The Sun Rises Over Seven Sisters

by M. L. Bullock

  Olivia eyed me as I petted him once. “Your pet?”

  “Hardly,” I answered as I climbed into the carriage behind her. I was ready to go home and take a bath, eat real food and find a new dress. I watched Mrs. Torrence as she instructed the driver which way to go. Frigidity masked as decorum. Did she think I would be intimidated by her folded hands, her elegant kid gloves? I looked down into my own hands. Broken nails with dirty beds and torn skin. I stared at them intently. I did not hide them. Maybe these weren’t the hands of a lady, but they were the hands of a fighter, someone accustomed to fighting for everything.

  I could feel her cold eyes on me, but still I smiled at my hands.

  No, these hands would not let me down.

  We would fight, and we would win.

  Chapter One—Carrie Jo

  The tap on the front door woke me from my nap. That was aggravating, as I could just feel myself slip away into a pleasant dream. With my recent influx of nightmares and sleep paralysis, dreaming about something nice would be a godsend. Thankfully I was no longer invading my husband’s dreams. I shuddered to think about what he would be dreaming now that I was as big as a house. Although our love and commitment to one another remained strong, Ashland and I argued a lot lately. The worst part was, our disagreements, as he called them, were mostly over insignificant things like who misplaced the hammer or how the puppy got out. As I reminded him frequently, the new dog had been his idea and I never used the hammer. Well, hardly ever. I did hang a baby calendar in my office. And I found some cute wooden monograms to hang in my room.

  Ashland’s dog, a cute white Maltese, demanded constant affection and attention, and quite frankly he was a lousy watchdog. In fact, he was in full-blown nap mode at the foot of the couch when the visitor came to my door. He hadn’t even budged at the knock. Yeah, right. Big-time watchdog. Thanks, fella.

  Ashland and I would have to talk about that later. Well, maybe not. I think we had fulfilled our mandatory couple’s argument quota for the year. Especially after last night. That had been the fight of the century, and I couldn’t understand it. Why was Ash being so unreasonable? Apparently the subject of baby names was a hill that both of us were willing to die on. He hated the idea of naming our child anything “old-fashioned.” I hated the idea of giving our son or daughter this year’s trendiest name. Well, it couldn’t be as bad as Carrie Jo. What had my mother been thinking?

  “Just a second,” I called to the unscheduled visitor who tapped again at the door. I tossed the soft throw blanket to the side and slid carefully off the couch. Navigating life with a big old baby belly had proved a challenge, but I liked being pregnant. Whenever he or she arrived (I still held out hope for a girl) I would miss this experience. The closeness with my child, the feeling of life growing inside me. It was like my love with Ashland had created a bit of magic, and now that magic would become an amazing person. “Whatever, Carrie Jo,” I muttered to myself. I had become too sentimental lately. Too many sappy movies.

  Peeking through the glass door, I could see the mail lady waiting patiently for me. I arranged my sloppy t-shirt and flyaway hair before opening the door with a smile.

  “Good morning! These are for you, Mrs. Stuart.” I accepted the bundle of letters and the package she handed me. I dropped a few items, but she graciously picked them up for me. No way was I going to bend down, not without some help getting up.

  “Thanks. Anything good in there?”

  “More baby catalogs. Almost time, isn’t it?” Sharone Pugh and I had become quite familiar with one another the past few months. Too many late nights spent shopping online for baby clothes, furniture and whatever else struck my fancy. Sharone showed up day after day with something new. I gave up apologizing after a while. She didn’t complain. Not too much, anyway. I joked with her that I would have the best-dressed infant in downtown Mobile, but at this point the only colors in the child’s wardrobe were yellow and white. (Lenore had declared we would have a boy, but I wasn’t so sure.)

  “Can you believe my doctor says three more weeks? I don’t think it’s humanly possible to get any bigger.”

  “I was as big as a hippo when I delivered my first child. Gained seventy pounds too. You look wonderful. I’d better go. I have a ton of mail to deliver, and I can’t leave my truck on the street. Have a nice day.” She walked away as I said goodbye.

  Closing the door behind me, I set the package on the foyer table and flipped through the stack of envelopes. The third letter in, I froze. It was from my mother. I stared at her name written in the familiar handwriting.

  Deidre Jardine

  Dumping the rest of the mail on the table with the package, I took the letter with trembling hands, grabbed the blanket and plopped back on the couch. As if he or she knew my heart was pounding, the baby turned in my tummy and pressed on my bladder. “Hey, cut that out, kiddo.” After a few seconds the baby got comfortable again, and I leaned back on the pillow hoping to get some relief from the dull ache in my side. The clock struck half past the hour. It was 9:30 on Saturday morning, just a few hours before the baby shower. Plenty of time to take a nap. Ashland would not be back from his latest deposition for a while, and lately he had been in no mood to just hang out. I tried to be understanding, but I’d had my own crankiness to deal with. I blamed it on the pregnancy, but I knew it was stress. For the past six months Ash had been battered with lawsuits about the most mundane things, from claims on the estate to an unhappy tenant who claimed he was a slumlord.

  And now this letter.

  It was just one more thing. What could she possibly have to say to me? We had not spoken, emailed or messaged one another in over two years. Sure, I had stared at her contact info in my phone a few times, but I never actually called. Then again, she never called me either. Feeling tired and tearful, I put the letter on the coffee table and lay down again. The house was quiet, and there were no shadows. Maybe it would be safe to sleep. Safe to dream. I needed the rest. I could read the letter later. I touched it once again and then wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and snuggled into the plush couch. I had so many reasons to be happy. So why was I so unhappy? I told my mind to be quiet, and after a few more minutes of unhappy rumination I fell asleep.

  ***

  Olivia Torrence had spoken barely a word on our journey to Seven Sisters. Obviously she had been here before. She did not crane her neck out the carriage window or gawk up at the white-painted edifice that shone brightly in the late morning sunlight. She was not overawed by the sheer size of the plantation or the obvious wealth that commanded it. I reminded myself that Olivia Beaumont Torrence was probably the wealthiest woman I had ever met. If I could have her as my ally, then who could stop me? But for that to happen, I would have to show her I was worthy of her partnership. No flattering words or innocent smiles for her. She would appreciate intelligence. I had to show her I was worthy of her trust.

  The carriage shifted, and I slid across the seat. I noticed that she had barely moved a muscle. How was that possible? Was she made of stone or marble? She did remind me of the statues in the Moonlight Garden. Elegant, pale and forever frozen in one position. Despite the uncomfortable nature of our silence, I refused to be the first to speak. Instead, I peeked out the window at the house, uncaring that she thought me a fool. Once the carriage arrived, Stokes came to the door and pushed the latch, freeing me from my latest prison. It was good to be home! This was my home! I had broken every commandment in the Holy Bible to have this place, and I would not be denied. Not now and not ever. Hooney lingered in the doorway, but she did not offer a glass of lemonade or a bite to eat.

  I frowned at her, and she made the sign of the cross. I laughed and strolled into the house like I owned it. Over my shoulder I said to Mrs. Torrence, “Forgive me, Aunt. I need to bathe and change. It has been far too long since I had a proper scrub.”

  She slid off her gloves and ignored me, which aggravated me to no end. She strolled into the ladies’ parlor with Stokes on her heels
. I heard her speaking to him in low tones, and I stomped up the stairs happy to be out of her company. “Hooney! I need a bath. Send someone up here with some hot water.” She also did not answer, but I noticed she shuffled her old feet to fulfill my request. What did I care if she carried the water up herself? I doubted she would, though. Soon I heard wood being tossed in the upstairs stove and the sloshing of water. When the water was heated, I would soak my bones and wash away my cares.

  I had claimed Christine’s old room. Seemed appropriate—this was where the lady of the house slept, wasn’t it? To my utter shock and amazement, all my things had been packed in trunks, stuffed away like yesterday’s rubbish. “Hooney!” I yelled in my most aggravated tone. She never came. It was Hannah who came into the room, drying her hands on her yellow checked apron.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “I am hardly a miss, am I? Why are my things stuffed away? Look at my dresses! Everything is wrinkled. How can I wear these now? They must be pressed immediately.”

  “Mrs. Torrence told us to pack your things. I tried to pack them proper. I can try again. I am sorry, miss.”

  “What do you mean pack my things? I am not going anywhere!” I snapped at her. She looked at me, unsure about what I was saying. I shoved her out of the way and stomped out of the room. I suddenly did not care that my hair was a mess or that my dress hung off my thin, dirty shoulders.

  In my bare feet I stomped into the ladies’ parlor to find Olivia, but she was not there. Angrily I sailed through the Blue Room and yet again found no sign of her. Crossing the hall, I could hear her shuffling around in Jeremiah’s study. She sat straight-backed in a cherrywood chair—not the master’s chair, but a more petite one. She had shoved Jeremiah’s monstrosity to the side as if it were something she could not abide touching. Perched on her nose were a pair of spectacles, and she was sorting through a stack of crumpled papers.

  “What do you mean by having the servants pack my things? I have no plans to leave Seven Sisters.”

  “I am not prepared to speak with a madwoman,” she said, barely breaking her gaze from the papers.

  Her answer surprised me, and I sputtered for a moment. “How dare you! I am nowhere near mad. I do not know what plans you think you have for me, but I can tell you mine. I am not leaving Seven Sisters. This is my home.”

  She tossed her glasses on the desk and stood behind it, looking tall and rigid like an oak tree. “Speak to me like that again, and I will put you back where I found you. You are here only by my good graces. The sooner you understand that, the easier things will be.”

  “Easier? You have no idea what I have endured—the price I have paid.”

  “No more than any woman has, I am sure,” she said flatly. “That is your problem. You think yourself a victim. You are weak, like most women. You are too old to play games like a spoiled schoolgirl.”

  Feeling the thrill of rage rise again, I smiled at her and stepped closer to the desk. I subtly searched for a weapon. My eyes fell on a letter opener with a black enamel handle.

  Her perfect brows rose astutely. “See? Weak. Murder is a common solution for common minds. Imagine that I would waste my time rescuing you when I heard you described as clever! I shouldn’t have bothered.” Without waiting for my response, she picked up her spectacles and sat back down in the chair. She pretended to read her many papers.

  “I am not leaving Seven Sisters, Aunt.”

  “I don’t think you have much choice in the matter, do you? Dead or alive, you will do as you’re told.”

  I stared at my aunt with a ferocious glare. How dare she judge me! Call me old, would she? She who wore a high collar and long sleeves, undoubtedly to mask her age? Should I tell her that the neck and hands were the first to go? There wasn’t enough lace in the world to hide those telltale signs. She was entirely too thin, but I still had a young, firm body with plenty of soft curves. As I stood with my head held high, I caught a whiff of myself. I had the stench of the asylum on my skin. It humbled me. For a moment.

  I left her without a word and went upstairs to take my bath. I needed to think and not act. How many times had my Sweet Captain reminded me of that very thing, “Think first, then act, my love.” According to him, I was too spontaneous, too ready to act without first thinking through a matter. I should have taken his advice. But in the words of old Ben Franklin, it was never too late to try. I had not yet made up my mind about Olivia. Would I kill her? Rob her? Befriend her? I pondered these options as Hannah washed my hair with lemon-scented soap. The aroma was intoxicating. Then she scrubbed my feet with the bristle brush and, when I was dry, rubbed my skin with coconut oil. I felt like a debutante when her ministrations were completed.

  “Dinner is almost ready, miss. You want me to help you dress? I think this pink gown is less wrinkled than the others. I promise to finish pressing the others tomorrow. I do apologize.”

  “No pink. Bring me the dark blue dress. The one with the blue lace on the sleeves.”

  A few minutes later I walked down the stairs to dine with my aunt. As I walked ever so slowly, I thought about her words. She considered me weak, but she was wrong. Oh so wrong! I had survived when she and the rest of the Beaumonts had cast me off as unworthy. And all this time I had lived. I had nothing to hang my head about. A celebrated beauty, I had traveled the world like a queen with David by my side, sometimes performing, other times watching him win his precious card games.

  I took a few more steps, remembering the first time I saw David standing near this bottom step. How direct he had been! How I wanted to stare into those eyes of blue velvet forever! When we failed in our mission to lead Calpurnia into finding the Beaumont treasure, I made another plan and achieved it. My own mind had conceived those plans! None other. Still determined to win, I had a Cottonwood baby. Although she was a girl, I had delivered a promised heir. Could anyone imagine how difficult it was to seduce a man who preferred boys? I had taken great pains to capture his attentions, but I had managed it. It was easy to do with Calpurnia neatly locked away in her prison. And I had been the one who convinced Jeremiah to finish Christine. I watched him pull the rope as her body went up and up. If not for Hoyt Page, the adulterer doctor, I would have the deed to this place and plenty of freedom to find the missing jewels.

  Later, when my Sweet Captain considered leaving me, I made another hard decision. Never could I forget the feeling of his warm blood seeping out of his body and into my hands. And he had never known it was me who pulled the trigger. But now he would never leave me.

  I reached the bottom of the stairs and stood in the foyer of Seven Sisters. This was mine. I had made a deal with a devil named Cottonwood.

  I had paid the price.

  I would not be denied.

  Chapter Two—Carrie Jo

  I saw Lenore’s face. Her dark eyes wide, she mouthed a word to me, but I could not understand her. No sound came out of her mouth. I woke with a start. The puppy yelped in surprise as my body jerked awake. “Oh, sorry, little guy. I forgot you were there.” I swung my legs around and sat on the edge of the couch, my head in my hands. How was I dreaming about Isla again? I took a moment to “feel” my environment. There were no ghosts, as far as I could tell. I heard no giggles and saw no gray spirits with bloodless lips and ashen hair. But I had learned something, hadn’t I? Olivia was not Isla’s mother after all. Why was I seeing this now?

  I did feel Lenore’s presence, but only for a fleeting moment. She was here, or she had been. Warning me about something. The fat puppy whined beside me, and I stared at him. “Need to go out? Come on, chunky boy.” He hopped off the couch and trotted to the door, waiting impatiently for me to get up. I glanced at the clock again. Darn! I had only 30 minutes to get ready. I told myself I’d have to think about all this later as I tried to shake off the remnants of my dream.

  The puppy (I would have to give him a name sooner or later) wandered around the garden for a while, entranced by flowers, butterflies and anything that distracted him
from his potty task. With some coaxing he finished his business and ran back in the house to find a snack. A snack sounded good, but I had to get going. I was sure there would be plenty to eat at my shower. Especially if Henri was involved. Man, that guy could cook! I trekked upstairs and found something mommy-ish to wear. It was kind of Detra Ann to host this shower for me, but I honestly didn’t need anything. Still, it would be good to see Rachel, Detra Ann and the rest of the folks in my small circle of friends. We were like a family. We celebrated one another’s birthdays and anniversaries, and we spent holidays together. In a sense, we were a band of broken people, a tribe of weirdos, each with their own supernatural power. Except perhaps Rachel, but then again I considered her research skills pretty amazing. I hoped she’d have some updates for me on that project we were working on. I was curious to see the end result. Ashland would be so surprised!

  Speaking of, I hoped he remembered to show up at Detra Ann’s. This was supposed to be a couple’s baby shower, not just a party for me. I hoped the attorney didn’t invite herself as she tended to do at times. I didn’t care for her too much. She reminded me of someone, someone from my past that I couldn’t trust. But I did trust my husband. He wasn’t the kind of guy to be unfaithful. He hated that his father had been that sort of man. Ashland Stuart’s life goals included being the complete opposite of his father. I can’t say that I blamed him. His father was a terrible husband, by all accounts. In fact, two of the recent lawsuits came from two different individuals claiming to be the misbegotten sons of the late Mr. Stuart. I wondered what kind of father-in-law or grandfather he would have been. My phone dinged, and I read the text from Detra Ann.