The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras

by Vickie Britton

  I stood silent, listening, as she began. “When Nicholas brought Elica down from New Orleans to stay in Iberville, she created quite a stir at first. Such a pretty thing! But I knew from the start that she was bad, evil.” Mrs. Lividais gave a sharp laugh. “She took to that witch doctor Brule like a young fish takes to water. The way she carried on with him—why, it was scandalous! Poor Nicholas, it was more than any man could take.”

  “The voodoo man?” An image of the sinister Brule appeared in my mind, tall, regal, and aloof in his flowing African robes. Gaunt and hollow-cheeked, striking rather than handsome with his taut, coffee-colored skin, gleaming white teeth, and those magnificent, unnerving eyes, eyes that seemed to stare into the very soul. A lover? Elica’s lover?

  “Many’s the time I saw her go sneaking off through the woods to Brule’s cabin.” The small, darting black eyes seemed to widen as she added, “The two of them, they’d slip off into the swamps together to dance naked and call up demons and work those voodoo spells. And then,” she said, her voice lowering, “it came time to pay for her wickedness.” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Holy Mother forgive me, I was up at Cassa’s cabin that very night Elica came to her for the potion.”

  “Potion?” I asked, curious, but Mrs. Lividais was so wrapped up in her story she did not even hear my interruption.

  “Just a few days before the wedding, it was,” she continued. “I had come to Cassa for a remedy for this ache in my legs, you see. Well, the walk through those damp woods to her cabin made them hurt like fierce, so when I got there, she put a mud plaster on them and sent me back to rest behind the curtain before I started home. Elica, she come much later. I had been dozing, but the sound of their voices woke me. Anyway,” she added as if enjoying this strange melodrama, “it was then that I heard her and Cassa talking about her condition.

  “‘ The child,’ I heard Cassa saying over and over in that crazy gumbo French of hers. ‘Do what’s best for the child.’ Well, I peeked out through a hole in that tattered curtain that separates the cabin’s one room. And there was Elica wringing her hands. There were great tears running down her face. ‘But he’ll kill me’! she kept saying. ‘If he finds out, he’ll kill me!’ And Cassa kept telling her she’d better leave. And then she gave her the potion. When Elica left the cabin she had a little vial in her hand.”

  “What kind of potion?” I asked in a shaky voice.

  “Why, that what gets rid of babies!” Mrs. Lividais exclaimed, amazed by my ignorance.

  “Elica—carrying a child?”

  She nodded. “A baby, yes! And you can bet your life that Nicholas wasn’t the father. And that was why she was so worried. You see, she’d been sneaking off to Brule’s cabin almost every day. An’ they must have done a lot more out there in the swamps than practice voodoo spells.” Mrs. Lividais’s thick eyebrows came together over her sharp, knowing eyes. “Yes, I’d bet my front teeth that Elica was carrying a baby. Not Nicholas’s child, but Brule’s. And then, on the very eve of their wedding, God help her, Nicholas must have found out!”

  Could Mrs. Lividais’s incredible story be true? I thought about Elica carrying a baby—Brule’s bastard child, a baby she intended to destroy before it was even born.

  And then, on the very day of their wedding, Nicholas might have discovered the potion. In a wild rage, he might have taken her by the throat . . . An icy sliver of horror pierced my heart. It couldn’t be true. Dear God, don’t let it be true! But the words written so plainly in my grandfather’s journal had already come back to haunt me. Who could hate a child?

  Our talk rapidly came to an end as Christine bounded into the kitchen, her eyes bright with excitement. “Can you believe the Mardi Gras is really here?” she demanded in a high-spirited voice. “Oh, how will I ever get through the day?”

  “You’ve already slept too late. The riders have come and taken our hen for the gumbo pot,” Mrs. Lividais said.

  “Oh, no!” cried Christine, all disappointment. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “There wasn’t time. Now, sit down and have some breakfast.”

  “Who could eat on this day?” Christine grabbed a white roll from the counter and, munching the dry crust, turned to me. “I’m going to take Thunder around the bayou. Just to pass the time. I don’t suppose you want to come along?” she asked, between bites.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of tune to do our hair. Well meet in your room around three o’clock.”

  Christine boasted that she had our hairdos and costumes for tonight planned down to the smallest detail. “And I have a surprise for you, too, Louise,” she kept telling me, a twinkle in her eyes. The very thought of what that might be filled my heart with dread, for I was not overly fond of Christine’s “surprises.”

  A short while later, I wandered out to the parlor where I came across Lydia and Ian sitting close together on the small, stiff-backed sofa near the marble fireplace. They were talking in hushed, quiet tones, their heads bent low, almost touching. Like clandestine lovers, the thought escaped me. I knew that ordinarily I would have paid little attention to their familiarity with each other, the way Ian’s arm lightly brushed Lydia’s shoulder, but since last night I was seeing both of them through different eyes. I could not help but notice how guiltily they broke apart as I approached, their conversation coming to an abrupt end.

  Lydia greeted me with a stiff smile. The strain of the previous night was all too apparent in her manner. Her brilliant green eyes were anxious; shining, coppery curls framed a face as pale as wax.

  Calm as if from a peaceful night’s rest, Ian appeared quite his old self this morning. He was dressed like a dandy in a well-fitted dark suit brightened by one of his many ruffled cravats. “Good morning, Louise,” he said, a familiar, lopsided grin flashing across his face. In the brightness of daylight, I could almost believe that I had imagined the betraying conversation between him and Lydia in the garden last night.

  “Good morning,” I murmured in reply. The smile, which I had once found so charming, rather sickened me now that I knew him so capable of deceit. I moved away from them as quickly as I could, feeling both pairs of uneasy eyes upon me as I passed by on my way outside.

  The gardens appeared a different place this cloudy morning. The events of last night seemed unreal, like something out of a restless dream. I followed the narrow walkway to the stone fountain, regarding the winged gargoyle with dismay. I kept thinking about Lydia and Ian meeting there in the moonlight. I thought about myself, crouched listening in that small, weedy space beneath the sculptured wing.

  Glancing down, I saw that the weathered stone which had slipped from my grasp last night was still lying upon the cobbled path. As I bent down to retrieve it, I again noticed the broken letter D carved shallowly upon its surface. As I replaced the stone, my eyes caught the impression of the other chipped and scarred letters carved into the fountain base, letters that I had not been able to identify in the darkness last night.

  Fitting the stone back into its place, I could see that there was an E, a Y, and what looked like an N. “Deyn,” I mused aloud. Were the scattered words an artist’s signature?

  “Hideous creature, isn’t he?” said a voice directly behind me. I looked up from my crouched position to find that Ian had followed me out into the garden. “Tell me, what are you doing down there?”

  Had he seen me replace the stone? Anxiously, I wondered if he might have guessed that it had been me hidden behind the statue’s wing last night, witness to his moonlight rendezvous with Lydia. “I believe I’ve discovered the name of the fountain’s artist,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “Deyn,” he read, looking over my shoulder. His expression revealed nothing as he eyed the weathered lettering with canal indifference. “Have you ever heard of a sculptor named Deyn?”

  “No, but that wouldn’t be his entire name,” I said, tracing a finger over the rough stone. “Some of the lette
ring has worn off. The first three letters of his name.”

  “Then I guess we’ll never know who he was,” Ian commented as I rose from my kneeling position, carefully brushing the dust from my skirts.

  Ian suddenly gave a short laugh. Staring up at the grotesque, winged beast, he said, “I was just thinking what a sensation it would be if that hideous statue came alive tonight—just in time for the Mardi Gras parade.”

  I suppressed a little shudder of distaste, but it was not entirely due to his comment. I was thinking about his comfortable, easy manner around me, how easily pretense came to him. I suspected now that the affection he had appeared to have for me was nothing more than a sham, a mockery. He was using me to find out where the jewels were—jewels that I did not have.

  Ian, realizing that I had not shared his laughter, threw me a worried look. He moved closer toward me. Sensing that he was about to take my arm, I stepped slightly away. He stopped, puzzled. “You aren’t angry about that kiss, are you, Louise?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You know I just couldn’t help myself. Are you still going to the Mardi Gras with Christine?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t disappoint her.”

  “I’m glad you’ll be there.” His voice sounded genuinely eager, anxious. “You’ll at least save a dance for me?”

  I attempted a smile. “Well, maybe one dance.”

  As we walked back to the house together, Ian was especially charming and attentive. I almost wished that there was some way I could forget that the scene in the garden last night had ever taken place. As he tucked his arm in mine, I had to keep reminding myself that he, too, was acting, playing some kind of role, just as he had that day in New Orleans when he had given me the rose.

  I glanced over at him, surprised after my troubling thoughts to see the Ian I had always known. With a curious, sidelong look, I studied the clear amber of his eyes, the rather longish nose with its saucy hint of a mustache, his easy, rather uneven smile. With a trace of sadness I realized that he was the same Ian he had always been. Only my perception of him had changed.

  As we entered the house, I saw Edward standing near his study door, watching our approach. His jaw was set; his skin sallow and taut like that of a sick man’s. But his steely gray eyes, as they passed over Ian’s face, betrayed no emotion. “Good morning, Louise—Ian—” he said stiffly.

  “Good morning, Edward. I trust you slept well,” Ian replied. A casual observer would have seen little change in their manner toward each other. Only a few days ago, the slightly derisive tone of Ian’s voice would have gone practically unnoticed by me, but now I realized that he took a personal satisfaction from Edward’s misery. I wondered why Edward put up with the situation when most anyone else in his position would have sent Ian packing.

  Ignoring Ian, Edward addressed me. “Louise, if you have a few minutes, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  “I’ll be in the parlor,” Ian said. With a wink, he sauntered off down the hallway, leaving me alone with Edward.

  As I followed Edward into the dark study, I wondered what he could possibly want to talk to me about. Surely not Lydia and Ian! Whatever his feelings were concerning them, I knew that he was the kind of man who would keep his doubts and suspicions to himself. Of course, there was still the business of the sale of Evangeline, but we had both agreed to wait until the Mardi Gras was over before we discussed the matter again.

  “Sit down, Louise,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite the desk. He himself did not sit, but paced back and forth across the room. I had never seen him quite so agitated.

  “We need to talk about Christine,” he said finally, his words taking me by surprise. “I worry about her. She is so much like her father.” His eyes seemed tormented as, almost without awareness, his gaze moved up to the portrait of his son, Racine, which hung on the wall behind us. “Sometimes she seems—so out of control. I’ve had my misgivings about letting her go to the Mardi Gras. You’ll be careful to watch over her tonight?”

  “I’ll certainly try.”

  “You’ve been good for her, Louise,” he said gratefully.

  “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m too harsh with her, too quick to find fault.” He turned his pale gray eyes—eyes exactly the color of Racine’s—from the portrait to me. “No matter what you might have heard, she’s not a bad girl. I was afraid you might blame Christine for your riding accident and the—incident at the old house. I’m glad these unfortunate happenings haven’t turned you against her.”

  “I’ve never held Christine responsible.”

  Edward seemed relieved. “Come, Louise. I want to show you something.” He beckoned for me to follow him into the small room adjoining the study. There we stood looking up at the empty peg upon the wall where the Mardi Gras mask had hung. Where there had been five faces, now there were four. The sight of the empty peg served as a disturbing reminder that the voodoo mask was still missing.

  “All along, I’ve blamed Christine for taking the mask. After all, it is just her kind of prank.” Edward’s gray eyes settled upon me. “Now I believe she is telling the truth about being innocent.”

  “Then who do you think took the mask?”

  Edward’s eyes were bright, alive in his grayish, heavy-jowled face. “I believe it might have been Ian.”

  “What reason would he have to take it?”

  “I don’t know. But he’s the one who found the mask. And he was here when I put the mask back in this study. Strange things have been going on ever since he came here.” The angry passion in his voice when he spoke of Ian made me uneasy. “I don’t trust him.”

  “I’d better go,” I said abruptly, stepping toward the door. “Christine will be up with our costumes soon “

  “Just be careful tonight at the Mardi Gras, Louise. Watch Christine. And for the love of God, be careful.”

  I left the study with Edward’s dire warning still ringing in my ears. Did he really believe Ian had taken the mask, or was he blaming him simply because he despised the man?

  As I waited for Christine, my mind went back to that first meeting with Ian in New Orleans. I lay upon the bed and closed my eyes, trying to retrace my steps that day through the bustle of the wharfside carnival. Again, I wondered when Ian would have had the opportunity to get close enough to me to have slipped the purse from my arm.

  Brule had also been there. He could be a part of this scheme. While Ian distracted me with small talk, Brule could have easily crept up behind me and slipped the purse away.

  A vision of his big, gleaming knife that day at his cabin filled my mind. Brule might have also been the one who had damaged my saddle, causing my fall.

  Brule was about Nicholas’s size and height. Ian could have slipped into Edward’s study and taken the mask for him. Brule might have been the one wearing the voodoo mask that night in the garden, and again at the old house. Brule, not Nicholas, could be the man Lydia and Ian were working with, the man they both feared!

  If so, then there was still just the slightest chance that Nicholas was innocent. I walked over to the window and stared out. The walls of Evangeline looked dark and empty against the cold rays of afternoon sunlight that peeked through the still, gray clouds.

  Was Nicholas innocent, or had he killed Elica? I thought about him, waiting inside the old house. Waiting for the Mardi Gras. Waiting for Elica’s return?

  The Mardi Gras was here. Tonight. What would happen to Nicholas when he realized that Elica was truly dead—that she was never coming back to him? Would it break Nicholas completely—or finally set him free?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Christine had been running in and out of my room all afternoon, chattering endlessly about the parade and the dance that was to be held shortly afterward down by the water’s edge. Already in costume, she looked like a child playing dress-up in her lace-trimmed bodice and full, sweeping skirts of emerald silk. As if in rebellion to the current style of high necks and tight-fitting sleeves, the extr
avagant ball gown took a daring plunge in front. I frowned, certain that the neckline was just a shade lower than it had been when we had tried the gowns on together just a few days ago. I shuddered to think of what Edward would say when he saw her.

  I sighed, glad that I had, at the least, been able to talk her out of the bustle. Somewhere she had discovered an enormous bone-cage bustle that she was determined to wear beneath the dress. This exaggerated accentuation of her southernmost parts had made matters even worse. Only my frantic insistence that it would be certain to impair her dancing convinced her to leave it behind. The dress, stripped of its support, trailed in a peculiar manner, even though I had donated several stiff petticoats to its cause. At last, I had caught up the loose material and gathered it in the back where it draped successfully, though rather unevenly, in a makeshift polonaise. In any event, Christine, who kept sneaking glances at her high-piled dark curls in the mirror, seemed more than satisfied with her appearance.

  Glancing down, I was reminded that my own dress was little less revealing than Christine’s slightly modified emerald silk. It, too, displayed a rather décolleté neckline, despite its modest sleeves and rich, subtle color. The dress, whose fitted chemise was seamed to fit the figure, required no bustle, hugging my curves in a natural, almost sensual way in spite of the layers of muslin petticoats underneath. The feel of deep-blue velvet and beaded satin seemed almost too luxurious.

  Having assisted Christine with her hair and costume, I turned my own appearance over to her eager hands. She hovered over me, fussing with my hair, fastening the thousand little seed-pearl buttons of the blue velvet dress into place.

  “Oh, but we’re in for a grand time!’’ she promised as she raised the tortoiseshell brush once more. I could feel her fingers gently lifting my curls, parting my hair into sections. Then there was the weight of the heavy combs she was deftly planting on either side of my head.