The Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

by M. L. Bullock

  “Delilah Page,” I corrected him. I wasn’t going to hide my identity like some criminal. He squeezed my hand gently. The tall man showed no emotion one way or another. His dark eyes revealed nothing.

  “Please come in, sir, ma’am. My name is Stokes. I will tell Miss Cottonwood you are here. I think she’s been expecting you.” With a puzzled look, Mr. Keene followed the man into the house and I trailed behind him. Pulling my gray silk wrap even tighter around my shoulders, I nearly fainted at the sight.

  The house was easily the biggest home I had ever visited. Maundy Weaver’s was nothing in comparison to this place, and I thought her home grand. That was before I set foot in Seven Sisters. Under my feet was a colorful rug with big blue flowers. It looked worn and frayed at the edges, but the floors were neatly kept. A side table held a vase full of dying flowers, the shriveled petals the only flaw in the scene. The place smelled like soap and magnolias. Stokes had walked up the wooden staircase, leaving us to wait in the foyer.

  I saw a small fire burning in the room to my left, and like a moth to a flame I walked toward it. Mr. Keene did not follow me, and I did not seek his permission to go. I still couldn’t believe I was here—at Seven Sisters. This may be the closest I’ll ever be to my mother!

  So many fine things, and yet an overwhelming sadness pervaded the room. It almost made me cry. A small collection of books lay on a round cherrywood table near the fireplace. I couldn’t help but touch them. I thought Miss Cottonwood must like to read, a hobby that I had not taken up faithfully. I read quite well but found that reading for long periods of time made me sleepy. After glancing at the books for a few minutes, I warmed my hands at the fire.

  I heard voices in the foyer but didn’t turn to look. I stepped back from the fire and saw a large portrait hanging on the wall. I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t noticed it when I first came in. The frame was painted gold, and I could see the artist’s signature in the corner: R. Ball.

  It was a portrait of a young woman dressed in a beautiful coral gown. Her shiny brown hair was arranged in a complicated yet flattering hairstyle, and dainty earbobs dangled from her pretty ears. She had a faraway look in her eyes, and on her lips was a hint of a smile. I wondered who she might be. My mother? Some relative I would never know or be able to claim? As if someone were reading my mind, a voice beside me answered my question.

  “That is Calpurnia Cottonwood—the daughter of the late Jeremiah and Christine Cottonwood. From what I understand she was the beauty of the county. She disappeared some time ago, before I was born.”

  I wanted to continue to stare at the portrait, especially now that I knew the woman’s identity. To think this was my sister Calpurnia, and not just a half-sister or a stepsister but my true blood sister, if Dr. Page’s account was to be believed. She was riveting. Still, I couldn’t be rude to my hostess; I had not been invited into this room. The least I could do was be polite.

  Pulling my attention from the portrait, I faced the new lady of the house. Younger than me and not as tall, her voice didn’t quite match her face. Although she was young, she had a deep voice and intelligent hazel eyes. I could tell she didn’t give two figs about her appearance: her clothes were smart but not too stylish, and she wore her dark blond hair in a simple bun. My hostess did not extend her hand or offer a smile. I could sense that she was suspicious, but who could blame her with two strangers showing up at her mansion uninvited? If she did know who I was, then she must think I was crazy or an upstart. Honestly, I didn’t know why I had wanted to come inside. Visiting Seven Sisters had not been on my list of things to do. The idea had never crossed my mind before we arrived there this evening.

  My attorney cleared his throat and offered an explanation. “Please pardon the intrusion, madam. We were just passing by, and the house is such a lovely Mobile landmark that we could not resist visiting it. Let me introduce myself properly. I am Jackson Keene and this is my friend, Delilah Iverson-Page.” I thought I saw her eyes widen a little, but Miss Cottonwood did not comment or ask questions. In fact, she ignored Mr. Keene entirely.

  “Yes,” she said as she stepped toward me, “you have the look of her. I have seen you before—at Miss Weaver’s fitting parlor. Now I remember. But you don’t remember me? My name is Karah Cottonwood.”

  Embarrassed at the slight I stammered, “We see many women on a daily basis. Forgive me if I don’t. Did I work on your dress?”

  She smiled, and I was reminded of that phrase, ‘the cat that ate the canary’. I had a feeling I was the canary. “No, you didn’t work on my dress. I came to place an order with Miss Weaver. We have not been introduced, not officially.” She turned her attention to the portrait. “Is this why you are here? To assess some claim on Seven Sisters?” She finally spoke to Mr. Keene. “You are an attorney, correct?”

  With a courteous wave of his hand, he shook his head. “As Miss Page’s attorney, I can assure you that my client has not expressed any desire to make a claim on Seven Sisters. She was merely curious to see the place, and I must confess she had no idea I was bringing her here. Please accept my apology. It was not my intention to inconvenience you.” Miss Cottonwood listened, but her gaze didn’t leave my face. I felt compelled to speak.

  “I have no such desire.”

  The young lady must have been satisfied with that answer, for she took a deep breath and a sincere smile crossed her face. “Have you had any supper? I was about to take mine, and there is more than enough. Would you two be my guests? I never knew your sister, Miss Page, or the late Mrs. Cottonwood, but I will be happy to answer any of your questions if I can.”

  Now it was my turn to smile. “Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”

  “Follow me.” Miss Cottonwood walked with her hands in front of her. Wherever she was from, she was certainly trained to behave like a lady. An evil thought crossed my mind. What if I did claim the house? Shouldn’t it be partly mine? Miss Cottonwood was living in grand style in this grand house, enjoying my mother’s wealth while I was laboring in the dress shop. Then I instantly felt guilty. My current situation was not Miss Cottonwood’s responsibility or anyone else’s. She had not wronged me.

  We walked down the broad hallway, and I tried not to stare at the oil paintings that filled the walls. We walked to the door and stepped into the most beautiful room I had ever seen. With some pride Miss Cottonwood said, “This is the Blue Room—it is my favorite room in the house. The servants tell me it was once a place for musical concerts and spiritual readings. I think it’s a delightful space.” For the first time I heard youthful excitement in her voice. “Please make yourself welcome while I go tell Docie to set two more plates.” With a polite nod she left us, closing the door behind her.

  “Mr. Keene, have you ever seen anything like this place?” I explored the room, curious to examine every nook and cranny. On one wall a built-in shelf displayed a collection of ceramic puppies. I longed to pick them up and hold each one in my hand. I imagined they felt cool and smooth, but I did not dare. My hostess would not appreciate strangers destroying her property.

  “I can’t say that I have. I have been in some grand old homes, but I have to admit this is the grandest. I hope you hold no grudge toward me because I brought you here without warning. On reflection perhaps this was not a good idea. Perhaps it is wrong to show you all this knowing that you could never claim it.”

  “I am grateful that you did. I would never have had the courage to come here myself. I suppose I could press the issue if I wanted to, but I am happy with what I have—or will have.” Tapping the spines of a collection of books by some obscure author I added, “It’s never been about the money, Mr. Keene. I hope you know that. I want my name. My real name. I want to hold my head up high and introduce myself as Delilah Page. It is what my father wanted, or else he would never have written to me.”

  “Yes, the letter.” His voice dropped. “Let us keep that letter to ourselves, if at all possible.”

  “Why? I’m not ashamed. I am who
I am. I’m not less of a person despite my unhappy situation.”

  “No insult to you, Miss Page, but let me remind you that your father confessed to murder in that letter. In fact, I suspect that he did indeed murder Miss Cottonwood’s father.”

  My face paled at the reminder. “I haven’t forgotten that, Mr. Keene.”

  “Please call me Jackson.”

  Before I could argue with him, I heard yelling in the hall. Curious to discover the source of the disturbance, I walked to the door and opened it slightly. The young Miss Cottonwood was arguing with an older woman—a woman I had never seen before. “Just stop it! Do what I ask!” The older woman raised her head and stared at me. Miss Cottonwood spun about and saw me standing there. With a swish of her skirts she left the old woman in the hallway and came toward me, her face a mask of determination.

  “Come, Miss Page. Let’s sit together. Dinner will be here soon.” Leading us to a round table in the corner of the room, she sat as if she were a queen at court. She had a natural elegance, an elegance I admired but did not have. As she and Mr. Keene exchanged pleasantries and talked about Mobile, I stared around the room, silently comparing myself to Miss Cottonwood. I was taller by at least a foot, and my dark hair was prone to curl, while hers was smooth and not as dark. Could it be true that we were related somehow? I wondered what Mr. Keene thought about her. I knew nothing about her, but I was dying to know where she was from and who she was related to. As if she read my mind, Miss Cottonwood said, “I suppose you are both wondering about me.”

  “We do seem to be at a disadvantage. Excuse me for asking, but is that an English accent I detect?”

  “Yes, Mr. Keene. I spent quite a bit of time abroad with my mother before coming to Mobile.”

  I finally asked the question I had been dying to ask, “Who is your mother, Miss Cottonwood?”

  With an even, steely gaze she answered me, “My mother is Isla Beaumont, daughter of Olivia Beaumont, sister of Christine Cottonwood.”

  “Are we related then in some way?” I asked her, my voice shakier than I expected.

  “I think we are cousins, Miss Page.”

  “And your father?” I asked, ignoring Mr. Keene’s scowl. It wasn’t the proper thing to ask, but people asked me all the time, didn’t they?

  “Jeremiah Cottonwood. Unfortunately I never knew him.” We three sat in silence for a full minute before she spoke again. “It seems there are a great many secrets here in this house. Don’t you agree, Miss Page?”

  “Yes, I do.” A flurry of questions filled my brain. What happened to my mother, to my sister? What did my mother look like? Did she leave me anything? A note or a letter? But it was too soon in our acquaintance to bombard Miss Cottonwood with those queries. I had already broken protocol with my rude question once, but I had to know for sure. The servant, the older angry one with the slick dark hair, came in with platters of food and plunked them down unceremoniously on the linen-covered table.

  “Thank you, Docie. Now please bring the wine for our guests.”

  She glared at Miss Cottonwood, who tried to ignore her. Our hostess placed her linen napkin in her lap, and I did the same. With a shiny gold fork she pierced a piece of ham and placed it on her plate. I helped myself to a piece of warm bread and a pat of butter. It was a simple but delicious meal. As she cut her meat into tiny pieces, she asked, “What are your plans, Miss Page? Do you intend to stay in Mobile?”

  “I do indeed. This is my home. Granted, I have legal battles ahead of me, but I don’t plan to turn tail and run. Mr. Keene is helping me adjudicate my case with the court. I am sure you have heard all about it.”

  “Where would I have heard anything like that? Do you think me a gossip?”

  Her question surprised me. “I didn’t mean to imply that,” I said defensively.

  Docie returned with a glass pitcher full of burgundy wine. She poured the young woman’s drink and set the pitcher on the table. She didn’t offer to pour ours or wait to be dismissed but glared at me again before leaving us alone. Aware of her servant’s rudeness, Miss Cottonwood’s cheeks reddened. She stood and poured our drinks, and then returned to her seat. Mr. Keene kept silent, watching the two of us. I thought I spotted a hint of a smile on his lips.

  “I think what Miss Page means is that she is aware her situation is the source of quite a bit of gossip amongst certain quarters of Mobile society. It would not surprise either of us if you had heard something negative about her. However, having enjoyed her acquaintance these past months, I can vouch that she is a kind lady with a good many fine qualities.” He sipped his wine and said seriously, “You know, it might be beneficial to you both to form some kind of alliance. Even an unofficial one. After all, you are family and face similar situations.”

  Ignoring the last part of his statement, she asked, “What sort of alliance?”

  “Because of your unique social positions, it might be wise to make a united front against anyone who would deny either of you your heritage. At least you could stand up for one another, if the situation called for it.” I watched the candles on the table flicker as I sipped my wine. My lips felt dry, and my heart pounded.

  “I agree—if you are so inclined, Miss Page.” She set down her fork and knife and watched me.

  “Very well, I agree. Do you have an attorney, Miss Cottonwood?”

  “Karah, please. If we are to form an alliance, then we should call each other by our given names, I think. And no, not yet.”

  “Please call me Delilah. And if you don’t think it out of place, I would like to recommend Mr. Keene. He’s been a great help to me. I am sure he could help you too.”

  She smiled broadly. “Would you be willing to take me on, Mr. Keene? I have had no luck with finding adequate counsel. At first lawyers were calling on me nearly every day to offer their services, and now I can’t seem to find any help. I confess I feel somewhat desperate. If it weren’t for my mother’s nest egg, I would have nothing at all. While she’s away, all I can do is wait—it’s most frustrating.”

  I knew exactly what had happened—Claudette Page. The woman held a lot of influence here. There was no doubt she was using that influence to force us both to leave Mobile.

  Mr. Keene nodded. “I would be happy to do some research for you. Let’s meet again to talk about the particulars.”

  His answer pleased her. She raised her glass to me and said, “To new friends.”

  It must have been the wine, but I smiled and added, “To family.”

  When we left that evening, I felt happy, happier than I had in a long time. Karah and I had plans to meet the following week. I was to return to Seven Sisters for tea, and my cousin promised me that I would be given full access to my mother’s belongings. I could hardly believe it. As the carriage rolled down the long driveway, I looked back just to prove to myself that I wasn’t dreaming.

  I saw the curtains move in an upstairs room of the house. A dark face peered down at me. It was an old woman, much older than the angry Docie. Even from this distance, I could see her expression clearly: she was afraid. She shook her head and mouthed some words, but I couldn’t understand them. I felt troubled and turned to ask Mr. Keene to stop and turn around, but when I looked back the woman was gone. I pulled my wrap closer.

  I didn’t look back again.

  Chapter 7—Carrie Jo

  I woke up to a rough tongue licking my face. A friendly cat meowed at me before he stalked off. At least he was friendlier than the furry bag of claws that had assailed me in the cemetery. I sat up, wondering where I was. Cold, stone floor, wooden pews, high vaulted ceilings—I was in a church. I stood and dusted off my clothing. Morning light filtered through the stained glass windows. Under normal circumstances I would’ve found the imagery beautiful, but these were not normal circumstances. I picked up my purse from the ground and looked around to make sure I hadn’t lost anything. Checking my hands and legs, I didn’t see any injuries, but the side of my face stung. I touched a ragged scratch on
my cheek, probably delivered by the evil cat.

  Have I really been here all night? How did I get here? And where is here?

  I heard the sound of a key ring jostling; the metal security gate screeched and then the side door of the church swung open. The emerging air felt fresh and warm, and I was thankful for the sunshine. I didn’t know whether to call out or to hide. My indecisiveness had me frozen to the spot.

  “Well, good morning. Have you been here all night? Get a bit of prayer in?” an older gentleman in a black suit called to me as he shoved the keys in his pocket. His head was semi-bald; white wisps of hair poked out from his temples, and the morning light surrounded him like a halo.

  “I’m not sure,” I confessed. “I must have fallen asleep. If you’ll excuse me.” Great. Now I was lying to a priest. In a church, no less.

  “No need to rush off. Is this your first time visiting the basilica?” The more he spoke, the more I discerned a heavy French accent. Odd to find a French priest in Mobile, wasn’t it?

  “Um, basilica?”

  “Yes, young lady. You are at the Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. I am Father Portier.” After a moment he asked, “Are you sure you are all right?”

  “Yes, I am. I just…I’d better go. Thank you, Father.”

  “Very well, thank you for visiting. I must go ring the bells. Can’t be late.”

  “Yes, of course.” I strolled toward the open door. The downtown streets were becoming busy now with morning traffic. Then I thought if anyone could answer my questions about the supernatural, surely it would be a priest, right? I glanced at my watch. It was nearly eight o’clock, just two minutes till. “Father if you don’t mind, I do have a question.”

  He smiled pleasantly. “And I will be happy to answer it after I ring the bells. I shall return in a moment.”

  I sat in a back pew and waited as he began to climb the narrow stairs that led to the belfry. In just a minute the bells began to chime, sure to wake up any nearby residents who were still asleep. It was a beautiful sound. The old man returned to the sanctuary and walked toward me. “Ah, still here. I was hoping you would not change your mind. Not everyone likes the sound of bells, you know.”