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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat; Yet, fool'd with hope, men favor the deceit; Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay. Tomorrow's falser than the former day.
John Dryden
Ivonne sat quietly, her hands folded primly in her lap. The plain gray dress she wore was rough beneath her fingers as she plucked at the material. There was a stench to the cell that had not been there the day before and she knew it was from the chamber pot that had not been emptied that morning. Her breakfast--meager and greasy as it had been--still sat upon the tray, untouched and unwanted and drawing flies which buzzed around the congealed fat of the bacon. For three days now, she had been waiting for Sinclair to come for her, but she had received no word from him and no one had been allowed in to see her save her attorney. Wiley Olson had informed her he was working on getting her out of jail, but that it would take time to gather the necessary signatures: the wheels of justice were turning slowly, it seemed. A shout from one of the other cells startled her and she jumped, her nerves so frayed and raw by now the least little sound sent shudders of fear through her. It was the solitude and confinement that preyed on her the most. That and not having Sinclair to comfort her. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the stone wall. Why had he not come? she wondered. Surely he knew of her predicament. The entire town had to know. It wasn't every day a woman shot her husband to death then calmly waited to be arrested for doing it.
"We will suggest you were temporarily unable to know right from wrong, Mrs. Delacroix," Wiley had explained. "The death of your child, the fire at Wind Lass, Sinclair's return." He'd shaken his head in commiseration. "All these things combined will help the magistrate see that you were not in your right mind. Non compos mentis, you understand?" "It was none of those things, Mr. Olson," she had told him. "It was the beating he….." "We can't mention that!" Olson had snapped. "We don't know for a certain he hired those men and besides…….." "He hired them," she had shot back. "He admitted as much to me and he told me he would hire them again and this time they would finish the job! Why do you think I shot him?" "If you admit to the real reason you killed your husband, you might as well put the hang rope around your neck yourself!" Olson had warned. "No jury in the land would clear you simply because you were defending your lover, Madame!" "I was saving Sinclair McGregor's life!" she'd argued. "We will not mention it," Wiley had stated.
Ivonne opened her eyes and stared unseeingly through the murky light in the cell. She could still see the expression on Edward's face when he had joined her in the front parlor. His words still echoed through her mind and the events began to replay themselves in front of her.
"So, you have decided to return to your rightful place," he grated, his black eyes spiteful. "Who were they?" she asked. From the immediate smirk which settled on Edward's dark face, all doubt was removed that he had been the one to hire the men to kill Sinclair. "That bastard has more lives than an alley cat," Edward spat. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry. "The next time I send them after him, I'll make damned sure they finish the job." Ivonne's head came up. "There will be no next time, Edward," she said through clenched teeth. "You will leave him alone." A nasty laugh rumbled from Edward Delacroix as he turned and gave his wife a superior look. "The next funeral you attend, my dear, will be McGregor's." He lifted his glass and toasted her, his sardonic gaze on her the entire while. She hated this man with every fiber of her being and the thought of a lifetime at his side filled her with such intense loathing she could barely breathe. Just looking at him, her flesh crawled and her belly roiled, sending a bitter, acrid taste into her mouth. It was bad enough when he cast his gaze upon her for his leer was predatory and possessive. But having him touch her, lay his vile hands upon her, was more than any woman could endure and remain sane. From the way his eyes flicked over her, she had no doubt he would attempt to bed her that very night so he could physically remind her to whom she belonged. The very thought of his body on hers made the gorge rise up in her throat and she turned her head away, unable to bear looking at him any longer. "Did you see him?" Edward smirked, coming to stand over her. "I am told his face was nearly destroyed." Ivonne refused to answer him. Although she had not seen Sinclair after the beating, she had been told he was mending well enough with only a few dark bruises left as evidence of the attack. He had broken ribs and a concussion, but nothing life-threatening that she knew about. Bossie had assured her the terrible swelling had gone down and there would be no permanent damage to a face most women in Savannah found devastatingly handsome. "Did you really think I'd let him come back here and cause trouble?" Edward inquired hatefully. She turned her head up to him. "He has done nothing to warrant your animosity, Edward," she responded. "He is alive!" her husband had accused. "Alive and drawing breath!" He knocked back the remainder of the sherry and slammed the cordial glass down upon the table beside her chair. "But not for much longer!" He glared at her, daring her to refute his claim. With a calmness she did not feel, Ivonne rose. She steeled herself not to flinch as her husband's hand shot out and his strong fingers closed brutally around her upper arm. Despite the vicious jerk he gave her as he pulled her into his arms, she did not let any emotion show on her pale face as he fastened his mouth to hers in a kiss that made her ill. As his sherry-tainted tongue thrust between her lips, she stared blankly through him and simply endured his unwanted attention until he became aware of her rigid, unyielding posture. With a muffled curse, he thrust her away. "May I go now?" she asked, reaching up to wipe the back of her hands across her lips. Edward's black eyes widened as he took in that single act of repugnance. Before she could react, he drew back his hand and slapped her with enough force to knock her backwards. She stumbled and fell against the wall, crying out in pain as her shoulder connected hard with the plaster surface. Weak as she was from the loss of blood and her stay in bed at Willow Glenn, she slid to the floor in a heap, her hand to her injured shoulder. "How dare you?" Edward thundered, rushing to her and hovering over her like a vulture. "HOW DARE YOU, WOMAN?" He reached for her, his intention clear in his raging glower and would no doubt have beaten her senseless if Silky had not intervened. "What are you doing?" the black woman shrieked, rushing into the room and putting herself in harm's way as she tried to protect her mistress. "She's just had a miscarriage!" There had been murder on Edward's face as he straightened up. His savage nature blazed across his dark face like a Gulf of Mexico hurricane. He would have struck Silky, as well, if Ivonne had not hurried to grab his hand and pull, turning his attention back to her. "Edward, please no!" she begged. "I'll do whatever you want!" "Get your butt upstairs!" he commanded, jerking away from her hold. He put out a hand and shoved Silky out of his way. "And get this nigger out of my sight!" With that, he turned on his heel and stormed from the room. Silky bent down to help Ivonne to her feet, her black face filled with worry. "Are you all right?" "Go," Ivonne had ordered, easing out of Silky's grasp. "Find Dancer and send him to Willow Glenn." She had to stop and draw in a breath for her shoulder was throbbing with agony from her fall. "Tell him to make sure they know Edward intends to send those men after Sinclair again." "What men?" Silky asked. "What are you talking about?" She had no intention of leaving her mistress for the white woman was pale and shaking so hard it was a wonder she could stand. "GO, Silky!" Ivonne hissed. "Send word now before something happens. They'll know what he's talking about." Silky hesitated a moment, deep concern in her black face, then she turned. If anything happened to Sinclair McGregor, her mistress would never forgive her. "You stay here until I get back!" Silky told her. Ivonne waited until Silky had left the house in search of her twelve year old, Dancer. The boy could be trusted and she knew he'd hurry to Willow Glenn to warn the Brells. Taking a deep breath, Ivonne started for the stairs, hearing Edward giving orders to the house servants that he was going to his room to rest and was not to be disturbed. She met him in the front hall and he barely glanced her way as he took the stairs two at a time, expecting her to follow. By the time she climbed the stairs and opened the door to her own room, she had made up her mind what to do. She would be damned if she would allow Edward to touch her in the way he so obviously planned. Not only because she was still convalescing from the miscarriage and the man should have had the common decency to understand her condition, but because she had no intention of ever letting him lay hands to her again. The derringer was in her dressing table drawer. She took it out, loaded it, and slipped it into the pocket of her mourning gown. Before giving herself time to think about what she was going to do, she opened the door that connected her room with Edward's, then closed it behind her. "Get that ugly dress off," Edward snarled. He was already half-undressed, standing barefoot by the bed in his trousers and suspenders. When she lifted the gun and pointed it at him, he actually grinned. "Am I suppose to be afraid of that little piece of crap?" "No, Edward," she responded. "You are suppose to die." The kick of the derringer was almost unnoticeable. The smell of the cordite was strong in her nostrils as she watched the disbelief spread over Edward's stunned countenance. She saw him look down at the blossoming stain of red on his union suit front, then lift his head to stare at her. "You murdering bitch," was the last thing he said before he fell face down to the plush Aubusson carpet and lay still, his hands to either side of his dark head. She stood there for a moment--hand extended toward him--then slowly lowered her arm. Below stairs, she heard the rumble of voices and the echo of footsteps hurrying up the risers. The dark crimson stain which was spreading along the once-beautiful rug caught and held her attention as the blood pumped furiously from the wound in Edward Delacroix's chest. The first one through the door had been Evangeline. Edward's sister stopped short at the sight of her half-brother lying dead at Ivonne's feet. Her eyes wide in her pretty ivory-tinted face, she slowly lifted her attention from the corpse to her sister-in-law and Ivonne could have sworn she saw intense amusement in the woman's blue gaze. Everything else that happened that morning was a blur: the men coming in to take Edward's body downstairs. The sheriff arriving, questioning the servants, placing her into what he euphemistically called 'protective custody'. The trip into Savannah. The questions she would not answer until the family attorney had been called. Her request for someone to send for Sinclair McGregor. It had been that request that had turned the sheriff into an avenging angel intent on seeing her hanged.
"Ain't you hungry, Miz Delacroix?" Ivonne shook herself and looked up. The young man who was her jailer was staring at her through the bars. "No, Linwood, I'm not." Linwood Dixon frowned . "You should eat," he told her. There was hope on Ivonne's face. "Has there been any word from Mr. McGregor?" she asked and saw instant embarrassment flit across the young man's ruddy complexion before he ducked his head. She stood up and went to the bars, wrapping her fingers around the cold steel. "Linwood?" she inquired, her heart thudding in her chest. "Has something happened?" The young man shook his head, but refused to look up at her. The sheriff had cautioned him not to say anything to Mrs. Delacroix about the hasty marriage that had set the town of Savannah back on its heels. "Linwood?" she asked, reaching her hand through the bars toward him. "Has something happened to Sinclair?" There was stark fear in her trembling tone. "Not that I know of," the young man answered, then turned to go. "Linwood!" she pleaded with him. "If something's happened to him, I have to know!" Dixon shook his head and left as quickly as he could, leaving Ivonne calling after him. He glanced at the sheriff and the visitor with him and swallowed. From the cell area, he could hear Mrs. Delacroix calling out to him. "You can take a break, Lin," the sheriff suggested. "I'll take Mrs. Brell in to visit the prisoner. The young man cast a quick look at the imposing elderly woman standing so rigidly beside the sheriff and knew he did not want to be anywhere near the pretty widow when she found out the man she loved was now married to her dead husband's kin. He dipped his head in respect to the elderly lady then got out of there as fast as he could. For once, he did not envy the sheriff his job. Ivonne was still standing at the bars--her hands clasped tightly around the iron--when Grace Vivienne walked up to her. There was such blazing spite on the older woman's face, it made Ivonne release her hold and step back. "If you will give us some privacy, Sheriff?" Mrs. Brell asked, never taking her steady gaze from Ivonne. "Sure thing, Miz Brell. Just holler when you want me to escort you out," the sheriff agreed. He could not look Ivonne in the face, either, and left just as hurriedly as his warder had, closing the door behind him with a firm click. "You look none the worse for wear, Ivonne," the old woman said in way of greeting. "Is Sinclair all right?" Ivonne asked, caring little for the social amenities at the moment. "As far as I know, Rory Sinclair is doing quite well," Grace Vivienne replied. She threaded her black lace-gloved fingers together at her waist in a prim and proper manner, her reticule dangling from her left wrist. "I trust you have not been mistreated while in the sheriff's care?" "Wiley told me you had hired him to defend me," Ivonne countered, relieved Sinclair was safe. "I appreciate your………" "I did not do it for you, my dear," the old woman interrupted. "I did it for my grandson." Ivonne had long known how the elderly woman felt about her. Grace Vivienne had made that plain the day her grandsons had ridden off to war.
"It would be best if you went home to wait with your parents," the old woman had ordered. "They can care for you far better than I."
It hadn't mattered that Sinclair had expressly asked Ivonne to remain at his home. As his fiancé, he wanted her with his family where he would not worry about her. No one had written him to tell him otherwise. "Regardless of why you did it, Mrs. Brell, I am most appreciative," Ivonne forced herself to say. "Well, under the circumstances, I am sure this was what Sinclair would have wanted. Despite everything, I fear he still harbors some small fondness for you," Grace Vivienne replied. Ivonne tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, then asked, "Is he worried about me?" Sinclair's grandmother smiled nastily. "I have no idea how he feels at the moment, my dear, although I am sure he is enjoying himself just as any newly-married man does." "I don't want him to……….." Ivonne stopped, the old woman's words registering. Her forehead creased in confusion. "I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood you." Grace Vivienne lifted her chin. "No, you did not. You heard me perfectly well." Ivonne walked slowly to the bars, coming as close to the old woman as the bars would allow. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her heart once more thudding dangerously in her chest; beating so hard so can scarce draw breath. "Why, Rory Sinclair's marriage, of course," his grandmother laughed. "I wish I could tell you how he is so it would ease your mind, but he is on his honeymoon in New York with his lovely bride and………" "Who?" Ivonne hissed, her jaw tightly clenched. "A most lovely young woman of good breeding and social standing. A lady of property." Grace Vivienne's expression was evil. "One of whom I most wholeheartedly approved as an suitable match for him." 'Who?!" Ivonne spat and wanted to reach through the bars and grab the old crone's throat. "Why, your sister-in-law!" Sinclair's grandmother reported. "Didn't you know they had been seeing one another secretly ever since she arrived?" Ivonne's eyes widened. "You are lying!" she accused, actually thrusting her right arm through the bars in an attempt to grab the old woman. Grace Vivienne moved quickly for her age and infirmities, putting herself out of the crazed woman's reach. She drew herself up as Ivonne repeated her accusation and glared at the prisoner. "Why should I lie?" she inquired. "Everyone in town knows of the marriage." "No banns were read!" Ivonne threw at her. "He would not have…….." "They eloped," Grace Vivienne stated. "The Reverend Mr. Bass married them two days ago on the front lawn of WindLass." She smiled brutally. "Ask anyone." She threw out her hand, indicating the door which led to the sheriff's office. "Ask Linwood or Bartow. They will me most happy to relate to you the gossip surrounding my grandson's hasty marriage." She frowned a little. "But you know what they say about marrying in haste, don't you? 'Repent at leisure', isn't it?" Ivonne felt the floor dropping out from beneath her feet. If there was one thing she knew about Grace Vivienne Brell, the old woman never said anything that couldn't be proven. Unscrupulous as she was, she was not a liar and what she had suggested could be easily proved or disproved. "As I said," she heard the old woman saying, "my grandson still has feelings of a sort for you and as such, I promised him I would see you were not hanged for the cold blooded murder you committed. It is a terrible embarrassment to him, you understand, and I do believe he feels unjustifiably responsible for your imprudent actions. But no matter: Wiley will have the writ of non compos mentis this afternoon and you will be escorted to Milledgeville where……." 'WHAT?" Ivonne shouted, her eyes nearly popping from her head. At the mention of Milledgeville, the State Capital and home of the Georgia Lunatic Asylum--a place rumored to be horrible beyond belief--Ivonne thought she would faint. "No woman in her right mind would kill her husband, my dear," Grace Vivienne stated. "To have done so means you are quite insane and as such, a danger to yourself and to society. You must be locked away for your own good." Absolute terror shot through Ivonne and she slid down the iron bars, striving not to break into a fit of uncontrollable screaming. "But, I know that is not what Rory Sinclair would want." Ivonne slowly lifted her head and stared up at the old woman. "He doesn't know what you've planned for me, does he?" Her question was ignored. "If I pay your way out of the country and provide a small monthly stipend upon which you could live fairly comfortably, will you swear to me you will never attempt to contact my grandson again? If you do, I will see that you are not sent to that savage place. Otherwise, you can rot there for all I care." So, Ivonne thought--her entire being numb--this was what it was all about: getting her permanently out of Sinclair's life. "Well, what's it to be?" the old woman pressed, not wanting to give the young woman a chance to think. "Do you spend the remainder of your days in that snake pit up in Baldwin County or do you live a relatively comfortable life far away from the scene of your dastardly deed?" "Why are you doing this?" Ivonne asked. The thought of Sinclair's marriage to Evangeline was not nearly as hurtful as never seeing him again. He had dealt with her marriage to Edward; surely she could deal with his marriage to her conniving sister-in-law so long as she could see him from time to time; talk to him; perhaps find a way to be with him. "They are in love," the old woman said, seeming to read Ivonne's thoughts. "Why else the hasty marriage." "You contrived this," Ivonne answered. "I don't know how, but I do know why. He loves me and would never marry Evangeline or anyone else without being forced to do so!" Grace Vivienne turned her head to one side. "My dear, she is already pregnant with his child. How do you explain that if he had not been sneaking around with her?" She saw the sudden pallor come over Ivonne's face and pressed harder. "I know of only one way to…….." "Get out," Ivonne said, quietly. "They have been seeing one another since……." "Get out!" The old woman smiled pitiably. "I can understand how you feel. To learn the man you love has played you false it a terrible thing; but you have to understand: Rory Sinclair knew Edward had named Evangeline as his heir. He left WindLass to her, not you, and my grandson knew the only way he would ever be able to live in his own home again would be to court--and marry--the woman who would inherit it. I don't approve of his methods…..getting her with child as he did……but neither am I upset by his actions. I understand how men are, as I'm sure you do." Her smile became lethal. "And he had every intention of killing Edward Delacroix to make sure WindLass was returned to him; you just beat him to it!" "GET OUT!" Ivonne screamed, slamming her hands over her ears. "GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!" Grace Vivienne nodded as the young woman ran to her bunk and threw herself face down on the coarse blanket. She stood there for awhile and watched Ivonne Boucharde Delacroix pulling hunks of hair from her dark hair, pummeling her fists on the bunk, and screeching like a madwoman. Even when the sheriff came running, the old woman stood there, her head cocked to one side, watching. "You were right, Miz Brell," the sheriff said, shaking his head. "She does need to be up at the Asylum. She's plum crazy." "Yes," Grace Vivienne sighed, "I believe she is." She clucked her tongue as the screams of anger and hurt and torment came rolling from Ivonne Delacroix. "Poor thing. Poor wretched little thing." With her head held high, the old woman reached out, took the sheriff's arm and asked him to escort her from the scene. He did not see the vicious pleasure on the aged face as he closed the door on the mindless cries coming from beyond the thick wooden door.
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Linwood Dixon had to balance the tray on his hip to unlock the main door into the cell area. He cursed as the cup of lukewarm coffee sloshed over the tin cup and splattered his uniform pants. The area beyond the door was partially cast in shadows and he had to set the tray down to light the lantern to the right of the door. After he did, he picked up the tray, took two steps, then dropped it with a loud clatter of tin dishes. She had used strips torn from her dress to fashion a noose. One end of the makeshift rope was tied to the upper crossbar of the cell door and the other was wrapped tightly around her throat. Ivonne Boucharde, Delacroix, the love of Sinclair's McGregor's life, hung behind the thick iron bars, her neck broken.
THE LEGENDS BEGIN WITH THE KEEPER OF THE WIND
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