine rapidly caught up with Brule, and now they walked together along the wooden plankings. As they moved away, I saw Christine move close, whispering something to Brule in a hushed, embarrassed tone.

  Christine was asking Brule for something. For a moment he looked thoughtful, as if he was considering her request. I studied him. He might once have been a handsome man, before the years had left their shadows below his piercing black eyes and had traced deep furrows along the gaunt neck and cheekbones. Brule turned to Christine and nodded solemnly, as if whatever favor she had asked of him would soon be granted. The two of them sepa
rated at the end of the plankings. Brule went off to see to his shrimp traps and Christine to tether the horses.

  The door to Brule’s cabin was still open behind me. I stepped inside, my eyes gradually adjusting to the dimness. The furnishings of the room were sparse and primitive—wooden table, chairs, a mattress in the far corner.

  On the wall hung two more carnival masks—a woman’s face with coils of long, braided moss hair, and a happy clown painted in bright Mardi Gras colors. Though bright and merry, they filled me with a sense of uneasiness. Something about them put me in mind of my disturbing dream last night.

  I ventured further into Brule’s cabin. Sunlight from the entrance fell upon tarot cards carefully arranged, some faceup, others facedown upon the small table. Beside them rested another mask, which Brule was still carving. I found myself staring down at the unfinished piece of wood with curious fascination. The sense of uneasiness intensified. The grotesque incompleteness of this likeness, its distorted mouth slowly taking on the familiar sad shape of the Greek god of tragedy, made my heart pound with a strange sense of dread. My mind began to make a frightening connection. A mask! The face in my dream had looked like a mask.

  I bent closer to study the unfinished face upon the table. No, it had not been this one. But the stiff, blunt features were uncannily similar to those of the creature who had haunted my dreams. I recalled vividly now the face in my nightmare, the blood-red gash of mouth, the stiff, unyielding skin splayed with deep, vivid colors. I remembered how the image of it had remained staring down at me even after I had opened my eyes. I was certain now that the face I had seen last night had been real. Someone had been in my room last night. Someone had been trying to frighten me away by wearing a Mardi Gras mask!

  I tried to remember the eyes behind the mask. What color had they been? I could not remember. I could recall only the impression of eyes, a darting, shining motion which had made the evil face seem to come alive.

  Was it Brule, then, who had crept into my room through the window last night to try to frighten me away? I glanced around, half expecting to see the face that had haunted me last night to pop out at me from some dark corner of the room. But the evil likeness was nowhere to be seen. If the mask that had been used to frighten me last night was in Brule’s cabin, it lay hidden somewhere safely out of sight.