|
|
|
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We have unmistakable proof that throughout all past time, there has been a ceaseless devouring of the weak by the strong. Herbert Spencer
Silky held her mistress' arm as Ivonne walked up the wide flanking steps of Wind Lass. The black woman was concerned by the too-quiet disposition and glazed look that had entered the white woman's dark eyes. No emotional outburst at the burial of the child had stopped the ceremony and, to Silky's way of thinking, no screams of grief or prostrations of weakness were sure signs Miss Ivonne had not yet accepted the death of her firstborn. The look on her charge's face was one of blankness, numbing exhaustion and just plain disbelief. But it was the dullness in the lady's normally flashing eyes that Silky had glimpsed before the thick black mourning veil had obscured them that worried Silky the most. "You feeling all right?" the black woman inquired as Wilson, Edward Delacroix's man, opened the wide oaken door for them to enter the mansion. "I am fine," Ivonne said tonelessly and gently removed her arm from Silky's light clasp. "Would you like some tea, Miz Delacroix?" Wilson inquired, his carefully-arranged Stygian face creasing with a gentle smile. "Yes, Wilson," Ivonne answered in a vague manner. "That would be nice." She inclined her head toward the front parlor. "I'll take it in there." Ivonne turned to the elaborate mirror hanging just to the left of the door and reached up to lift the long, gauzy veil from her face. Beneath the black silk, her face was even more pale and wan in contrast to the ebon fabric. She pulled the hat pins which held the veil in place from her chignon and handed the entire ensemble to Silky. Patting into place a few strands of loose hair, she moved on into the front parlor. "I would like to be alone awhile, Silky," Ivonne said quietly and when her maid would have protested, she lifted her head and fixed a resolute gaze on the dark woman. Silky had reservations about leaving her mistress alone, but she bowed her head slightly to the request and turned to go. "And shut the door behind you, please," Ivonne requested. Silky looked around and saw that her charge had seated herself by one of the opened casement windows and was resting her head on the tall back of the chair, her eyes closed. Quietly, she began to close the door just as Ramona, one of the downstairs maids, came hurrying up with the tea service. She held the door open for the young girl and waited until Ramona had placed the tray beside Miss Ivonne's chair. " Would you like me to pour you a cup, Miz Delacroix?" Ramona asked. "No, thank you. I will do it myself," Ivonne replied without opening her eyes. Silky beckoned Ramona and the young girl scurried out of the room, leaving Ivonne alone with her grief. And it was grief of a sort, Ivonne thought as she slowly opened her eyes and looked out the window. Beyond the opening, she could see Edward standing on the lawn, talking with the Bishop. Now and again, her husband would shake his head and look to the heavens as though the heart inside his chest were breaking. She watched his shoulders slump as the Bishop laid a comforting hand on his parishioner's arm and gave an unladylike snort of contempt. She tore her gaze from the scene, unable to bear Edward's playacting. They had said nothing to one another since she had arrived back at Wind Lass for her baby's burial. Edward had given her a hateful, superior look and turned away, as though the sight of her offended him in some way. His handsome face had been set in a deep scowl and his manner left no doubt in her mind that he was furious at her for having had to remain under the Brell roof during her convalescence. Even as they attended Mass, then the internment of their baby daughter, he had not muttered one word of solace to her. Not in any way had he shown her the first speck of human kindness or extended to her even a minute amount of comfort. If his attitude and hot glower were any indication of his state of mind, she knew his fiery Cajun temper would explode as soon as those who had been allowed to attend the funeral were out of earshot. Not that she cared. Her own temper had been building since she had heard of what had befallen Sinclair. It had been all she could do not to confront Edward with her certain knowledge that he was behind the vicious attack that had nearly killed the man she loved. Unaware that her nails were digging into the brocade which covered the chair arms, Ivonne turned her head and looked out the window once more. The Bishop's buggy was disappearing down the long avenue of oaks which arched over the driveway and Edward was staring toward the mansion, his gaze seemingly fused with hers. She held that look for a moment, then resolutely looked away again, her lips set in a bitter, unforgiving line. For what seemed like an hour, she sat there alone in the front parlor as the sun slowly sank behind the majestic oaks and imperial pines. The regal scent of magnolia and Wisteria drifted through the window and the princely sound of the harpsichord in the music room would have been pleasant had her thoughts not been so dark and intent. As it was, the perfumed air reminded her too sharply of the lilies of the valley covering her child's casket and Evangeline's musical renditions only echoed the solemn hymns that had been sung at the grave site. When the parlor door opened, she didn't bother to look to see who had entered. She knew. *******************************
"Here, drink this," his grandmother demanded as she slid her hand behind his neck and lifted his head. Sinclair obediently opened his mouth. The bitter brew slid insidiously down his throat and he nearly gagged with the vile taste of it. "What is that?" he managed to ask as he lay his head down again, his tongue and lips numb. "Laudanum," she informed him. "Haven't you had it before?" "No, Ma'am," he replied, trying to swallow the last trace of the nasty stuff. He wiped his hand across his mouth and marveled that he could not feel his lips. "What did those Yankee bastards give you when they removed the bullet, Rory Sinclair?" she asked, her eyes hard on his face. "Nothing," he replied. "There was nothing to give me." "Humph," his grandmother sniffed. "Saving the medications for their own men, I suppose." "Medical supplies are hard to come by on the battlefield, Grandmother," Leland remarked. "No matter the side upon which you are fighting." He absently rubbed at the stump of his leg. "We will let your cousin sleep," Grace Vivienne declared as she moved past Leland. Her look silenced any protest the man would have made and he proceeded her from the room, glancing back to wink at his cousin before she shut the door in his face. Sinclair winced as he tried to position his body in the bed in such a way that every bruise, cut, abrasion and welt didn't plague him. He ached from the top of his head, where a throbbing, shooting pain was stabbing through his right eye, to the wicked fire ant bites on his calves. "You've a concussion," Doc Doorenbos had informed him, "and a few broken ribs. Nothing that won't heal on it's own." The young doctor had snapped shut his medical bag. "You are lucky Miss Leonie found you out there or you could have died from exposure." Leonie, Sinclair thought. He owed a debt of gratitude to that lady he doubted he would ever be able to pay in full. She had cared for him, stayed with him--at the risk of her own good reputation--and for that he would be eternally thankful. He doubted he would have survived another nightfall out in the open. But there was something lurking at the back of his mind about Leonie Emerson and no matter how hard he tried, he could not bring the details into sharp focus. He knew that was in part due to the laudanum his grandmother had forced him to drink, but it seemed vital that he remember every moment of their time together. Why he should feel such a compulsion, he didn't understand. All he knew what that it was important that he recall the events that had transpired in his cabin when he and Leonie were alone. He tried to remember their conversation, but words and images kept flickering away from him until the room became dark with the evening shadows and the numbing lassitude overtook him at last. Sinking down into the covers, he closed his eyes and let the darkness claim him. There would be time tomorrow to think about Leonie, whose dark, soulful eyes followed him into sleep.
*****************************
Grace Vivienne sat in her rocker, her feet planted firmly on the veranda floor as she pushed back and forth in the chair. She was listening to the three boys as they talked and now and again, she would shift her attention to Tina, who was seated beside her. "Feeling better today?" the old woman asked her granddaughter-in-law. "Yes, thank you," Tina answered. She was experiencing the untold misery of severe heartburn and that evening's supper lay on her stomach like a ton of granite, but she would rather die than admit her discomfort to Coni's grandmother. "You do not have to suffer needlessly, Christina," Grave Vivienne commented. "I feel fine, Grandmother Brell," Tina replied, her teeth on edge. She would be gods-be-damned if she would allow the old biddy to feed her some of the potions she was always making from the contents of the herb garden she allowed no one to tend save herself. "Suit yourself," Grace Vivienne mumbled. She was quiet again, listening intently to what Leland was saying about the attack on Sinclair. She smiled at his anger--much as any indulgent grandmother would upon hearing the grandiose schemes of her progeny. "God help 'em when I find out who they are!" Leland was snarling. "I'll make them wish they'd never laid hands on Sinclair McGregor!" 'Well, you know gods-be-damned well who it was, Lee," Brendan snapped. "You gonna go after him?" "Sin will," Conor reminded them quietly. "It's his concern and he won't appreciate anybody doing anything about it except him." "He can cripple the son-of-a-bitch for all I care, but I am going to find out who did the beating and see that they never beat anyone else." Leland looked at his grandmother and was not surprised when she nodded her agreement. "Perhaps you should ride into town in the morning. You might hear of someone spending money for things they haven't had money for before now," Grace Vivienne suggested. "You think it was locals, Grandmother?" Brendan asked, not really believing anyone in Savannah would hate Sinclair enough--or not fear the Brell's retaliation--to take Edward Delacroix's money for something like this. Savannah was still a small town at heart and everybody knew everybody else's business. "Whoever did the beating wasn't from around here; I am sure of that. But someone told those men where to find Rory Sinclair," the old woman reminded them. "Someone who knows him and acted as a go-between for that man." Her wrinkled face hardened and her rheumy eyes grew flint-hard. "My guess would be André Thibodoux." Leland literally snarled at the mention of the name. "I've considered that and I believe you're probably right." He rubbed the thigh of his missing leg and then hit it with his fist. "I believe you're right," he repeated. "Go into town," his grandmother told him, "and ask around. I'll be willing to bet that slut of a wife of Thibodoux's has been spreading his thirty pieces of silver about." She pulled her shawl closer around her frail shoulders. "When you find out she has, go by that woman's and speak to her." That 'woman's' was Dorrie June Burkhart's house of ill repute, Leland thought with a grimace, wondering how his grandmother knew Seville Thibodoux worked there as a maid. He turned to look at the old woman. "What should I ask her?" he wanted to know. Grace Vivienne sighed. "Don't ask her anything!" she snapped, swinging her head toward him. "Tell her we know it was André who sold Rory Sinclair out and that we have a proposition for her." "What kind of proposition?" Conor inquired, casting an uneasy look toward his wife. "Tell her we'll offer her a reward if she will go to the sheriff and tell him it was her husband who hired the thugs who beat up your cousin." "It would have to be a fairly large reward," Tina put in, having seen the way Seville Thibodoux spent money at the waterfront markets when she had any to spend. "Offer her a thousand dollars," Grace Vivienne replied. Leland's mouth dropped open. "You can't be serious!" Where the hell did the old crone have a thousand dollars stashed away? "That would be enough to get her back to New Orleans and away from that filthy sharecropper with whom she lives," his grandmother reminded him. "A woman like her would sell her own child for far less than that." "Offer five hundred," Tina countered. "She'll take it." She looked at her husband's grandmother. "No sense in throwing away good money." Grace Vivienne smiled. "You may be right."
*******************************
The door opened and Tina came in carrying a breakfast tray. She was smiling even though rain was pounding furiously at the windows and lightning was streaking dangerously across the dark sky. "Hungry?" she asked Sinclair as she placed the tray on his bedside table. "Famished," he answered, trying to push himself up in the bed and only managing to put unnecessary strain on his already-tortured muscles. He groaned. "Need some help, big boy?" Tina laughed. "I need a new body," Sinclair sighed, looking up at her through the curtain of his thick lashes. "I'd say the one you have is pretty darn good," Tina quipped. She ignored his blush and put her arms behind him to help lever him up in the bed. She braced him against her until he was sitting up as comfortably as his injuries would allow. "If you'd stop abusing it, it would work better for you." She patted his head as though he were a small child. "You're an evil woman, Christina Brell," Sinclair mumbled as she spread a napkin in his lap. "You know I'm right," she said as she transferred the tray from the table to the bed. "Where is everybody this morning?" he asked. No one had come in to see him and it was well past dawn. "Your grandmother is reading in the front parlor," Tina told him as she removed the cover from the plate of fried ham, eggs, grits, and crisply fried new potatoes. "Brendan and Conor are going over the ledgers from the mill since they won't be doing any work out there today." "And Lee?" Sinclair asked, stuffing a buttered biscuit into his mouth. He wanted desperately to talk to Leland. "He rode into town," Tina informed him, seeing the immediate concern flash over Sin's handsome face. "In this weather?" Sinclair queried. He gave her the look she knew he would. "Why?" "You know why," she replied and perched on the chair beside his bed. Sinclair laid down the fork he had been about to plunge into the ham. "I will handle this," he said, his face tight. "I know, but she wanted to make sure." He didn't need to ask to whom Tina was referring. A low growl of frustration erupted from Sinclair's throat. "Why can't this family mind it's own business?" he snapped. "You are our business," Tina answered. "I…….." The door opened abruptly, cutting off Tina's words. Both she and Sinclair turned to see Grace Vivienne framed in the doorway. There was a strange light illuminating the aged face and the dark, hard eyes were positively alive with snapping energy. "What's happened?" Sinclair asked, feeling the hair on his arms stirring. "Leland just got back," the old woman said breathlessly, putting up a hand to touch her sagging throat. "And?" Sinclair prompted, instinctively knowing he wasn't going to like what his grandmother had to report. Grace Vivienne smiled. "The town was buzzing with the news," she said, coming into the room. "No one could talk of anything else." Sinclair could feel his heart skipping beats inside his chest. "Tell me," he said, his voice so quiet Tina barely heard him. "It's Ivonne Delacroix. She's in jail," the old woman crowed. "She was arrested for murdering her husband!"
THE LEGENDS BEGIN WITH THE KEEPER OF THE WIND
|
|
This swamp page hosted by
Register your site for free |
