The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras

by Vickie Britton

  He did not answer. “You must go inside,” he said.

  I was aware of his closeness, the longing in his eyes as we stood, reluctant to part. My gaze fell upon his full, sensual mouth. And though my conscious mind still heeded my warnings, something deep inside me thought only of what it had been like to be kissed by those hard, searching lips. A part of me remembered his promise of more kisses to come, and would not be denied.

  I detected a slight hesitation in his eyes. Then, as if responding to my need, he crushed me hard against him. My lips parted against his, returning his kisses with unbridled passion.

  For one long moment we clung together, one shadow in the still, dark night. Then, with an anguished moan, he pushed me away from him.

  I stood staring at him, my lips still burning from his kisses. With his wild black hair and melancholy eyes, he seemed to belong to haunted places, to ruined mansions and the night. “I’m sorry, Louise.” He ran a hand through his dark, disheveled hair. His eyes were infinitely sad. “I’m not free to love you.”

  The melting warmth of his kisses dissolved into a feeling of dread and fear. There could only by one explanation, and now it made perfect sense to me. “She’s alive, isn’t she? Elica is still alive!”

  Roughly, he caught both of my shoulders in his strong arms, his hands biting, painful after the loving embrace. “Never say that, Louise. Never! Elica is dead!”

  “Then why do you stay there in that ruined house? Why?”

  “There’s a promise I must keep,” he said.

  Tears of frustration stung my eyes. “A promise to a dead woman?”

  “Louise—” His voice was desperately gentle. “There’s so much that you don’t understand about my relationship with Elica—my past.”

  “Maybe I understand more than you think I do.” In anger I took the little black journal from my pocket and, from memory, quoted the words that I had read there. I must talk to her tonight. Before the wedding. Before it is too late!

  I saw Nick’s face pale at the words. His eyes were blacker than the night. ‘Where did you get that?”

  “I found it in Grandfather’s room. It’s his journal.”

  He stared at the journal, stricken.

  “I need to know the truth, Nicholas. No matter what it is. I want to know what really happened the night of the fire.”

  “I’m sorry, Louise.” He turned his gaze away from me. “I’m not able to tell you—not yet.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “Then there can be no future for us.”

  “Louise, darling, you don’t understand—” He reached his arms out toward me, and it took all of my willpower not to go back into them.

  “No, Nicholas! Not until I know the truth.” Blindly, I rushed away, leaving him standing motionless near the winged gargoyle. He made no effort to follow, only stood staring after me as if he, too, had turned to stone.

  For an endless time, I wandered restlessly through the garden, following the circular stone path. An image of Elica rose up in my mind, laughing, tormenting me. Nicholas’s words kept coming back t o haunt me “I’m not free to love you—not free to love you.”

  I remembered Nicholas’s startled, angry reaction when I had told him that I believed Elica was still alive. It had to be so! Despite what I had read in Grandfather’s journal, I could not believe that Nicholas had killed her. He must be hiding her there in the old house, then, trying in some way to protect her. Elica must be alive!

  I turned and walked back the way I had come, intending once more to beg Nicholas to tell me the truth. I wound my way through mimosa, oleander, and rose vine, back to the fountain. My heart sank. Only the grinning gargoyle waited to greet me. Nicholas was gone.

  I sank down upon the stone bench, staring off into darkness, hoping that he would come back. But the longer I waited, the less likely his return seemed. The wind upon my hair and face carried beads of dampness.

  Wearily, I rose and with heavy steps moved back toward the house. I hadn’t gone far when I sensed that I was not alone. Someone or something was following me through the garden.

  I spun around just in time to see a distinct movement in the tall oaks behind me.

  “Nicholas, is that you?” I whispered. My voice sounded thin and frightened in the darkness.

  “Nicholas ...” But there was no reply. The rustling had stopped. Probably just a bird or night creature, I told myself. Yet an image of that empty peg where the voodoo mask had hung made my imagination suddenly run wild.

  Taking a deep breath, I began to quicken my pace as I hurried along the rough stone path toward the house.

  Suddenly, it came again. My nerves on edge, I whirled around, and this time I saw a dark shape blend into the shadow of the tall bushes that edged the path.

  “Who’s there?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice from growing shrill. My heart froze as a low, chuckling sound answered my call. Horror twisted my stomach as the sound seemed to grow all out of proportion. It was the laugh of a lunatic, mindless and hollow.

  And then I saw him.

  “No!” A choked cry escaped me. It couldn’t be! Surely my mind was playing tricks on me! My legs were frozen to the spot, refusing to obey my command to run as the dark shape moved quickly toward me. A figure wrapped in a black cloak. My eyes were riveted to the pale, unyielding shield that covered the face—the black-rimmed eyes, the blood-red, evil mouth of the voodoo mask.

  The black-cloaked figure sprang out unto the path, blocking my way. “Give me the journal!” The voice behind the mask was muffled and distorted, impossible to recognize. With one quick movement, the intruder grasped my shoulders, shaking me fiercely.

  “The journal! Where is it?” In terror, I fought to push away the strong hands that now sought to clamp around my throat. I could feel my own grip weakening, giving way until angry fingers found their mark, pressing with brute strength against my windpipe. Spots of black dimmed my vision as I struggled to free myself from those merciless hands.

  Fear gave me the strength to break away from that crushing death embrace. Bursts of pain pulsated in my throat with every breath as I fled, without looking back, toward the house. With shaking fingers, I opened the hallway door, let myself inside, and secured the lock behind me.

  The wild pounding of my heart filled the empty hall. Breathless, I stood leaning against that locked, closed door, my fingers curled tightly around the journal still tucked safely in my coat pocket. Then I hurried away to the sanctuary of my room.

  * * * *

  It might not have been Nicholas behind the mask. I clung to these words like a drowning man clings to a raft—they were my only source of hope as I inspected my bruised throat above the white dressing gown. Two faint, plum-colored marks the shape of thumbs discolored the skin. I would have to wear a scarf tomorrow, or answer many questions I would rather leave unasked.

  Still feeling weak and shaky, I sat huddled in front of the small fireplace, glad that one of Mrs. Lividais’s daughters had remembered to light the fire. The night was not cold, but there was a dampness in the air, a dampness beneath my skin that reflected the cold fear in my heart. My aching throat was a constant reminder of the attack on my life. I shivered at the thought of those angry, bruising hands. If I had not broken free, I was certain those hands would have choked the life from me. I would not let myself believe that the brutal hands belonged to Nicholas!

  But if not Nicholas, then who else could it have been? Ian also knew about the journal. And he had been in the study when Edward had put the mask back in its place. Had Ian seen me go out into the garden to meet Nicholas? Had he slipped on the mask and a dark cloak, then concealed himself in the trees, waiting?

  Edward also had been in the study when Ian returned the mask. Unless Ian had told him, he didn’t know about the journal. But he could have been hiding in the garden, listening to Nicholas and me talk.

  Anyone could have been listening. Anyone listening would have known that I had the journal. I stared down at the black, fray
ed book in my hands. Someone wanted it badly enough to kill to get it back!

  My fingers trembled as I opened the book that had almost cost me my life. I felt compelled to read the remaining entries, to disclose the secrets of the book’s pages. I suppressed a little shiver, remembering what I had read earlier. Did I really want to know the truth?

  I flipped through the blank, yellowed pages until I came to the spot where the faint penstrokes started up again. These entries, separated from the first part of the journal, had been added at a much later date. The first of them was dated only two months ago—just shortly before my grandfather’s death. I glanced down, startled at the sight of my own name.

  Sept. 3, 1880: Today I wrote Louise one last letter. She must reply soon as there is so little time! Could it be that she has inherited her grandfather’s stubbornness—has she ignored my urgent pleas? Ah, this family pride has cost us dear! The lives that have been touched by it! So many things to regret! So many mistakes! If only I had known then what I know now. My darling May didn’t take the jewels—HE did!

  Who was the “he” Grandfather referred to? Was it Nicholas, Ian, Edward? From the entry, I could only gather that, until a year ago, my grandfather had sincerely believed my mother responsible for the missing jewels. Then something must have happened to make him change his mind. It was obvious that Grandfather distrusted a man who was close to him. I read on, hoping that the he would reveal the unnamed man’s identity, hoping that it would not be Nicholas’s name I saw.

  Sept 9: She still has not replied. Have sent Christine to town with the package. Could trust no one else.

  The package—he must be referring to the black lacquered box of costume jewelry. Had Grandfather hidden something of value in there? Something which had been stolen before it was even sent to me?

  Sept. 20: Am weaker now. Could barely get out of bed to take my morning walk. Have done all that I can. Will write once more to Louise. My last hope. The guardian, Louise. The guardian—”

  There it was again—mention of the guardian. But what on earth could it mean? Did he refer to a person or an object? I turned the page, but the writing had stopped. This must have been Grandfather’s final entry before his death. I rubbed a hand over my tired eyes. Then I glanced down at the journal that still lay upon my lap.

  The pages seemed to open of their own accord—open to an entry in the midst of the blank pages that separated the old part from the new. I scanned this single, unexpected passage. There was no date. Only hastily scrawled words. Words that seemed to burn into my very soul.

  Who could hate a child,? the sprawling ink marks demanded. And yet, I can see it in his eyes, the growing obsession, the burning rage that has become such a part of him. I see the madness returning. Dear God, I fear for her life. I fear for her life!

  Madness. The word brought back echoes of that terrible laughter out there in the garden—that hollow, mindless, lunatic’s laugh I had heard.

  Who could hate a child? The words continued to haunt me, to fill me with a numbing, all-encompassing horror. Elica was going to have a baby! Elica, pale as a lily, yet legally a woman of color. And the child, the innocent child—

  Had Nicholas taken her life and the life of his unborn child to keep Elica’s secret? If so, what kind of a monster was he?

  A part of me could not, would not, believe it of him. The Nicholas I knew was understanding and compassionate. Could he be two people living in one body, one kind and loving, the other evil and sinister?

  Journal still in hand, I stepped over to the window. The skeletal shape of Evangeline stood stark and forbidding against the moonlight. Was it guilt that compelled him to live in that ruin of a house, a self-imposed penance for the terrible crime he had committed? Or was he, as others believed, simply tottering upon the brink of madness?

  The evidence against him was mounting. He had been nearby when my accident upon the horse occurred. I had told him about the letters in my room—now they were gone. Shortly after I had shown him the journal I had been attacked by a person wearing a dark cloak and the voodoo mask.

  How could I believe in him? According to the damning journal, he had not only stolen the missing jewels but had murdered his wife. Yet, here I stood remembering the unexpected gentleness in his eyes, the comforting feeling of his strong arms surrounding me.

  Gentleness in the eyes of a killer! I laughed aloud, the sound echoing bitterness across the room. Anyone reading the journal would take the words written there as absolute proof that Nicholas had murdered poor Elica. And here I was, still doubting, still trying to find reason to believe in him.

  Quickly, I turned away from the window, feeling a gnawing hunger in my heart, a longing, an emotion that left me frightened by its very intensity.

  “I’m not free to love you—” His words came back to haunt me, making me wonder once more if Elica was still alive, if he was hiding her in the old house. Or was I grasping at straws? Was my love for him causing me to find any reason to exonerate him from guilt, even to the point of raising his dead wife from the grave?

  I loved him! I knew it as surely as Mother must have known that she loved the Yankee soldier, Jeff Moreland. And I believed in him. No matter what I had heard, no matter what had been written in that dark journal.

  I knew then that I was not going to let Ian or anyone else get their hands upon the journal. And there was no place I could hide it where it would be safe. It would have to be destroyed. With one quick motion, I tossed the journal into the fireplace. Silently, I watched the flames rise up to lick and curl about the yellowed pages, erasing forever the words that had been written upon them.

  Frantic tears blurred my vision as I looked with tortured eyes toward the dark shell of Evangeline. “Nicholas, my love,” I whispered. Who was the most insane, I wondered, he or I?

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Christmas holidays passed quietly. We had no visitors except Ian, who still stayed on at the house. On Christmas day, Mrs. Lividais cooked a huge turkey and later the family exchanged small gifts in the parlor. I was touched by Christine’s handmade gift to me, and surprised by Ian’s expensive one. The delicate needlepoint must have taken Christine’s impatient fingers many long hours to make, while the dainty white silk gloves from Ian seemed far too extravagant.

  Surely, I only imagined that Ian was paying special attention to me. Yet, every evening at dinner, I found him taking my arm, and whenever Lydia played the piano in the parlor, he made it a point to sit by my side, entertaining me with compliments and small talk. If he were trying to court me, his efforts were in vain. I cared for no one but Nicholas.

  I had not seen Nicholas since the night I had shown him the journal, the night the robed figure in cape and voodoo mask had attacked me in the garden. Even on this crisp, cold morning in mid-January, I could not walk the garden path without feeling a deep sense of emptiness in my heart at the thought of him. I still could not believe that he was the one who had attacked me.

  Just beyond the fountain where Nicholas and I had met that night, I encountered Christine, in riding habit, on her way to the stables.

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

  She merely shrugged and smiled, “Wherever the wind takes me.” Considering me for a moment, she added with a distinctly challenging look, “Why don’t you come along?”

  I shook my head. “After what happened to me last time, I’m not sure I ever want to ride another horse again!”

  “Oh, everyone takes a fall now and then. Even me,” she added with a wry grin. “Besides, if you don’t make yourself get back on a horse soon you’ll never ride again!”

  The weather was so warm, so inviting after the cool, rainy spell. “If you come, well go ever so slow and careful,” Christine persisted.

  For a moment I hesitated, thinking about the fall into the muddy swamp that could have ended in my death.

  “Edward says ‘lightning never strikes in the same place twice’,” Christine added wisely.

>   I had to laugh at her frankness. “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  Christine’s face lit up with surprise. “Does that mean you’ll come with me?”

  “Yes, if you’ll wait long enough for me to change into my riding clothes.”

  “Oh, Louise! I’m so glad. I’ll get the horses ready,” she called, hurrying away with quick, lively steps. “Meet me back at the stables.”

  I returned to my room, where I changed into the stiff, rather uncomfortable riding habit that Camille had carefully mended for me. For just a moment, the sight of the torn leather filled me with misgivings, but I quickly brushed them away.

  On my way downstairs, I saw Lydia reclining upon the chaise in the parlor. She returned my greeting with indifference, as if she barely took notice of me. A scattering of magazines lay about her, but she was not reading. Her eyes, strangely vacant, stared off at an empty place upon the wall. I remembered Christine’s talk about her fondness for laudanum. What troubled the lovely woman so much that she felt driven to seek escape?

  Lydia caught sight of my riding habit, and her eyes focused fully upon me, suddenly alive and frightened. “You aren’t going out riding with Christine again!”

  Feeling an absurd need to prove to her that I wasn’t being foolhardy, I parroted Christine’s words about lightning never striking twice. “I’ll be careful,” I finished lamely.

  Lydia shook her head slowly, sadly. “Someday you’ll learn not to trust her—not to trust any of them.” She turned her green eyes away from me, back to the wall. She was still sitting motionless, lost in some private dream world as I found my way to the door.

  The air was warm, with only the slightest hint of a breeze. A perfect day for riding. Christine was waiting, horses saddled and ready, near the stables. Before mounting Sugar, I reached down subtly to check the saddle binding and reins, not satisfied until I made certain that they were firm and solidly attached.

  Christine’s quick eyes missed nothing. “I don’t blame you,” she commented with a shrug. “It only makes sense to be cautious.” Her voice lowered. “I always am.”