Ann-Sheila, Christine’s constant companion, greeted him at the door. That was highly unusual, as Stokes was such a fixture there. Hoyt was so surprised that he inquired about Stokes’ health, but Ann-Sheila assured him he was well and only away on business for Mr. Cottonwood. He knew her; she had been always present during his attempts to court his beloved. With a perfect smile and natural grace, she welcomed him into the plantation. It was a marvelous place with dark plum settees and plush carpets, the likes of which he had never seen. The only problem—it belonged to Cottonwood. Ann-Sheila led Hoyt to the ladies’ parlor and began to give him a list of her false symptoms. Eventually the two were alone and the young woman leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “She’s waiting for you in the Rose Garden. Out the side entrance just there.”
Unable to wait any longer, Hoyt handed her his hat, bag and riding crop. He scrambled out the French doors, his steps hastening him to his deepest desire. The hedges surrounding the garden grew thick but were well-manicured by obviously talented gardeners. Hoyt had never been in this garden, but his beloved left clues for him along the way. A glove here, a book there, and finally he found her.
She sat under a wisteria-wrapped oak, her pale, perfect hands resting peacefully in her lap. When she spotted him, she rose and ran toward him, her eyes never wavering. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”
“How could you wonder?”
Her arms went around his neck, and they kissed like they were always meant to—with complete and utter abandon. Finally, when he couldn’t stand the tension anymore he asked her, “Where can we go?” Taking him by the hand, Christine led him out of the maze to a sandy, narrow path. He could hear water rushing nearby, perhaps the Mobile River. Hoyt never questioned her; he followed obediently until they were alone in a small white cottage. How hurried they had been, that first time together! That stolen hour had been too brief but so passionate. They didn’t talk about Jeremiah; in fact, Hoyt rarely thought about him except for on the few unhappy occasions he had to face him.
The following year, Hoyt had the pleasure of helping Christine bring their child into the world. It was an experience he had never expected, and it moved him deeply. He never doubted that the child was his—Christine confided in him that Cottonwood rarely sought her bed, and when he did his drunkenness made it impossible for him to perform his duty; however, she always left him so that he believed he had done the deed.
* * *
Hoyt took a swig of his brandy—it had been a gift from his sister. How close they used to be. How could he tell her about his secret life? Like their mother, Claudette would die of shame if she knew about his love for Christine. He poured another drink and thought about how wretched his situation had become. That night, he had held another baby; looking down at her sweet face filled him with joy, but even that had not roused Christine. His beloved was unresponsive, even when he whispered to her. Hoyt never claimed the child—that would bring Christine to ruin. But what should he do? He must take action! Surely he must! Regardless of the cost to his reputation or that of his family. But for now, he would wait a little bit longer. There was always hope that Christine would arise from her bed, her mind refreshed. Then what would she say to him?
Hoyt loved Christine as if she were his own wife, as she rightfully should have been. Now, they had delivered another one of their children into this world, only Christine could not see the baby, or Hoyt or anyone she had loved. Ann-Sheila, Christine’s faithful friend, had been killed years ago, and since then, his sweetheart had been a broken person. Now here was his child, their child, yet he could not claim her. This was a sacrifice he must make—for his beloved and their children.
After Calpurnia was born, he and Christine experienced loss after loss, their children dying after a few days at most. Now tonight, another baby, likely their last, was born. Christine was now catatonic from some unknown, unspoken suffering, obviously at the hands of Cottonwood. If he could get his hands on that bastard just one time, he would show him how it felt. How often he fantasized about killing the man—how easy that would be! Cottonwood was a known drunk, yet he had powerful friends, including the sheriff and a few notable politicians.
With a surge of anger, he sent his glass crashing across the room, the warm liquid streaming down the carefully painted gray wall. Finally he cried, collapsing on his couch, the complete powerlessness overwhelming him at last. It was there where he slept until an urgent rap at the door woke him. He’d been dreaming—something vile, something horrible.
He woke in complete darkness, the fire almost gone and the room as cold as death. He squinted at the grandfather clock, but he couldn’t make out the time without his glasses. The knocking continued, and he could hear something else…the sound of a baby crying.
Exhausted but curious, he walked to the front door. It was raining—he could hear fat droplets splashing against the windowpanes in the parlor. Lightning cracked across the sky. Hoyt opened the door and blinked against a nearby burst of bright light. His natural instinct was to insist that the young woman at the door come inside out of the rain, but he could not do so yet. It was illegal to give aid and comfort to a runaway slave, and he couldn’t be sure she was here on behalf of her owner. She slid back her cloak so he could see her anguished face. Hoyt could tell that she had been crying, perhaps as much as the baby had.
“What are you doing out here with the baby? With Mrs. Cottonwood’s baby? Have you lost your mind?” Then the thought suddenly came to him. What if she was here because of Christine—what if his love had died? “Has something happened to Mrs. Cottonwood or Miss Calpurnia?”
“No, sir. I mean, I don’t know of anything. I’m here because of the baby.”
“What? Why would you bring the baby out in a thunderstorm, Hannah? That’s your name, correct?”
“Yes, sir, that’s my name.” Another pop of lightning lit up the narrow lane. Hannah gasped, and the baby began to cry in earnest. “But I had to come, lightning or no! The master said this baby is dead. You have to take it!” She handed the writhing bundle to him.
Puzzled, Hoyt stared at her. “What? She’s alive! I hear her crying! Take her home.”
Hannah screamed in agony, “No! No, Dr. Hoyt! Please don’t send the baby back. Please listen! Hooney told me to come—the master says this baby is dead.”
Still stymied, Hoyt pressed on. “Come inside, Hannah, and warm yourself by the fire. Let’s figure out exactly what you are saying.”
“No, I can’t go in there. Hooney said I was to come right back because Miss Calpurnia would need me. The master told us, ‘The baby is dead.’ He don’t want no dead baby! We was to get rid of it.”
Awareness rose like a black sun in Hoyt’s mind. Would Cottonwood murder a baby? A baby he believed was his child? Hoyt snatched the bundle away from her in desperation. The baby’s cries were now more pitiful and heartbreaking. Crying loudly herself, Hannah ran from Hoyt, no doubt back to Seven Sisters.
Hoyt stood in the doorway as the enveloping darkness swallowed Hannah’s tiny figure. She was gone from sight in seconds. He brought his daughter indoors and found a warm blanket to wrap her in. As she cried, Hoyt stoked the fire, his mind working to figure out what he should do next. What did this mean for Christine? If it weren’t for the baby, he would have driven the carriage back to Seven Sisters right away—thunderstorm be damned!
Leaving the unhappy baby crying on the settee, Hoyt ran to his neighbor’s door and banged on it until she answered. He managed to acquire a pint of milk without giving too many details about why. Mixing a little sugar in the milk so the child would sleep better, he fed his hungry daughter until she fell asleep, satisfied at last. He arranged her on his bed, wrapping her tenderly in the soft blanket. He left her only long enough to raise a warm fire in the bedroom fireplace.
For the first and last time, he slept peacefully beside his child, knowing in his heart that tomorrow he must let her go. He had to protect Christine. Let the world believe the child wa
s dead—he knew that she wasn’t. She was beautiful, perfect and alive! As he lay in the dark, smelling her hair and allowing her tiny fingers to wrap around his finger, he cried. At least he had this moment—it was more than he deserved. He prayed for Christine and asked God to forgive him for all their trespasses.
He knew what he had to do. He could not keep his daughter, but he had to take her somewhere safe. No foundling hospital. He remembered the young couple on the other side of the county, the Iversons, who owned a small store. They had lost a baby two weeks ago. Surely, they would welcome a child of their own now. But for now, he held his baby close. Staring at her in the dim light, he could see Christine’s perfect bow lips, his own eyes and his beloved’s tapered, elegant fingers. He lingered in the moment, knowing it would disappear with the rising of the sun. His life had been unconventional, not at all the way he had envisioned, but it was his. Soon he fell asleep, dreaming of nothing and no one.
Sometime during the night, he felt a draft blow through the room.
He smelled roses, the sweet, large blooms of wild roses that grow only on vines. Those had been Christine’s favorite. He must have been dreaming—what a pleasant dream! Hoyt whispered her name and felt her cool hand upon his brow and then his cheek. He attempted to rouse himself, but the brandy and the weariness of the day made it impossible to move even his arms. She was near him, somehow, watching over him and their daughter. She kissed his forehead and Hoyt opened his eyes to smile at her. He felt peace and then surprise when he saw that she wasn’t there at all. She had been there—he could still smell the roses—but now Christine had gone.
Yes, now she was gone.
Chapter One
I hadn’t had a dream in six months, but I couldn’t worry about that right now. Seventy-five of Mobile’s most elite and notable women had gathered at the Bragg-Mitchell Mansion to hear me speak about my work at Seven Sisters. I was sure some had come to hear about the crystal chandeliers, the antique ceiling medallions and the expansive Moonlight Garden, but most probably wanted to know how I had “landed” Ashland Stuart. A few others likely wondered if the rumors they had heard about ghosts and such were true. To this crowd of local nobility, I was a nobody, at least in the genealogical sort of way. Even though most Mobilians, the average Jane and Joe, didn’t give a hoot about these kinds of things, they really mattered to the old families. For Ashland’s sake, I wanted them to accept me on some level.
I had arrived thirty minutes early, and a throng of excited women greeted me at the massive front doors of the mansion. Most were polite, but there were a few unfriendly faces in the crowd. Fortunately, the unspoken rules of polite society did not allow the more curious of my greeters to simply jump in and ask me pointed questions, although it was plain that many of them wanted to.
“You are so lovely! No wonder our Ashland was so taken with you,” one woman said. She introduced herself, but I instantly forgot her name. I was not too good at remembering the names of the living.
“She certainly is, Margaret! How Sheila cried when she heard Ashland had run off and gotten married!” I wanted desperately to roll my eyes at the idea of Ashland and me “running off” together like naughty teenagers, but I slapped a smile on my face instead. How do I respond to that? For the moment, I didn’t have to. The ladies remarked on my hair, my pink sheath dress and my fitted green jacket with the three-quarter sleeves.
Is that a Bobbie Brooks dress?
Who does your nails?
Love those shoes! Are they Italian?
I nodded through more introductions and politely smiled as each shared some detail about Ashland with me. Naturally, or so it seemed to the women gathering around me, the conversation steered around to my family name. One lady emerged as the unofficial leader of the group. She was an older woman, my height, with a slim figure and a suspiciously wrinkle-free forehead. She wore pale pink lipstick and expertly applied brown eyeliner that flattered her brown eyes. I couldn’t remember her name.
“You from New Orleans, darling? I knew some Jardines from New Orleans once. The family had a delicatessen and muffaletta shop down on Toulouse Street, but it got washed away when the storm came through.” The five women surrounding her paused their mini-conversations and observations to listen to my answer. It was unnerving to say the least. What am I doing here? I almost failed public speaking in college!
Like a white-haired angel, Bette came to my rescue. “That was Hurricane Katrina,” she offered politely. My friend tried to run interference for me, bless her. After all, she had insisted months ago that I come speak about the old house, and I couldn’t really refuse her. Bette and I had been through a lot together—we both survived Mia.
“Yes, that’s the storm I’m speaking of, Bette.” My interrogator continued undeterred, “So you say you’re from New Orleans, Miss Jardine—I mean Mrs. Stuart?” She sipped from a white china teacup with a gold band around the rim and an elegantly scripted “B.”
“No, I didn’t say that. I may have family there, but my mother is from the East Coast.”
“Your mother? What about your father? Isn’t he a Jardine? Or is that your mother’s name?” The older redhead with the perfect afternoon chignon raised her eyebrow as if she had discovered something shocking. I knew my mistake immediately. I wasn’t supposed to admit that I didn’t know my father or have his last name. I knew I would screw this up.
Bette’s delighted squeal broke the silence. “Oh look, there is Detra Ann! I am sorry to steal Carrie Jo from you, Mrs. Betbeze, but I have to deliver our speaker to Miss Dowd. No doubt y’all will speak again.” Without waiting for a dismissal, Bette gently steered me by the elbow toward a busy Detra Ann, who was greeting a few stragglers. Bette whispered to me as we walked across the perfectly polished wooden floor. “Don’t you let that old bat bother you. I have seen her drunk as a foreign sailor and doing the bump at the Mystics Mardi Gras ball, and I swunny! If you shook her family tree, there’s no telling what would fall out! Did you know she has an albino sister that nobody sees?”
“Thank you for stepping in.”
“No problem. She’s as mean as a snake! A snake in designer clothing! The only claim to fame that family has is Yolande Betbeze. She was Miss America in 1951 and, by all accounts, quite a beautiful young woman. Holliday Betbeze needs to get over herself—1951 was a long time ago. Though there’s quite a story about Yolande.”
Bette always made me smile. I had no idea what “doing the bump” meant, but I laughed thinking about Holliday Betbeze drunk at a ball. “It’s okay. It’s not like I can hide who I am. You’ll have to tell me all about Yolande Betbeze sometime.”
“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you later.” We stopped about ten feet shy of Detra Ann, who still had not spotted me. “A lot has happened since you’ve been gone.” She dropped her voice and looked around the room before continuing. “I think I found something you should see.”
“Really? I’m intrigued.” I wanted to know what she was talking about, but it was clear that she was not going to divulge the information with so many ears perked up around us.
As Bette squeezed my hand, her clunky costume ring dug into my skin, but I didn’t complain. “You have a special gift, Carrie Jo, and you’re not afraid to use it. I admire you for that. It must be hard to dream about someone else’s life all the time. Anyway, I won’t get into what I wanted to talk about now, but maybe you could come by later this week?”
I nodded, but I felt like such a fake. What would Bette think when I told her the truth? I don’t dream anymore. What could I say to her? Sorry, I burned up all my “magic” beating the ghosts of Seven Sisters.
My dreaming dry spell had me questioning everything. What did it mean? Was it natural? Had I really short-circuited my “power” trying to defeat Isla? I had no idea and knew no one who could mentor me. Funny how you don’t appreciate something until you don’t have it anymore. I spent so many years trying to pretend that I was normal, and now I would give anything to see Calpur
nia and Muncie again.
“Carrie Jo! It’s so nice to see you. It has been too long! You look lovely and so tanned—looks like married life has treated you well.” Detra Ann had colored her hair during my absence, and the change only made her look more attractive. I could never go blonde—I’d had a bad experience with Sun-In when I was in middle school, and I was sure bleaching my hair would only be worse. The leggy blonde had an angular, beautiful face, and she hugged me as if we were old friends.
At one time her mother had hoped that she and Ashland would hit it off, but fortunately for me, it didn’t happen. Detra Ann had fallen hard for Terrence Dale, a talented contractor who worked with us at Seven Sisters. Well, until the supernatural activities weirded him out to the point that he quit. Who could blame him? I sure didn’t. I liked TD. We had hit it off from day one. I liked Detra Ann too, but as friendly as she was at this moment, she was changeable. I think Detra Ann primarily did what she wanted to do. As far as marketing went, she was a whiz—but as a future BFF? Probably not. Besides, I had trust issues. My longtime bestie had turned out to be a crazed killer. Apparently, I wasn’t too good at judging someone’s character.
“I’d say so! Good to see you too. How are things going at the house?” I did not regret our decision to give the house to the City of Mobile, but I did miss it. I longed for the coolness of the Blue Room. I missed the fragrance of the magnolia petals in the Moonlight Garden—I even missed the squeaky stairs and doors. I remembered the first time I walked up the staircase, the cool, smooth wood felt familiar under my fingers. How that first view from the top floor of the grounds below astounded me! It had been love at first sight. Then to discover that I had a heritage there, in a roundabout sort of way, well, that was just incredible.
The Stars that Fell Page 2
