Feminine skirts whispered behind him, and he recognized Wendi’s scent without turning.
“Cecile is in good hands with my aunt and Miz Thibedeau,” she said. “Would you like me to go with you to view your uncle? Cecile said he’s in the master suite, with his valet and son preparing him for the lying in.”
Funny, he really did want her with him. And it didn’t even bother him to admit it. He indicated for her to join him, and they climbed the staircase together.
At the head of the stairwell, he turned right, toward the master suite, and a man emerged from the doorway almost as though he’d heard them coming up the stairs. Which he probably had, given his distinctive gait, Nick assumed.
“Cousin Nick,” the man greeted.
Julian, Nick realized. He hadn’t seen him in ten years, but he easily recognized him.
“Julian,” he replied. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Julian shook his head and wiped at his eyes. “It was so very sudden. I still can’t believe he’s not going to sit up in there and ask me what the hell Zed and I are doing, trying to put him to bed this time of day.”
Suddenly he centered his gaze on Wendi, then gave Nick a startled look. To his credit, he kept his mouth shut, but Nick knew a hundred questions were rushing through his mind. And another expression flickered briefly, a narrowing of his eyes at Nick’s audacity, even as the owner of Belle Chene.
“I’ll see you in the study in a few minutes, Julian,” Nick said without introducing Wendi.
But Julian evidently couldn’t overcome the same set of drilled-in manners as Nick had been raised with. “Miss Chastain,” he said with a nod. Wendi murmured an acknowledgement, and Julian left them, his booted feet clattering down the stairwell in a cadence Nick had long been denied.
“You’ll need to wait out here,” Nick told Wendi. “Zed’s been my uncle’s valet for forty years or more, and he’d be shocked if you came in while he was preparing him. I imagine he’ll leave to go live with his son in New Orleans now that Uncle Jacques is dead.”
She stepped back agreeably, and Nick went through the door. Zed glanced up from washing Jacques’ face, his eyes streaming tears.
“Monsieur Nick,” he choked. “He’s gone. I don’t know what I’ll do without havin’ him to take care of.”
“You’ve devoted your life to my uncle, and I’ll see you have a stipend when you go to stay with your son,” Nick assured him in a distracted voice. His attention focused on his uncle, stretched out naked on the bed except for a sheet Zed had placed protectively over the man’s privates--the servant doing what he could to foster his uncle’s dignity even in death.
One more of his family gone--but Nick couldn’t allow any grief inside his emotions. He’d used up his quota of grief years ago.
Jacques had always been fit, working in the fields or the tobacco curing sheds along with the fieldhands when necessary. His barrel chest had not an ounce of fat even at his age, and his legs were muscled and firm. On the ride to Belle Chene, Nick had tried to understand how a man born and raised on a plantation--a man who had done every chore without a hint of clumsiness--could have slipped and fallen from a hay loft. He hadn’t seen a single sign of weakness in the man who came to the St. Charles Street mansion to report on the plantation. Yet he recalled one of the plantation’s neighbors dying from being kicked in the head by a factious horse, and the neighbor had been renowned as the top horseman in the state.
No matter what people who consulted fortunetellers like Wendi and her aunt believed, no one could ever predict what the next minute would bring into their lives. Death was all the more startling and disconcerting when it occurred so suddenly. He could still recall the horrible emptiness those who had survived the battles in the war felt, sitting around campfires later and missing the voices that had been there only hours earlier.
On further examination, Nick saw the only mar on what could have been a much younger man’s body was on the side of Jacques’ head. A concave spot, still uncleaned of clotted blood, mishappened the shape. A huge bruise, which had formed beneath the tanned skin despite death, marred the side of the face.
Zed followed Nick’s gaze and said, “He hit his head on the iron wheel of the hay rake when he fell. Otherwise, he probably would’ve just gotten a broken bone or two out of it. I don’t even know what he was doin’ up there. He’d been headed out to check the cane fields, and his horse was tied outside the kitchen house, still saddled and waitin’ on him.”
Zed sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose, an action he never would have stooped to beneath Jacques’ stern gaze. Nick pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the man.
“Do you need any further help with him?”
“No, sir. I sent Monsieur Julian on because he was carrying on somethin’ fierce and not bein’ of much help. Guess he felt some guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“He and Monsieur Jacques hadn’t been gettin’ along lately again for some reason. They’d had their fights and made up plenty of times over the years, though. But you know how it is. Death be a great gap no one can bridge, and now there ain’t no chance for them to make amends, like they done in the past.”
Nick knew. No time for one final I love you for his mother before they found her dressed as though attending one last ball and laid out in the same repose as though in her coffin already.
No time for one final ‘Why?’, even if I had given Father the chance to explain, he thought, then quickly grimaced in disgust at the idea. There was no possible explanation his father could have given for driving a wonderful woman like his mother to suicide by taking a mistress. For setting the scene for the scandal that had ruined her life and driven her to the final desperate act. For setting the scene that Nick himself had kindled into the flame that destroyed the Bardou family.
He could never forgive his father for that, although he admitted his own part in the events that played out. While Nick received his punishment for his part in it every day, his father had initiated the chaos.
Hearing a stir in the doorway, Nick turned to see Wendi. Wendi, the daughter of the woman who had played the major role in ruining the Bardou family reputation and driving his mother to an early grave. Much as she hadn’t liked Belle Chene, his mother was probably still turning over in her grave at Wendi being present in the manor house.
“I told you to stay the hell out in the hallway,” he snarled.
Her face whitened when she looked at him, but she gave him a nod and disappeared. By the time he limped to the doorway, he saw her head disappear down the stairwell--heard her skirts whisper on the steps, a much less audible sound than the acres of crinoline his mother wore the times he escorted her down.
Remorse filled him, but he shoved it away. He hadn’t asked her to accompany him, and there was no need of her services now that Jacques was dead. He’d send her back to New Orleans as soon as they could reload the coach.
First he had to talk to Julian. Despite the loss of its manager, the plantation work would continue to need attention. It was the season of cultivation for the cotton plants, with the first picking of the year perhaps already overdue. And the cane would need flooded, if it were to produce suitably.
He hadn’t even realized he knew that much about the seasonal harvests at the plantation, but the conceptions sprang into his mind easily. He hadn’t thought to ask Uncle Jacques if his son was capable of taking over control of the plantation during their last discussion. He recalled Lucian telling him that Julian would be willing to assume the management, but he’d make that decision after he renewed his ten-year past acquaintance with his cousin.
Chapter 11
Miz Thibedeau met Wendi in the hallway outside the parlor. “I’ve been waiting for you, dear. Sybilla took Cecile to her living quarters over the kitchen house. The poor woman’s in no shape to handle what’s necessary for the funeral, so I’ll take over. Cecile was able to give me a quick rundown of the layout of the m
anor house and which rooms we can use. There aren’t any regular servants, since Cecile took care of the house and cooking for both Jacques and Julian, but I’ll find someone to bring your things in immediately.”
“I doubt Nick’s going to let us stay here,” Wendi cautioned.
“Pooh.” Miz Thibedeau waved away the concern. “There’s lots of things need done if Belle Chene is to provide proper hospitality to the people who’ll be coming to pay their respects. And Monsieur Nick does remember how important hospitality is in this area of the world.”
She gave Wendi a wink. “Besides, if Monsieur Nick wants his belly filled with the food he likes--and that man does like to eat--he better let me keep you and your aunt here as companions and to help me. I won’t be able to concentrate on my cooking in a houseful of strangers.”
Miz Thibedeau hurried away, and Wendi found herself at a loss as to what to do next. Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone disappear into a room on the other side of the hallway. The door slammed shut with a positive thud.
Julian, she supposed. She understood the agitation between the two of them very clearly. He resented the hell out of her presence at Belle Chene.
She couldn’t blame him, she guessed. Or Nick, either, for recalling her connection to the scandal and snarling at her, although it had hurt her deeply. She turned and detected her reflection in the corner of a mirror, which someone had carelessly covered with a black mourning scarf. As usual, a younger version of her mother’s face stared back at her. It reminded her that Nick had never sent the portrait over to her Canal Street house, and she hadn’t found the courage yet to ask him why.
Despite Miz Thibedeau’s assurance, she wasn’t going to depend on being able to stay at Belle Chene once Nick got around to finding time to order her gone. The very least she could do was make her pilgrimage to the site of her mother’s death before he chased her off.
Knowing the probable layout of the plantation, she went down the hallway and out to the rear veranda. The back gardens were badly in need of care, nevertheless with a wild and scattered beauty. She hurried through them without pause. On the left, Miz Thibedeau was talking to Aunt Sybilla on the kitchen house porch. No doubt Cecile was resting in the upper living area provided for servants. She walked on down the garden pathway without acknowledging the two women, opening the back gate to examine the new surroundings and allowing it to swing shut behind her. The gate squealed, desperately needing oil.
There, through the trees, stood the barn. A path led directly there from the gate, with another wider driveway intersecting on the right. The horses and carriages were routed to the front of the manor house to pick up their riders and passengers, and the driveway showed recent hoof and wheel prints leading toward the barn from the coach that had brought them to Belle Chene.
The gate squealed again behind her, and Wendi turned to see Aunt Sybilla come through it.
“I’ll go with you,” Sybilla said. “We might need each other’s support.”
“All right.”
They walked toward the barn, and Wendi tried desperately to tune into the other-world sensations she should have felt. Beside her, she could sense Aunt Sybilla doing the same. When they emerged from the trees, both of them stopped of one accord and waited for the feelings to take shape.
The barn rose majestically above them, a faded, weathered gray but in better shape than the manor house. Only peace greeted them, however, instead of vibrations of discontent or disruption. Perfectly in tune with each other’s thoughts, they looked at each other, then walked on.
An iron bar propped the barn door open. Inside, they paused again to get their bearings. Far back in the recesses, they heard movement and sound--footsteps and the pleasant nicker of a horse. Light entering from a similar door on the other end of the structure gave plenty of illumination to see, although the interior was shaded.
Comfortable smells lingered--the scent of new-cut hay, harness leather and horses. Dust motes danced on the streams of sunlight. Sybilla tensed and gave the several cats and half-grown kittens lying here and there a wary glare, but they remained perfectly at ease at the human intrusion of their space.
All in all, Wendi could sense no lingering trace of the two deaths that had occurred here, the one so recently. Jacques Bardou had died in his bed, not in the fall, so perhaps that answered the question of why she didn’t feel his spirit here. She hadn’t really sensed it in the bedroom, either, though.
Make no mistake, however, her mother had definitely died here. On that floor. Her throat cut, bleeding into the dirt.
“‘It is not time, yet it is time,’“ Sybilla quoted from the words of the Goddess. “If She’s playing games with us, I’m ready for recess to be over.”
“Me, too,” Wendi agreed. “Let’s move around and see if we can feel anything.”
“We’d feel it already if there was anything here,” Sybilla griped, but she walked with Wendi deeper into the interior.
Wendi headed for a piece of machinery against one wall. Above it, the hay loft shadowed the machine even further, but there was a window on the wall. Wendi opened it, allowing more light to stream in.
“Is that a hay rake?” she asked Sybilla.
Her aunt shrugged. “I suppose so. See those wicked looking iron hooks across the back? Looks like they probably harness a horse or mule into the traces and someone rides on that seat on top while those hooks drag the hay into rows. But I’m not a farm girl, so I could be wrong.”
Given it was the only piece of machinery sitting below the loft, that’s what it had to be, Wendi decided. She examined both the huge iron wheels on the machine, her forehead creasing in a deep frown at what she didn’t find. She looked above her, and determined that a person falling from the loft would probably indeed encounter the hay rake.
“There’s no sign of him hitting his head,” she mused.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nick’s uncle. I was in the hallway, but I heard his valet say that Jacques had hit his head on one of the hay rake’s iron wheels. That he might have lived through the fall, if that hadn’t happened. And look how unused and rusty the wheels are. Don’t you think if something as hard as a man’s head had hit them, there would be signs of it?”
“Probably at least some hair caught on that rough surface,” Sybilla agreed. “But--”
Suddenly a frightened whinny split the air, followed by a man’s loud curses. The cats leapt to their feet, the pair closest to Sybilla arching their backs and hissing at her. She shrieked and lifted her skirts, heading for the barn door.
But someone had carelessly left a pitchfork on the ground, and Sybilla’s right foot encountered the handle. Full skirts and petticoats flying, she tumbled end over end, landing with a thump against the barn wall.
“Aunt!” Wendi gasped, racing over to her. “Oh, Aunt, tell me you’re not hurt.”
A man stomped down the middle aisle of the barn, dragging an animal with him and cursing, obviously unaware the two women were there. Sybilla opened her eyes and scrambled to her feet as though unhurt.
“Alphie!” she said. “What are you doing to my dog, you brute?”
The man stopped as though he’d run into a wall. His hold on the dog loosened, and Alphie bounded over to Sybilla, jumping up to lick her face. A nearby cat, a tom from its size and manner, took offense at the dog and arched its back, hissing and growling a weird “meowrrr” of warning, which got Alphie’s attention immediately. The dog decided the cat needed put in its place.
Abandoning his mistress, Alphie headed for the cat. It held its ground, fur standing out and making it appear twice the size it had been a moment earlier. Before either she or her aunt could act, the cat swiped a vicious claw across Alphie’s muzzle, and the dog jumped back “ki-yie-ing” in pain. Wendi remembered the man watching them at the same time she saw Sybilla lift her hand and heard her begin the chant that would change the cat into a mouse.
“Don’t!” she
hissed, sounding almost like the cat and reaching for her aunt’s arm. She managed to swat the arm down before much damage was done, and only a small hole in Sybilla’s skirt verified her magical attempt. A tiny stream of smoke rose from the hole, a result of the lance of magic Wendi had interrupted. Wendi quickly used a silent chant to repair it and dissipate the smoke.
Sybilla glared at her, and Wendi whispered, “Darn it, that man who had hold of Alphie is watching us! Do you want him to spread the word that he saw you working magic in here? Want this entire plantation in an uproar and a lynch mob after us because they’re afraid of witches? Knowing how Nick feels about us, I doubt he’d offer much resistance to them!”
Sybilla glanced guiltily at the man watching them, then straightened and faced him. “Sir, I’ll thank you not to manhandle my dog in the future!”
The man stared from her to Alphie, who was cringing against the wall and fearfully eyeing the tom. As far as Wendi knew, the dog had never ran across a cat that stood to fight--at least, not since it took up residence with them. The neighbor’s animal had always fled to a high tree branch before it faced the dog below with false bravado, giving Alphie the impression it was afraid. And the cats they met around town fled at the first soft growl of confrontation on Alphie’s part.
The tom hissed again, and poor Alphie turned tail, racing out of the barn. Sybilla drew in an indignant breath.
“Now see what you’ve done,” she told the cat. “He’ll never be of any use to me again with your sort of animal! I ought
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