Cassius called after her, and then Eugenia followed suit, but she raced past them. Blanche’s darlings could hover there in concern, happily oblivious, but Colleen could not. Could not, could not, could not.
When she came to the stairs, she raced down so fast she lost a shoe. She reached down to retrieve it when she felt the presence of another.
Rory, in his trench coat.
Rory, love on his face.
Rory.
Always Rory.
Ophelia was wrong about this, as she was wrong about so many other things.
Colleen fell into his arms and sobbed.
* * *
Maureen had never found much interest in her family history. She knew her ancestor, Charles, emigrated from France sometime in the middle of the 1800s, built Ophélie, and was involved in some exciting scandals during and after the Civil War. But she could not have named any of his children. She didn’t know how many generations existed between this ancestor and herself, or anything that had happened in the years between. History, to her, was about as useful as clothes that no longer fit, or food that had spoiled. What was then would never again be now, and there was no use paying it any mind.
Now, she knew about the entire sordid ordeal. She’d guess she might know more, even, than that decrepit relic Ophelia, or Colleen. Could they say they’d heard the stories from the people who lived them?
No. They weren’t freaks like her.
Jean, the oldest son of Charles, spent his days telling his story, over and over. Of how his mother, Brigitte, put everything on sustaining the family bloodline. Maureen didn’t pay this much mind in the beginning. She was too distracted by his strange way of dressing and unusual inflections of speech. But she perked right up when she finally understood his meaning.
Brigitte had ordered her children to make a child of their own.
Maureen began paying attention in spite of herself. Jean was a monster. No matter how he tried to justify his own depraved actions, of insisting his repeated rapes of his younger sister, Ophélie, being a matter of honor, it was clear he enjoyed the tasks assigned to him with the fervor of a genuine sociopath. She’d never admit this to anyone, and supposed she’d never have to in any case, but there was something almost thrilling about listening to him speak of how he’d snuck into his sister’s room… of the relish in the terror dancing in her eyes. How he performed his duty, night after night. Maureen’s own fantasies weren’t nearly as terrible, but they had always been taboo. She didn’t know, but she supposed that made her a monster, too.
Jean rambled, day in and day out, like a man possessed. Fitz, the youngest of Brigitte and Charles’ children, was also there. Unlike the calculated, poised Jean, Fitz seemed a man who had lived, and died, half stuck in his own imagination. He spent his days flitting about her room, wondering at her old dolls or her makeup. He talked of the books he’d read.
The abused sister, Ophélie, never did appear. Maureen hoped that meant she’d found a way to find peace and move on.
Jean’s son, Charles II, was a somber, lumbering fellow who even in death had not shrugged off his serious gravitas. So far, Maureen’s ghosts hadn’t come with any scent, but she imagined him smelling of old cigars and rotting wood. He told her he was her grandfather, and what a weird revelation that was! Her friends talked about their grandparents like fairies bearing gifts and joy, but she’d never known any of her grandparents. She knew only that her father’s parents died long before he had his first child. She knew nothing about her mother’s family.
“Grandpa,” she said, marveling at how the word sounded in her mouth.
“I didn’t live long enough to see August deliver on his legacy,” said the behemoth Charles. “He had to go and wed that Yankee and throw his honor to the wind.”
“Eliza?” Maureen knew very little about his father’s first wife, only that he’d married her for love and she’d died childless.
“We don’t give names to traitors.”
Maureen did some nominal math in her head and determined he must have been born not long after the war, when people still actually called people Yankees in earnest and meant it as a dire indictment.
“Don’t listen to my father.” August appeared very rarely when Charles II was lurking about. There was a tension between them, bordering on resentment, teetering on hatred. “He was from a much older generation, where they didn’t understand happiness comes from things other than doing what’s expected.”
She wondered what her grandfather would think of her Virgins Only club. The thought amused her and also made her long for a time when she’d had enough freedom to make decisions like this. She knew now that what she’d done with those boys was foolish, but in her own way, she missed it. Missed the thrill of standing on old metal bars and commanding them to her whim. Of knowing she was taking something from them that someone had taken from her, but also freeing them from the bondage imposed by the arbitrary threads of childhood.
But she’d be lying if she said she didn’t miss some of those threads. Irish Colleen had begun their homeschooling and didn’t know a thing about any of what she was supposed to be teaching. She struggled to read half the curriculum, and often left the girls alone to read it themselves and then summarize back to her, as if they didn’t see right through the motivation. Maureen never thought she’d miss her dry public school teachers, but she did. If one had to go to school, they should at least get a semblance of an education out of it.
She missed her friends, even Chelsea. The boys she’d bedded, who later eyed her in the halls as if she were a great queen, or maybe a mafia don. She missed the sound of hundreds of voices in the halls, and the hustle and bustle of the schoolyard.
Instead, she rotted away in this ancient family home, surrounded by the ghosts of those who had made the family infamous.
Pansy’s ceremony was supposed to rid Maureen of her ghosts; instead, they screamed louder, and there were so many more. Not only Jean, Fitz, and Charles II, but also servants who had died in suspicious ways; children who never made it to adults. The high-pitched screams of her father’s three siblings, who had died as toddlers from yellow fever, never dulled, even in the middle of the night. While the rest of the house slept, Maureen had to listen to John, Jean, and Elizabeth call out for their maman and papa.
The only reprieve, if one could call it that, was that, for reasons she’d never understood, her ghosts had less staying power at Ophélie. They spent their energy more quickly, always had. As with everything else, she had no one to ask.
When Maureen called Pansy to tell her what her magic had wrought, Pansy told her that magic was unpredictable. “Voodoo gives us what we need, sometimes more so than what we want.”
What a load of crud! How could this life be what she needed?
“If I could make them go away, I would,” Madeline said. She peered at her from the pillow on the other side of the bed. No creases appeared where she lay. The side was untouched by anything real.
“I would make you go away if I could,” Maureen said, but the words formed a lump in her throat. “I’m sorry, Maddy. I don’t mean it.”
“I know what you mean,” Madeline said. She didn’t sound in death as she had in life. In life, Madeline had been in constant torment from absorbing the pain of the world around her. In death, she was at peace, but there was still a darkness around her, of a life unlived, and of things undone. “I wish I could say I’d be more helpful to you if I was still alive, but I don’t think I would. I didn’t realize how little of my own family’s pain I was ignorant about until I was free of the pain. And yet… I knew about you and that teacher, and I chose to keep that to myself.”
“What? How?”
Madeline shrugged. “You weren’t as clever about the secret as you thought. Mama prides herself on her instincts, but she never did learn about this, did she?”
“Don’t think so,” Maureen muttered. She made the mistake of looking in Mr. Evers’ direction, and he asked the usual questio
n. She pulled the covers tight over her head.
“I have so many regrets,” Madeline said. Her voice was soft, whimsical, but also sad, and Maureen knew what would come next. “If I had known what would happen, I would have done things so differently, Maureen.”
“That’s how life works. We die, and things are left the way they’re left.”
“Most people don’t die before they’re an adult.”
Maureen groaned. “Tell that to the Three Stooges howling for their mom.”
“Who?”
“You can’t hear them?”
Madeline directed her eyes to the side and listened. “I can, now that you’ve said it. It’s weird like that. I can’t see your other ghosts until you’ve told me about them.”
Maureen let the covers slip a little. Her head peeked all the way out. “Really?”
“I didn’t hear the children until you talked about them. And I didn’t know that your dead teacher was here until you threw a glass at him. Why is he here, Maureen?”
“Charles killed him,” Maureen said, with no more interest than she’d give a conversation about the change in weather. “And now he won’t leave me alone.”
Madeline’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”
“Me neither, but you know what they say about murder.”
“What?”
“Once you get a taste for it, it’s all over. Murderer for life.”
Madeline looked skeptical. “Do they say that? Who’s they?”
“You know. They.”
“So you think Charles has murdered people before your teacher? Or after?”
“How should I know?” Maureen was annoyed by the conversation suddenly. “Who else can you see?” She prayed Madeline could not hear the baby. This would be of no relief, to share this burden. It would only amplify how terrible things could get.
“Let’s see… your teacher, now the kids. I can see Dad, which…” Madeline’s eyes glistened. “I never thought I’d see him again, and it’s almost more than I can take. And I can also see an old man you call Charles.”
“Yeah. Our grandpa.”
“Grandpa.” Madeline wore a look of pure wonder that matched how Maureen felt, every now and then, at these strange, though unwelcome, glimpses into her past. “I think that’s it.”
“There’s also Jean and Fitz, but you’re not missing much.”
“Mind your tongue,” Jean snapped from the corner. “I’m your elder."
Maureen didn’t address him directly. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a broader audience.
“That’s just bonkers,” Madeline said, shaking her head. “Who else knows about this?”
“No one. And I want to keep it that way.”
“Do you think there’s anyone else who can help you? Someone who isn’t Pansy?”
Maureen wasn’t going to take any more risks. Pansy’s “help” had turned her life into a veritable zoo of the dead. What if the next person made her see all the dead people, like a bad zombie movie?
When Maureen didn’t answer, Madeline went on. “Have you always been able to see Daddy? Since he died?”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“I know we weren’t always close—”
“When you were alive but should be now that you’re dead?” Maureen finished. Her laugh was clipped. “I don’t need friends, Maddy. I need peace and quiet!”
“Why, Maureen?” Like clockwork came the refrain.
“I’m only saying, you’re not the only one who has secrets. I know you don’t completely believe I’m here, but I could tell you something… something only I and one other person know, that you could confirm with them as proof.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you died with your secrets. Don’t put that on me.” She wasn’t talking to the dead. Entertaining them fed them and their power over her. And the deeper, scarier truth was, she couldn’t be completely certain that all of this wasn’t a figment of her strange imagination. The lack of confirmation was a comfort. As long as she didn’t know, there was still a chance her life might turn out normal.
“That’s not fair.” Quietly, she added, “We’ll figure this out, Maureen. I’ll help you.”
Maureen flipped herself around and buried her face in the pillow. Somewhere, a baby cried, one she had not been able to save, and who would let her know it the remainder of her days. “No, I was alone then and I’m alone now. If fair had anything to do with it, I’d be the happy one.”
Twelve
A Careful Dance of Words and Intentions
In every relationship, there were carefully orchestrated give and takes designed to preserve the health of the bond. A careful dance of words and intentions. Charles had always known the ways to keep Colin happy, and most involved providing the illusion of Colin’s superior advice and authority on most matters.
It helped that Colin was often right. Or maybe it was more that he was determined to always do the right thing, which was maddening to Charles, but there was something strangely simple about the choice to do what was right. The few times Charles had taken this path, he’d forgone the agony of the decision, and the anguish of the consequences, not that he had ever truly been accountable for any of his misdeeds. But he could understand the appeal to others.
His friendship with Colin had been fractured since summer, though they’d begun to slowly put the pieces back together. The breakup with Cat, which had not smoothed over after all—she was apparently far more stubborn than he’d given her credit for—had Colin seeking out old comforts with Charles. Charles suspected Colin found some of his happiness in being smarter and a better man than Charles, like a thin woman having a fat friend to pad her self-image. But that was an unfair generalization, because Colin loved him like a brother and had dealt with far more from Charles than other men would.
Charles hadn’t seen Cat at all, even though she was officially on the market, but their late night clandestine phone calls, almost every night, sustained him. No one knew. No one could know. And he hadn’t done anything wrong. Talking wasn’t a crime.
Getting to know Cat had changed him. Listening to her idealistic way of seeing the world had fluffed up his own inner Samaritan. He saw a future that called to him and made him believe, even temporarily, that there was a way he could have a life with someone like Catherine Connelly. He’d never had anyone see him through hopeful eyes. Charles would never suffer in life because of who he was born to be, but would also never thrive for the man he’d become. To Cat, he was more than the sum of his dishonorable parts.
What she believed, and what was truth, were not exactly in synch, though. She could believe the best in Charles all day, but at some point the thin threads connecting her hopefulness would snap and fray, unless he stepped up to the image. And if there was anyone who would know how to do that, it was Colin.
The irony was not lost on Charles, who was rarely in the mood to appreciate anything requiring an appreciation of nuance.
Colin listened to him with a blank expression all throughout lunch, as he tried, perhaps not so credibly, to convince his friend that he was serious about turning his life around. The first step, he said, was getting back into college.
Colin’s demeanor was one of mounting suspicion. “Okay, but why? Why do you want to go back to school? As you said, you don’t have to. There’s no stipulation in the estate about the heir requiring an education. You have no intention to actually work a day in your life, as I understand it. So why?”
So your ex-girlfriend will see me as a suitable husband. “Sure, okay, you’re right. It will be a cold day in hell before I set foot in an office when I’m not a client.”
“I’m missing the part where this makes sense, Charles. Let’s not forget you spent six years in college and picked up enough credits for, what, two?”
“Almost three.”
Colin shook his head. “So?”
“So maybe I don’t want to be seen as the lazy heir.”
Colin’s mouth twitched as he worked to hide a smile. “Why do you care what people think? Or, why now? I’ve known you since we were toddlers, Charles, and you’ve never cared a whit what anyone thought of the way you lived your life. What’s changed?”
“Does it matter?”
“If you want my help, it does.”
There was no way Charles could tell the whole truth, but he didn’t want to lie, either, not to Colin. There was a partial truth he could share, however, and it was one Colin might even understand and find sympathy in. “I’m getting older and starting to see the future. Mama wants to marry me off, probably to some stuffy bitch, and I’m not going to get any fucking say in the matter.”
Colin’s arms, crossed over his chest, slackened, then dropped to his sides. “I don’t see what that has to do with school. There are other ways to find some control in your life.”
Charles shrugged. To increase the probability of belief, he couldn’t seem as changed as he felt. “Who the fuck knows? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe just a way to wipe the knowing grin off my mother’s face. To surprise her by doing exactly the opposite of what she expects of me.”
Colin laughed. “Of all the motivations for a college degree, this has to be the most unique.”
Charles slumped back in the red leather booth. His arms spread against the back of the seat, hands upturned. “So, will you help me?’
Colin blew out a breath. “I don’t think the firm has the muscle you’re hoping for. But I can give you advice.”
“Advice? What good is that?”
“You have a better chance of getting back into college if you deal with this problem instead of delegating it out. You want back in? Talk to the dean, yourself. Don’t send someone else in. You do it. You sit and talk to him, face-to-face, and apologize, and then tell him what you’ll do differently.”
Charles scowled. “Are you serious? Does that fucking sound like something I’d do?”
“You shouldn’t ask for my help if you don’t want it.”
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