The Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

by M. L. Bullock

  Calpurnia spun around again, trying in earnest to force the bug to fly.

  “Your sister came calling yesterday, Hoyt.”

  “Claudette? I suppose she came to bring Calpurnia a birthday gift?”

  “No. In fact, she did not mention her at all.”

  Hoyt rose from his reclining position. He dusted the elbow of his sleeve and looked at her. He didn’t dare hold her hand or touch her in public, but he had the sudden urge to do so. Christine knew this, and it assured her of his love.

  “What then was her business?”

  Christine tossed the now-bare flower aside and smiled at him. “She requested a meeting with Mr. Cottonwood. When I pressed her, she implied that it was business, but I know better.”

  “I see. What did Claudette say that would lead you to that conclusion?”

  Christine raised her hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun. “Calpurnia! Come back this way. Stay away from the water!”

  Frustrated, Hoyt scolded her, “Christine, you’re being evasive.”

  “My daughter is perilously close to the river, Hoyt. Calpurnia!”

  Hoyt stung at the phrase “my daughter.” It was just the two of them. Couldn’t Christine even then say “Our daughter?”

  He brushed off her concern and tried not to appear hurt. “She will come to no harm. See? She’s just spinning about. Now tell me what troubles you about my sister’s visit?”

  “It was a pretense, Hoyt. She has no real business with Jeremiah, none at all. She came to tell him. About us. I am sure of it.”

  He laughed. “She knows nothing. I have told her nothing. She has seen nothing.” He tossed his hat on the blanket beside him and secretively reached for her pale hand. Such a lovely hand. Well-sculpted like a Grecian statue. “For the record, Claudette has a keen business sense. She handles all my finances.”

  Christine pulled her hand away in frustration. “Always willing to defend her. She knows, and she will make sure that my husband hears her out. Why has she never married? Perhaps if she were married, she would be less prone to interfere with matters that do not concern her.”

  “That is just her way, Christine. I promise you that I will speak to her this evening and see what is on her mind. Do not worry so.”

  Her heart felt instantly lighter but before she could thank him, a loud splash into the nearby water grabbed her attention. “Calpurnia!” she screamed in terror. “Ma fille!” Hoyt raced past her and in a few seconds had leaped into the water after the child. Christine stood on the riverbank, her chest heaving, anguished tears in her eyes.

  Immediately she began to plead, “God, punish me but not my child! Please, not my child!” She began to pray to the Virgin as Hoyt swam to Callie, whose sweet face was immersed in the troubled waters of the river.

  “Calpurnia! Calpurnia!” Finally Hoyt reached her and turned her upright. The child did not move but floated like a dead leaf on the water. “Calpurnia!” Hoyt struggled against the current but finally reached the muddy shore. Exhausted, he lifted the child out of the water and collapsed on the bank. Christine ran to them, crying and pleading with God to save her daughter.

  She peeled long strands of wet hair off the child’s face and gasped. Calpurnia’s lips were blue, her skin cold and clammy. “She is dead. Oh mon ame! Come back to me, my child!”

  Hoyt shook off the weariness and lifted the child up to his shoulder. He patted her back, attempting to force the water from her lungs. He wept as he smacked her tiny back until finally, he heard her wheeze.

  “Hoyt!” Christine’s face appeared unbelieving for a second, then a smile flashed across it. “She’s moving! She is alive! Grace a Dieu!”

  “Let’s get the child home. She needs some attention. Get the carriage, Christine.”

  “Yes, of course.” She ran back to the lane and appeared in a few minutes with Hoyt’s open carriage. Calpurnia had not roused, but she was breathing. She was alive—and that was all that mattered to Christine. They did not talk as they raced back to Seven Sisters. Christine held her water-logged child to her chest and kissed her head repeatedly. “You will be alright, cherie. See? We are almost home, dearest.” The child could not open her eyes, but her tiny chest rose and fell. Christine watched each breath with worry. They raced down the red clay lane that led to Seven Sisters. In seconds, tall, gangly Stokes ran out to meet them. Christine handed him the child and said, “Take her to her room.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Cottonwood is looking for you in his study.” He did not look Christine in the eye but took the damp bundle she presented him.

  “I will see him. Take her upstairs to her room and give Dr. Page whatever he needs. I’ll come as soon as I can.” She searched his face for a clue about her husband’s request, but there were none forthcoming. Stokes had been and always would be the master’s most dependable slave, faithful above all others.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Now that the immediate emergency had been handled, Christine could breathe again. Hoyt would see to it that their daughter would recover. She knew it. Her gown was wet and muddy, and she imagined that her hair was messy, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Jeremiah insisted that she appear like a lady at all times, but surely such an emergency as this warranted a measure of latitude. She went in the house, down the hallway to Jeremiah’s study. Nobody came to greet her or attend to her, a sure sign that something was amiss. Jeremiah stood at the window, an unlit cigar in his mouth. He wore no coat; Christine spotted his blue jacket resting on the arm of his chair. Immediately she began to worry. He wouldn’t harm her with Hoyt in the house—surely not with Hoyt there. How different he looked from the man she had first met. He had been so accommodating, so eager to please her during their courtship. Christine had never had any illusions that he loved her, or she him, but she would have never dreamed that she would be so unhappy—and he so cruel.

  “You wanted to see me, Jeremiah?”

  He did not look at her at first, and when he did, he showed no surprise at her appearance. He barely looked in her direction. She might as well have been one of the slaves.

  “I would ask you to sit, but your gown would stain my chair, I am afraid.” He set the cigar in the massive crystal ashtray that rested on the edge of his desk. “You cannot know how unhappy I am, Christine. I have had a letter from your father today.”

  “Mon pere?”

  “Yes, and please refrain from speaking French. It will do you no good. I am immune to your feminine wiles.”

  “Wiles?” Christine felt her pulse race. She reminded herself to remain calm. “What do you mean? I have no wiles.”

  Jeremiah leered at her. He strode to his desk and picked up the letter. “He says, and I quote, ‘Make my good daughter aware of my correspondence, and please relay to her my fondness and pride in her situation.’”

  She did not know how to respond, still unsure what crime he imagined she had committed. Her inner voice urged her again to remain calm. “I shall go write to him immediately and thank him for his kind words. Thank you for sharing them with me.” She turned to leave, holding her breath for luck as she did. In just four steps he was behind her.

  Grasping her arm savagely, he pulled her to him. His breath smelled stale, a sickening combination of whiskey and salted pork. “Do not walk away from me, wife! Never walk away from me. Do you understand?”

  Her silver earbobs jingled as she nodded. She didn’t pull away, for that would only enrage him further. She had to keep quiet until she could discern the source of his rage. Christine prayed that Claudette Page had not been successful in her desire to educate him, to fill his ears with the one thing that could destroy Christine completely. He would kill her—that much she was sure of.

  “Why is he coming here? Why, Christine?”

  “Who? Dr. Page? Calpurnia fell into the river, and he happened to be passing by and gave assistance. If it weren’t for Dr. Page, our daughter would be…” The words began to pour out of her mouth. She dete
sted lying. She never mastered “mensonge discrete,” discreet lying as some called it. But for Hoyt, for Calpurnia, she would lie to the holy angels themselves.

  “Don’t play coy with me! I am speaking of your brother!” He shoved the letter at her and commanded her to read it. Fearful of what he might do next, she hastily began to read. ‘Esteemed Son-In-Law…’”

  “Damnation! Skip down to the last paragraph. Read it! Convince me that you did not call him here!”

  “‘In the interest of our mutual benefit and kind relationship, please receive my son Louis with all courtesy when he arrives at the end of this month. I have entrusted him to carry out my business and have requested his assistance in procuring the adjoining lands to the south of Seven Sisters. He has also requested a review of the most recent financial records, and I trust you will accommodate him in this matter.’”

  “Louis is coming here? I swear, mon mari—I mean, my husband—I did not know! I have not written him or my father since this spring. He has not come at my request.”

  He stomped toward Christine and snatched the letter from her, reading it silently to himself. Fighting every instinct in her soul, mind and body, she stood rigidly, almost defiantly. In this she was innocent!

  “You think I believe you? I know you swoon and pant after Louis Beaumont. He is the only man you have ever truly loved, isn’t he, Christine.” He stomped back to his desk and sat in the heavy wooden chair.

  “He is my brother, Jeremiah! How dare you suggest such a thing?!”

  “Don’t play the frightened damsel with me, wife.”

  She could bear the insults. It was nothing in comparison to the truth, was it? “I swear to you, Jeremiah, on everything I treasure, I did not write to Louis. Whatever he and my father have planned, I know nothing.”

  “So you say. How can I trust you?” He poured himself another glass of whiskey, tossed it back and closed his eyes. Christine breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He didn’t know! He knew nothing about Hoyt! Not yet. Bravely, she continued to stand before him. Eventually he looked up, his eyes bleary and red. “Go, and for God’s sake, do something with yourself. No more gardening today, Christine.”

  With a curt nod, she left the room, closing the doors behind her. As quickly as she could, she ran up the stairs to her daughter and Hoyt. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard her daughter crying loudly.

  Just a little longer together, Hoyt! We have just a little longer!

  I’m coming, Calpurnia! Mother is coming!

  Chapter 13

  “Momma?” My eyes felt heavy, and my entire body hurt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck, especially my left side. Confusion and pain collided, and I caught my breath.

  “Detra Ann! You’re awake! Nurse! She’s…” The words sounded muffled and I strained to hear but fell asleep again. Suddenly a beam of light hit my left eye, and I felt my eyes flutter open.

  “Momma? Where am I?”

  I began to see clearly now. Sunlight peeked through cheap plastic blinds, and the walls were a horrid mauve with grey plastic trim. Medical machines were beeping around me. My mother hovered over me, her pearls dangling from her neck and ears; she was wearing her yellow suit, the one with the tiny yellow flowers at the lapel. She always wanted to look like she’d stepped out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog, she said. How sad that they don’t send out those catalogs anymore. Still, my mother could be kind, if a bit overprotective.

  “Are you awake again? Detra Ann?”

  “Yes, I’m awake.”

  “You are at the hospital,” she said slowly and loudly like I was hearing-impaired.

  I tried to sit up, but a sharp, stabbing pain tore through my side.

  “Don’t move, alright? The doctor is on…his…way.”

  “I’m not deaf, Momma. Please, can you get me a glass of water?”

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to drink anything yet. Not this soon after surgery.”

  “Surgery? Please get me some water.”

  “Detra Ann? You’re awake.” TD hovered over me now. I ignored Mother’s pursed lips and the eye roll that seemed to accompany all her conversations or interactions with him. He kissed my hand—he was as handsome as ever. His hair was slightly longer and messier than I last remembered…I kind of liked it. I touched it as he leaned forward. No matter how lost he was, TD always smelled like sawdust and sunshine.

  “Hey, baby. Does this mean we’re back together?” Oh Lord! I was never this needy—what was I saying?

  “I’m here, Detra Ann, and your mother is too.”

  I whispered through dry lips, “I need something to drink.”

  “Be right back.”

  As he disappeared from my view, I struggled to get my bearings. The pain in my side was excruciating—I had nothing to compare it to. I’d never had children or any major surgery, except for that time I broke my finger on the playground. That had been Ashland’s fault, but I never told anyone. He hadn’t meant to smash my finger with that teeter-totter. Oh, and I’d had my wisdom teeth removed too. How sick I had been that night. Something about the pain medicine made me sick. Oh my God! The pain was unbearable.

  “Listen, dear, the doctor has you on a drip—see the tube? The button is right here. When you start hurting, press the button. You will recover, but it is going to hurt for a while. Don’t be a hero, Detra Ann.”

  “I won’t,” I said glumly, immediately pressing the button.

  “What happened? Why were you in that woman’s house?”

  “Somebody pushed me, I think.” I remembered climbing up the stairs, calling for Carrie Jo… “Carrie Jo…is she okay? Did they hurt her too?”

  TD returned with a cup, and I prayed it was water. I could see the IV bag pumping fluids into my body, but I was so thirsty.

  “The nurse says you can’t drink any water but you can have ice chips, if that makes any sense. Here you go, baby.”

  I took the cup in my hands as Momma slowly eased my bed up a few inches. “That’s good. It hurts too bad to move up any higher. Thanks for the ice.” The pain medicine was working again—I felt no pain at all now. I scooped up a few ice chips in my mouth and crunched them. They were the best things I had ever put in my mouth. “Somebody hit me in the stomach and I fell down the stairs. I couldn’t see who it was, but it wasn’t Carrie Jo. She was in the hallway. Wait, I do remember someone being on the stair with me. What was her name? Why can’t I think?” My brain felt like it was wrapped in damp cotton.

  “It’s the pain medicine,” my mother whispered to TD.

  “Wait, she’s not supposed to be there. She lives at Seven Sisters, right? I wonder why she was at Carrie Jo’s house.”

  “Who, baby?” My mother patted my forehead with a damp cloth.

  “Isla. Yeah, that’s it.”

  TD’s face turned deathly pale. He said, “What did you say, babe? Isla?”

  “Yes, she pushed me down the stairs at CJ’s house. Oh, TD! It was the scariest thing I ever saw. She was right in front of me—she just popped up out of nowhere. I found the front door open, and I got worried for Carrie Jo. She’d had a bad night at the house, we both did. Jeremiah Cottonwood tried to get us, but we ran and ran…”

  “What are you talking about?” My mother’s face reflected her shock. “Is she talking about the Jeremiah Cottonwood? Is that who you mean? He is dead, Detra Ann, and has been dead for over a hundred years.”

  “Cynthia, I think it’s the meds talking. Don’t take anything she says seriously,” TD lied to my mother. He knew that what was happening at Seven Sisters was real—very real.

  “How can you say that, TD? I saw her. I know I did.” I summoned up her face from my fragmented memory. She had appeared just inches in front of my face. I wasn’t sure how I knew her name or how she knew mine, but she did.

  Go home, Detra Ann! Her face twisted into a snarl, the voice in my head full of inhuman viciousness. I remembered that she’d startled me and then struck me hard in the gut. “I’m so tired.”r />
  “Rest now. I’ll be here when you wake up,” TD whispered in my ear. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I said, at least in my mind.

  Then I wasn’t in the hospital room anymore.

  I found myself standing in the ballroom of Seven Sisters. Shadowy couples dressed in black swirled about me, dancing to a macabre waltz played by an invisible orchestra. The massive chandelier above me shone with amber light that cast living shadows on the walls of the room. The black-clad dancers did not seem to notice me, but I could feel the silk rubbing against my skin as they moved around and around. With escalating alarm, I pushed my way through the couples; their indiscernible faces did not acknowledge me, but somehow I knew they were aware of my presence—and I was an unwanted guest. I didn’t belong here. My side hurt and my skin grew cold, the thin hospital gown providing me little comfort. I stumbled forward, terror rising inside me. What if I could not get out?

  “Please,” I shouted, “please let me out!” I reached out to touch the shoulder of a man who swung by me in a perfect circle. He robotically turned his face to me, but none of his features were clear except his hate-filled eyes.

  “Where is your invitation?” he demanded as he and his partner swooped around me.

  Sobbing now, I pushed on. My side burned, and I imagined that I felt blood dripping from the wound. Time had no meaning here in this ballroom of specters, but I knew I had walked much further than was necessary to reach that door. Again silk slapped my face and bodies pushed against me as I shoved my way to the exit.

  “Let me go! Let me out!”

  My cries went unheard over the noise of the scratchy violins. Finally, in the briefest of moments, the couples in front of me moved and I could plainly see the door. I was almost there! Again they shoved against me. Weeping and reaching, I said, “You have no right to keep me here!”