The smile grew uglier, more twisted. “Let’s just say I’ve subdued him.” The scars stood out lividly against his pale face. “You see, I have need of him still. Now it’s your turn to talk, Louise.” I heard the deadly click as the gun cocked. “I’ve been patient long enough. Where are the jewels?”
I gaped at him in stunned surprise. “I don’t know!”
“There is no need to play games with me, Louise. The jewels were in the black box that old Raymond sent to you!”
“But you’re wrong! The box belonged to my mother, not Elica. There was nothing inside but costume jewelry.”
“Then where did you get the amethyst brooch?”
“Grandfather must have given it to my mother just before she left Evangeline.”
The mad, burning eyes registered disbelief. “I’m growing impatient, Louise. The jewels!”
“Please believe me,” I begged. Panic made cold beads of sweat roll down my forehead, for the gun was no longer pointed at me. It was aimed straight at Christine’s heart!
“No, please, no!” Hysterical tears streamed down Christine’s face. “D-don’t shoot!”
“Spare her, Racine,” I pleaded. “She’s only a child. Your own child!”
For a brief moment, there was a flicker of indecision upon his scarred face as he regarded her trembling, helpless form in the torn, muddy dress. And then I saw his eyes harden with blind hatred. “She is her child. The child of Elica and God knows who else. Perhaps the devil himself, for she’s no blood of mine.”
I saw his finger move upon the trigger. “No!” Quickly, I lunged forward, pushing at the gun in his hand just as its sharp retort filled the air. But I was too late. I heard Christine’s shocked cry, saw the blood seeping through the blue velvet. Swiftly, I hurried over to her side.
Together, we huddled in the dark corner, eyes closed, waiting for the shots that never came. He was gone! I heard the metallic snap as the hidden lock clicked into place. Then, in growing horror, I listened to the steady thump of his retreating footsteps. We were trapped! He had left us here to die.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“We’re going to die in here, aren’t we, Louise?” Christine whispered hoarsely from the makeshift pallet I had arranged for her from some of the frayed, tattered blankets I had found in the corner of the old cellar.
“Of course not,” I replied firmly. “Don’t even think such a thing.” Studying her pale, frightened form, I tried to suppress a tinge of growing alarm at her appearance. The thin, pointed little face had lost all traces of its usual warm color. The gray eyes, which looked up at me so trustingly, were dull and clouded with pain.
She was still shivering uncontrollably, though I had dried her off as best I could. The soggy folds of blue velvet now lay in a discarded heap upon the floor. I had slipped my own dress about her, and wore only my petticoats, which, thankfully, were almost as thick and warm as the dress itself had been. Tearing ragged strips from the hems of our garments, I had bound up the shoulder wound, staunching the flow of blood.
Fortunately, Racine’s shot had missed its mark. I did not believe that the injury in itself was a serious one. Though she had lost much blood where the bullet had grazed her shoulder, I was certain that Christine had suffered little more than a surface wound. But I was concerned about the chills and rising fever. Though her fingers seemed cold, her forehead was moist and hot against my palm. I knew that the presence of fever complicated matters. It was urgent that Christine get help. And soon.
“Nicholas will come for us,” I said with more conviction than I was feeling. For how could he possibly find us? I imagined him lying unconscious somewhere in the dark woods and shuddered, trying to push the disturbing vision from my mind. For Christine’s sake, I could not break down. For her, I would have to be brave. “I promise you, he will come.”
Yet, the minutes lapsed into what seemed like hours as we huddled locked in the old cellar. I had already exhausted all possible means of escape. The small, thick-paned window was too high to reach and too tiny to crawl through, and the hidden stairway that connected the cellar to Elica’s room had been sealed off when the panel door had closed. We would be buried alive!
Our only hope was that someone would miss us and come looking for us. But how long would it be before Edward or Mrs. Lividais realized that we had not come home from the masquerade? And then, how long before they thought to search this dismal little room? It could be days, weeks, before they found us. By then, we would have starved to death. Nicholas was the only one who knew what had happened to us. Nicholas was our only hope.
“I’m so cold, Louise,” Christine moaned. Her ragged, labored breathing began to slow. Then there was no sound. Hurrying over to her side, I grabbed one of the pale wrists, searching frantically for a pulse. Tears of relief filled my eyes as I detected a slight flutter. The rasping sound of her breathing started up again, and her glazed eyes flew open. “Louise, don’t leave me,” she cried.
“I’m right here, Christine,” I soothed. Her forehead now felt damp and clammy to my touch. I rubbed at her icy wrists, trying in vain to impart some of my own warmth to her. I bundled the tattered blanket around her shoulders. Once she gave a low moan, and then there was silence again. Christine needed help. Though the wound was not a fatal one, she was weak from loss of blood. Terror nagged at my heart. I was afraid to think of what might happen if help did not come.
Desperately, I scanned the confines of the cellar, again searching for some way out. Once more, I tried to shove back that heavy panel door. But the catch was locked firmly in place from the outside. It would not budge an inch.
I paced over to the tiny square of glass. The thick pane of the shoulder-high window was clouded with dirt and dust. Because I was almost at eye-level with the ground, the small opening gave only a limited view of the outside. The dark, scraggly bushes just beyond the window appeared gigantic and distorted while objects far away seemed dwarfed in proportion.
With a trapped feeling, I moved from the window back to the solid panel door. “Someone please, let us out! Let us out!” In frustration, I pounded and clawed at the relentless wood. It was like hammering upon a solid oak wall. The sudden horror of it all began to sink in, bringing with it an overwhelming surge of panic. Nursing my aching hands, I realized that no one would come for us, no one would hear us.
The room felt suddenly warm, stifling. I was aware of a dizzy pressure behind my eyes. Was I, too, becoming ill? I passed a hand across my forehead, searching for signs of fever. There was a thick, choking feeling in my lungs and my throat felt raw and dry. Air. I needed air. Feeling faint, I moved over to the window, that torturous window slightly above ground that was just a hair too high and too small.
Picking up the cracked china doll, I hurled it against the heavy pane, making the brittle glass shatter. I felt the shower of glass at my feet, the heavy thud of the doll as it slumped back down upon the cellar floor. Gasping now, I stood as close to the tiny opening as I could, desperate to fill my burning lungs with air. But the breeze that blew in through the cracked glass was like a blast from a fiery furnace. I drew back, choking, as a black cloud of smoke puffed into the room.
In stunned dismay, I stared out of the window. Everything seemed to be bathed in a soft, rosy haze, like twilight. I watched the brilliant, licking swirls of red and orange spread toward us, devouring everything in its path. It couldn’t be! But the smell of smoke, new smoke, thick and acrid in my nostrils reaffirmed what was happening. The madman had set fire to the house and grounds. Evangeline was going up in flames!
“Louise?” Christine whimpered from the pallet upon the floor. Clutching her wounded shoulder, she had pushed herself into a sitting position. Her voice was thin, frightened. “I—can’t see anymore. I can’t breathe! What is happening?”
“Here, take this!” Reaching for the blue velvet dress, I ripped damp cloth from it. “Hold this over your nose and mouth,” I commanded, handing one of the soggy strips of limp velvet
to her. Then, covering my own face, I ran back to the smoke-clouded window.
How long would it take those hungry flames to reach us? Hopefully, I stared up at the clear, dark sky now sprinkled with a million white stars. That one glance told me that there would be no rain. The storm that had been threatening earlier had passed on overhead.
Though the wood must be damp, it was burning steadily. I could see orange flames slowly, methodically eating away at the tumbled balcony, singeing the thick clumps of overgrown weeds just beyond the window. It was only a matter of time before the scorched weeds near the glass burst into colorful flame.
I turned back toward Christine, who coughed weakly into a damp cloth. “What is happening, Louise?” she demanded in a confused, bewildered voice. From where she sat, she could not see the fire. In her disoriented state, I doubted that she even knew what was going on.
Pity twisted my heart as I gazed down at her. She looked like some frightened, abandoned waif. Her skin was pale; her eyes as enormous as a kitten’s in the semidarkness. Damp, tangled hair fell across her dirty, tear-stained face.
So young to die! For a long while, I knelt beside her, rocking her in my arms, comforting her as if she were a small child. “Keep the damp cloth over your nose and mouth,” I gently instructed. “And don’t be frightened. Nicholas will come for us.” I repeated the words over and over as if they were some magical chant or litany. “Nicholas will come.”
I returned to the window where I stood, staring in hypnotic fascination at the fire. The flames spread from their core like the petals of some huge, exotic flower. With an odd sense of detachment, I saw them loop higher and higher, slipping nearer and nearer to the overgrown weeds that brushed the broken glass of the window. How long would it take before the angry flames reached us? Five minutes? Ten?
So this was how it felt to wait for death. As I gazed out of that tiny window, I imagined how Marie Antoinette must have felt at the guillotine; the feelings that Anne Boleyn must have experienced while waiting for the axe to fall. A sense of unreality was closing in all around me. My thoughts were growing scattered, hazy. With a strange sense of calm, I watched the bright fire burn, wondering which we would succumb to first, the smoke or the flame.
Racine was nowhere in sight. I wondered if he was still out there somewhere, watching the house burn. Or had he gone back to the masquerade, once again posing as Nicholas? My eyes moved from the flames that were eating away at the ruined balcony to the dark tangle of woods beyond. Somewhere, Nicholas must lay out there in the darkness, hurt and unconscious, yet another victim of Racine’s madness.
Tears filling my eyes, I started to turn away. And then I saw a dark spot move within my range of vision. Through the corner of my eye, I observed a dim shape materializing from the cover of the trees. Racine or Nicholas? Transfixed, I watched the dark figure stumble out of the woods toward the light.
I watched with anxious eyes as the dark-clad shadow moved unsteadily toward the house, stopping several feet from my tiny cellar window. My heart gave a sudden, joyous leap as I recognized Nicholas’s face.
Firelight danced upon features drawn tight with pain as he stood staring up at the burning wood of the gallery. One part of the collapsed balcony had fallen; the other hung by a burning thread in midair. As he watched the timber burn, I saw him clutch his head in his hands as if he were in severe agony.
The sense of hopelessness which had paralyzed me only moments before vanished, leaving my body charged with sudden, frantic energy. Nicholas might be injured, but he was still alive!
I could feel the heat from the approaching fire burning my cheek as I leaned as close as I could to the cracked windowpane. Choking upon thick, suffocating smoke, I cried out to him, desperately trying to attract his attention. “Nicholas! Help us.” But he made no response to my frantic plea. Like a figure etched in stone, he remained staring up at the flaming wood.
“Nicholas!” I cried again, tapping on the broken glass, but still he did not move a muscle. It was then that I realized that though I could see him in clear detail, he could not see me! The position of the cellar window was such that he could not possibly see inside unless he looked down. I had to somehow attract his attention! But how could I, when the roar of the fire obliterated the sound of my voice?
“Nicholas!” I cried again, my voice cracking from the strain. Again, I tapped desperately upon the glass. “Nicholas!” This time I saw him incline his head slightly toward the window. Was it possible that he had heard me? “The cellar. We’re trapped in here! Help us!” I pleaded. But my voice was drowned out by the crackle of falling wood as the top portion of the weakened balcony slowly began to tumble.
Angry new flames burst from the toppled wood, leaping toward the bushes outside the cellar window. I knew that once the bushes caught on fire, there would be no way for Nicholas to reach us. I held my breath, whispering a silent prayer that he had heard my last cry for help. He stood for a moment, silent and tense, as if listening for the sound of my voice. Then he began to move away.
“No!” I cried. In sudden desperation, I grabbed up the china doll which still lay sprawled at my feet. Aiming the doll like a missile, I tossed it outside of the window. I saw Nicholas turn back, startled, as the tiny figure flew toward him, rolling to a stop near his feet.
He began to move curiously toward the doll, which had landed just a few steps beyond the cellar window. From the tiny square of glass, I saw the edges of his black boots as he approached the shattered little figure. I breathed a sigh of relief. He was so close now, he was certain to hear me!
As Nicholas bent to pick up the broken china doll, I opened my mouth to call out to him. But the words hung frozen, suspended in midair. For now, through my imprisoning window, I caught sight of another pair of boots, then the restless wings of a dark cloak fluttering just behind Nicholas’s prone form.
“Behind you! Nicholas, look behind you!” I burst out in dismay, but my warning was lost in the roar of the surrounding fire. Helplessly, I watched through the cracked glass of the tiny window as the dark-cloaked figure leaped upon Nicholas’s back, throwing him off balance. I saw Nicholas sink down under the weight of his attacker. Then both of them fell out of view.
Time stood still. I could hear the panting, grunting sounds of their struggle. For what seemed an eternity, the two of them fought. For a moment, they came back into view, locked in a death’s grip, the roaring fire surrounding them on either side. Then, once again, they disappeared from my sight.
I closed my eyes, whispering a frightened prayer as an agonizing scream suddenly pierced the night. Nicholas or the madman? Now, a dreadful silence came from the outside. And I knew that one of them had fallen into those all-consuming flames.
Beads of sweat poured down my face as I waited, pacing beside that restrictive window, searching for some sign of Nicholas. But no one appeared. The horrible silence continued, broken only by the crackle of burning wood. My soul felt heavy, leaden. Deep in my heart I knew that Nicholas had never had a chance. Racine had overpowered him. The blood-curdling scream had been his death cry.
I imagined Racine laughing, triumphant, a mad Nero watching his empire burn. The final details of his diabolical plan began to unfold in my mind. The fire would soon draw a crowd toward the house. There, they would discover Nicholas’s charred body lying in the darkness outside. Since no one even knew of Racine’s existence; since he was presumed to be dead, people would believe that Nicholas had started the fire.
And as for us, by the time that the burning house drew attention, by the time that help arrived, it would be too late! When our bodies were finally discovered in the cellar, Nicholas would be blamed for our deaths!
Now that Nicholas was gone, now that our last hope for rescue was lost, my numbness gave way to panic. Angrily, I pounded upon that solid oak door. I screamed until my throat was hoarse and aching. The smoke was so thick now that I could barely see Christine. There was a roaring sound, a popping hiss, as the broken wind
owpane cracked and fell. With mounting terror, I looked outside of the window. Long, reddish-white fingers tapped at the empty wooden pane. Beyond was a solid wall of fire. The bushes outside had burst into flames!
“Louise, I’m frightened,” Christine cried out, and this time I could offer no words of hope or encouragement.
The fire was in the room now, licking at the windowpane. I reached for a tattered blanket and began to beat at the intruding blaze. It was no use. Orange arms reached out like the tentacles of some angry sea monster, eating away past stone to feast upon rotted wood. Still wearily beating at the ever-expanding trails of red and orange, I crouched near the door with Christine in a room that was rapidly growing smaller and smaller.
And then I heard the sound. Directly above us came a faint tapping like a mouse trapped behind a wall. The slightest beginnings of hope again fluttered in my heart. Could it have been Racine, not Nicholas, who had fallen into the fire? Was Nicholas at this very moment searching the house for some way to get to us?
Coughing weakly against the thick smoke, I pounded upon the door with all of my remaining strength. “Nicholas! Nicholas!” I called, tears streaming down my face. I cried out until my throat was dry and parched and my legs threatened to buckle underneath me.
But there was no answering response. Faith crumbled into bleak despair as I admitted to myself that I had been mistaken. The faint sound must have been only the falling of chunks of burning wood from the house’s high ceiling. Weakness was rapidly settling in. Suffocating smoke filled my lungs and nostrils now with each gasping, painful breath as I continued to beat at the orange trails of fire. Beside me, Christine’s breathing was ragged and wheezing. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm me as I whipped at the new threads of fire that inched relentlessly toward us, working at the border of Elica’s damp dress, which I had spread out near our feet to break the fire.
It was too late. Even if Nicholas was up above, he would never reach us in time now. I felt myself growing dizzy, light-headed, faint. My knees suddenly gave way beneath me and I sank to the floor near Christine. Weakly, I groped for her hand. And then darkness closed in all around me.
The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras Page 31