0425273059

by Miranda James

  “Thank you, Jackson,” Mireille said. “Please tell her I will talk with her later.”

  The butler nodded and walked out with a heavily laden tray. Mireille offered her guests a shaky smile. “Everyone’s nerves are a bit on edge, I’m afraid. There is still so much to do with the wedding so close now.”

  “Of course, my dear,” Thurston said. “We all know what Estelle’s like, think nothing of it. Now, tell me, who is going to sing at the wedding? At one point, I think you told me you were hoping that girl Sondra went to high school with would be able to do it.”

  Conversation turned to this and other details of the wedding, and Dickce was thankful they made it through to the dessert course without any further emotional outbursts. Sondra had not returned, and Dickce was a bit puzzled that no one appeared to be concerned about her absence. Perhaps it happened so frequently it wasn’t remarkable.

  Lance ate bits of his food and smiled vaguely at Benjy, who remained silent along with Dickce. An’gel joined in the conversation enough for both sisters, and Dickce was content to leave her to it.

  She kept hoping someone would bring up the subject of Melusine Devereux before they finished dessert. Her curiosity was getting the better of her, however, and she finally decided she might as well do it herself. An’gel would probably have a fit with her later, but so what.

  There was a sudden lull in the flow of conversation while the diners addressed themselves to the delicious white chocolate mousse Jackson served them.

  Dickce leaned forward to gaze down the table in her cousin’s direction. “Mireille, I know this is truly bad of me, but won’t you tell us about this tragic bride? At least I’m assuming it’s tragic, the way Estelle was talking.”

  Mireille set down her dessert spoon and stared at Dickce.

  “Would you like me to tell the story?” Thurston asked when Mireille did not respond right away.

  Their hostess nodded, her expression one of resignation. “If we must hear it, I’d rather you told it.”

  Thurston gave a genial smile in Dickce’s direction. “Miss Ducote, it’s an old story that has been handed down in St. Ignatiusville for well over a century. Nobody knows if it’s true, though I suppose we could find out if we really wanted to.” He laughed. “But it’s probably just an old wives’ tale, as I believe someone already said.

  “If it happened,” Thurston continued, “it was most likely in the decade or two after the War.”

  Dickce, along with the rest of the company, knew that the War meant the Civil War.

  “Melusine Devereux was the beautiful daughter and only child of an old plantation family. Their place was abandoned around 1900 or so, and another planter bought the land and had the house torn down. Some say Melusine’s ghost still lingers there in the woods.”

  Dickce shivered, although Thurston laughed at his own words.

  “Melusine was betrothed to a handsome young man from New Orleans, and everyone was happy. Until the night before the wedding, that is.”

  Thurston paused and glanced around the table, perhaps to be sure that everyone was listening. Even Lance, Dickce noticed, had fixed his gaze on the attorney, away from Benjy.

  “All day a storm had been brewing, so the story goes, and everyone was jittery. That evening, not long before the storm broke, Melusine went up to her bedroom on the third floor. The Devereux place was spacious and imposing, so everyone says, and Melusine had a large room with a balcony and French doors that overlooked the front of the house.”

  Dickce closed her eyes for a moment, and she conjured a mental picture of the scene as Thurston continued the story.

  “Melusine decided to try on her wedding dress, evidently claiming that it still needed a few adjustments. The servant who was the best seamstress was with her in her room, along with Melusine’s mama. While they worked, the wind began to howl as the storm moved closer. The French doors to the balcony blew open, and a gust of wind sucked up Melusine’s veil. She ran toward the balcony to try to save the veil, and another mighty gust sucked her off the balcony and threw her to the ground.”

  Dickce’s eyes popped open. She no longer wanted to envision the scene of such a tragic event.

  “Mrs. Devereux roused the household, and Mr. Devereux and one of the servants rushed out into the storm, praying that Melusine was somehow unhurt.” Thurston’s voice dropped to a husky note. “But it was not to be. Melusine, dressed in her bridal clothes, lay broken and dead on the flagstones below.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Now that she had heard the story of the tragic bride, An’gel was even more incensed that Estelle would talk about it in front of Sondra, Jacqueline, and Mireille. Why Mireille didn’t fire the housekeeper on the spot, An’gel couldn’t fathom.

  She would also have a few choice words for Dickce later on, for bringing up the subject and basically forcing someone to tell the story. At least Sondra wasn’t in the room. An’gel had to wonder, however, whether the girl made a regular habit of having a fit and running away from the dinner table.

  “That is truly a sad story,” An’gel said when the silence began to feel uncomfortable.

  “Yes, it is,” Jacqueline said, looking sour. “Fortunately it has nothing to do with us or with my daughter’s wedding. I can’t believe Estelle brought it up like that.” She turned to glare at her mother. “Maman, I have to say I agree with Sondra. What Estelle did is the last straw. She has to go.”

  Mireille seemed to shrink in her chair, and An’gel felt sorry for her. Mireille hated confrontation of any kind, and here she was faced with one that she couldn’t ignore. From An’gel’s point of view, Mireille had no choice now but to fire her housekeeper.

  “Now is not the time, nor is this the place, to discuss it further,” Mireille finally said, a note of iron in her tone. “I will deal with the situation as I see fit, and I will not be bullied in my own home.” She faced her daughter with a defiant expression.

  Good for you, An’gel thought. About time Mireille showed some backbone.

  The silence after Mireille’s declaration became awkward, and An’gel decided it was up to her to put an end to this unpleasant interlude. She pushed back her chair and rose.

  “Mireille, my dear, the dinner was excellent, as always. I regret having to break up the party, but I am rather weary after a long day. I hope you won’t take it amiss if I excuse myself—along with Dickce and Benjy—and we retire to our cottages.” She sent a pointed glance in her sister’s direction, and Dickce quickly stood, with a smile for Mireille.

  “Yes, as Sister says, we’ve had a long day, and we belles of a certain age need all the beauty rest we can get.” Dickce placed her hand on Benjy’s shoulder, and he stood alongside her, nodding.

  Thurston rose as well. “I have to say, Miss Dickce, that I can’t see where either of you needs any beauty rest.” He winked at An’gel. “But I have to be in court first thing tomorrow, so I’d best be taking my leave as well.” He bent and picked up Mireille’s left hand and bestowed a quick kiss on it. “If there’s anything at all I can help you with, chère madame, you know you have only to ask.”

  Mireille looked far more relieved than affronted, An’gel thought, to have the dinner party break up so early. It was barely eight o’clock, she noted from a surreptitious glance at her watch.

  “Then I will bid you all a good night.” Mireille smiled graciously as she, too, rose from the table.

  The next few minutes were spent with the usual business of leave-taking and wishing one another a good night, but finally An’gel, Dickce, and Benjy walked out the front door on their way to peace and quiet in their cottages. Thurston was behind them, still chatting with Jacqueline at the door, as they made their way through the grounds with the aid of flashlights provided by Mireille.

  When they were safely out of earshot, An’gel said, “Poor Mireille. She has a tough situation on her hands.”

  Dickce snorted. “It’s her own fault for putting up with that woman all these years. I’m su
rprised someone hasn’t batted Estelle over the head long before now. She’s tiresome and difficult.”

  Benjy extended his arm for An’gel and then for Dickce to grasp as they navigated some exposed tree roots on their path. “Mrs. Champlain seems like a nice lady. I hated to see her looking so uncomfortable because of that weird housekeeper.”

  “There’s no easy solution to the problem.” An’gel’s tone was grim. “Estelle is sure to have conniptions if Mireille fires her, and Sondra will probably have the lulu of all tantrums if her grandmother doesn’t get rid of Estelle.”

  “They could just put a muzzle on Sondra.” Benjy laughed. “I’m surprised no one’s clunked her over the head, honestly.”

  “A few good spankings at the right age, or lots of time-outs when she was little, would have done that girl a world of good,” Dickce said. “Her daddy spoiled her rotten, and by the time he died, the damage was done. Neither Mireille nor Jacqueline, I hate to say, has ever had enough spine to deal with the girl.”

  An’gel was relieved when they reached the lights surrounding the cottages and turned off her flashlight with gratitude. Earlier she had simply made a polite remark to put an end to a tense situation, but now that she was close to her bed, she did feel tired. All that emotion was exhausting, even if one was only forced to witness it.

  Dickce unlocked their door as An’gel turned to Benjy. “I’m sorry you had to see all that. I hope you weren’t too uncomfortable.”

  Benjy shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. I used to see stuff like that all the time.”

  An’gel knew he was talking about his life with his parents and his stepfather’s mother, their old friend Rosabelle Sultan, and felt even guiltier. She patted his shoulder. “This will soon be over, and we can head back to Riverhill and forget about all this drama.”

  Benjy laughed. “I’m looking forward to getting home. Good night, Miss An’gel, Miss Dickce. I’m going to walk Peanut again in a while, but we’ll be settling in for the night soon.” He gave each of them a quick peck on the cheek before unlocking his own door and disappearing inside.

  An’gel could hear the excited woofing noises from Peanut next door upon seeing Benjy as she followed Dickce into their cottage.

  “What a dear, sweet boy he is,” Dickce said. “Thank the Lord he’s nothing like Sondra or her loopy fiancé. You should have seen the way Lance was staring at Benjy all during that fiasco of a meal. Sondra, too, come to think of it.”

  An’gel dropped wearily onto the plush sofa and kicked off her pumps. “We should probably have let Benjy stay at Riverhill with Endora and Peanut. I’m sure they would have been happier.”

  “What’s done is done.” Dickce stepped out of her shoes and bent to pick them up. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get ready for bed. This day has been overwhelming. Good night.” She disappeared into her bedroom and shut the door.

  An’gel called good night after her sister. She remained on the sofa, lacking for the moment the energy to get up and go to her own room. Her thoughts focused on the dinner party and its seething undercurrents. There had seemed an unpleasant undertone to the whole evening. From Horace’s occasional vulgarities to Sondra’s rude behavior before and during the meal and the ugliness of the scene with Estelle, the whole occasion had been the fiasco Dickce said it was.

  They were due back at Willowbank in the morning for breakfast at seven thirty. An’gel wondered whether she, Dickce, and Benjy would be subjected to further drama. Rather bleakly, she laughed. Probably not a question of “if” but of how much. With that unpleasant thought, she pushed herself up from the sofa, picked up her shoes, and went to her bedroom.

  An’gel slept soundly that night and woke to her travel clock alarm at six thirty. She yawned and pushed aside the covers. The bed was comfortable, and she felt reluctant to leave it. Duty called, however. She couldn’t put off getting ready for the day and whatever it entailed.

  From the bathroom window she peered outside. The sun wouldn’t rise for about half an hour yet, and she hoped the storm that Estelle forecast would not come through until after the wedding. Bad weather would simply make already worn nerves more ragged.

  An’gel admonished herself to shake off morbid thoughts. She focused instead on her bath and toilette. By the time she emerged from her bedroom, dressed in a casual, colorful linen print dress and flats, she felt more sanguine. The smell of hot coffee that wafted toward her cheered her even further. She traced the smell to the tiny kitchenette tucked away in a corner of the cottage near the front door. She found Dickce seated at a small banquette, cup in hand.

  “Sister, thank you for making the coffee.” An’gel poured herself a cup, added a little cream and sugar, stirred, and sipped happily.

  Dickce grimaced. “I don’t know about you, but I definitely had to have some caffeine before we walk into who-knows-what up at the big house.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” An’gel took the seat opposite. She peered out the small window above the banquette table. The sun should have been visible by now, but everything still looked murky. “Looks like the weather isn’t going to cooperate.”

  Dickce shivered. “I got chills last night while Richmond Thurston was telling that story. Imagine a gust of wind being able to suck a woman out of a window like that.”

  “I’d rather not imagine it,” An’gel said. “There was one detail in what Estelle said that I find puzzling. How did she know the date of that poor girl’s wedding? Was it really the same as Sondra’s? Or was she just making it up to get at Sondra?”

  “That is peculiar,” Dickce said. “I didn’t catch on to that.” She shrugged. “I vote for Estelle to be making it up. It’s the kind of thing she would do simply to aggravate Sondra and Jacqueline.”

  “Unless she has an unimpeachable source for the truth of that story, I’m sure she did make it up.” An’gel nodded firmly to emphasize her point. “If we’re lucky, Estelle will be gone when we go up for breakfast.”

  “Though who’s going to cook if she is gone, I wonder.” Dickce took a sip of coffee. “I don’t think Mireille is much of a cook. Perhaps Jacqueline is, though.”

  “If nothing else, we can have a French country breakfast, like the ones we had in that pension in Paris, remember? That lovely, crusty French bread, with butter and jam, and the bowls of milky coffee. I’d never had coffee from a bowl before.”

  Dickce laughed. “I remember the look on your face when you realized you had to drink out of a bowl. Priceless.”

  “Yes, well, I got used to it,” An’gel muttered. She drained her cup and got up to rinse it out in the sink. “We still have about twenty minutes before we’re due for breakfast. I think I’ll retrieve our umbrellas from the car, just in case.”

  “Good idea,” Dickce said. “I’ll clean up in here while you do that.”

  An’gel could tell, by the feeling of pressure in her head, that the weather was changing. She stepped outside, and the dark gray sky and slight chill in the air confirmed it. She hurried to the car, the wind rising around her, and dug around in the back of the Lexus for their umbrellas. They had managed to forget any other rain gear, so the umbrellas would have to suffice.

  Rain began sprinkling down before An’gel made it back inside. “This day is going to try my patience,” she muttered to herself as she shut the door behind her. “It’s starting to rain,” she called out to her sister.

  “Wonderful,” Dickce replied as she came out of her bedroom. “And we forgot to bring our raincoats. At least we have the umbrellas.”

  A knock sounded on their door, and An’gel propped their umbrellas beside a nearby occasional table before she answered.

  To her surprise, Jacqueline stood there, damp from the rain.

  “Come in, dear,” An’gel said. “You’ll get soaked.” She hurried her goddaughter inside and shut the door.

  “Thank you, Tante An’gel.” Jacqueline shivered. “The temperature is dropping, and I didn’t think to bring a jacket
or an umbrella with me.”

  “Come in and sit down,” Dickce said. “I’ll get you a blanket if you’d like.”

  Jacqueline shook her head as she sat on the sofa. “No, thank you, I’ll be fine.” She paused for a deep breath. “I’m sorry to bother you with this, and I can’t believe I’m doing it.”

  “Doing what, dear?” An’gel asked when Jacqueline failed to continue. She sat beside her goddaughter and patted her shoulder. Jacqueline now had a wretched expression, and An’gel grew alarmed. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

  “It’s Horace,” Jacqueline said, barely above a whisper. She stared down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “He promised me the money would be there, but it isn’t, and now I can’t pay the florist for Sondra’s bridal bouquet and the rest of the flowers.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Over Jacqueline’s bowed head, An’gel and Dickce exchanged startled glances. Horace Mims was reputedly worth millions, but he didn’t have the money to pay the florist for his stepdaughter’s wedding?

  “That’s certainly unfortunate,” An’gel said.

  Dickce sat on the other side of Jacqueline and patted her on the back. “What can we do to help?”

  “I’m so embarrassed by all this, you cannot believe how much,” Jacqueline said, still gazing at her hands. “I don’t dare tell Maman about Horace’s little cash flow problem, as he calls it. It’s only temporary, he says, but it couldn’t happen at a worse time.”

  “These things happen in business from time to time,” Dickce said, “or so I imagine.” She raised her eyebrows in An’gel’s direction, and An’gel gave a tiny shrug in return.

  “We’ll be happy to lend you the money, Jacqueline,” An’gel said in a bracing tone. “I’m sure Horace will get his affairs sorted out quickly. Tell me how much you need, and we’ll take care of it.”

  Jacqueline raised her head, and An’gel was dismayed to see that she had been crying. “Thank you, Tante An’gel, Tante Dickce, I can’t tell you how much this means to me, and to Sondra and Maman, of course, although I’ll never let either of them know anything about it.”