She walked out of the smoke-filled room, glancing at our husband’s corpse one last time. When I thought it was safe, I slid down to the floor besides Chase. He was dead. He was most assuredly dead. I curled up beside him and held his body until Nicole finally came upstairs with the sheriff. The next few hours were a mist of despair.
I was shaken from my reverie when Ingrid appeared, back from the shop and terribly upset. “Miss Susanna! We must leave here! The Ramparts are on fire—that madwoman Coquette and her cousin Athena have set the place on fire. They want to kill us all! Grab your bag and let’s go! They are evacuating our street.” I stepped out on the porch and could see she was telling the truth. The family in the Black House across the street was packing in a mad rush and screaming in fear as the fires inched closer to our street.
“What about Chase? I can’t leave his body here.”
“Fine, we’ll bring him with us, miss, but we have to go.”
We raced into the house, and the two of us dragged Chase’s body to the carriage, where my driver helped us get him inside. I had my purse, my ledger and not much else. We rode away and left the Ramparts before the fire destroyed everything. Hundreds of men appeared with pails of water, attempting to save the buildings that were already blazing. Grainger drove us deeper into the Ramparts. Didn’t he know we had to get away?
“What are you doing?” Ingrid called to him.
“I’m not leaving without Mister Ambrose. It’s not far!”
Ingrid began to argue, but I told her to let it go. There had been too much death recently. Too much of everything. I laid Chase’s head in my lap and kept him close to me as the carriage banged across knots, stumps and whatever else it could find. Soon we were stopped in front of a house. Grainger hopped down and ran toward the building.
“Oh goodness. This will kill old Grainger. He loves Ambrose like a son.” How did I not know that? “He’s surely dead, if he’s inside there, miss.” I got out too. I stood in front of Coquette’s house and waited for some sign that Ambrose was safe. None came.
Then I heard him whisper in my ear, “You are my soul mate, Susanna Serene. You always will be.” I collapsed on the ground before the little white two-story house that burned. Someone picked me up and put me back in the carriage and we rode away to Sugar Hill.
I don’t know what I expected to happen, but I didn’t expect to find that Athena had abandoned the place, that she’d admitted to her father she had killed her husband. No, I didn’t expect that at all. We took Chase inside and laid him out in the dining room. There would be many funerals tomorrow. From what we heard from the servants at Sugar Hill, the fire had all but destroyed the houses on the north end of the road. Thorn Hill alone had survived. But I would never return there. As much as Chase might have wanted me to, I wouldn’t. I would never leave his side again. He would lie at rest here, at Sugar Hill. And when I died, I would go with him. At last.
You are my soul mate, Susanna Serene. You belong to me.
I closed the front door and pretended I did not hear him. I closed my heart to him completely. He’d lied to me about a great many things, I soon discovered. I found a plethora of information about Ambrose in Arthur’s old desk. For example, I never knew until much later that he had been Chase’s half-brother, the son of Arthur and his left-hand wife. And to think, the old man had told the world that his son was his nephew. Shameful. Just for that, I burned his mausoleum the same night the Ramparts burned down.
Nine months later, I gave birth to twin boys; one was blond, with pink skin and a serious nature, and the other had dark, shiny eyes, olive skin and a mouth that never stopped screaming or searching for my breast. It was if the half-brothers were born again, and the thought frightened me. I would raise my sons, Dominick and Champion, to the best of my ability, and I would pray they would become better than their fathers. For I believed with all my heart that I bore a child to each man. Somehow, that had to be true. Their lines continued.
I prayed they would be better men than either.
Epilogue – Jessica
I volunteered to watch the grill while Jamie went in search of more ketchup. He was quiet, pensive, but who could blame him? He’d been under the influence of a determined spirit. It was good of Avery to give him a second chance, but my “sensitivity” told me that they weren’t quite right for each other. No. Something wasn’t quite right with Jamie. Not just yet.
And it was nice that Avery wanted to have this shindig for us before we rolled out of here in the morning. I lobbied to stay longer, but the Paranormal Channel had somewhere else quite a ways from here for us to explore. I never expected to explore a mine, but apparently that was where we were headed. Some haunted mine up at Ruby Falls in upper Alabama near the Tennessee state line. I hated the idea of leaving here. We’d only scratched the surface of the paranormal activity at Sugar Hill. What had we learned? What had I learned? I learned that there was so much more to paranormal investigation than classifications, shadows and whispers. At the heart of most hauntings there were people, some living and some dead. I hoped I never forgot that, no matter how high our ratings got—and believe me, they were high now.
Jamie gave me a thumbs-up, and I smiled proudly. It was nice to be me again, just plain old me. Not sensitive, psychic me. Just Jessica Chesterfield, plain-Jane girl, chronic doodler and aspiring artist. Jamie took over his spot at the grill, and I pulled my notepad out of my knapsack. I found a nearby bench and began sketching an early blooming azalea bush, but my attention soon shifted to the gazebo. I could see it quite clearly from here. It was old and in need of repair; it looked like it should be torn down, but it was still standing. I was glad to see that.
But I didn’t draw it as it was. I drew it as I saw it with my heart. I saw it painted white, the green vines wrapping around the lattice, the faces of stone children poking out from the topiaries. Yes, I could almost imagine being inside the gazebo. I could see the two together, the man and the woman. They both had dark hair, his face handsome and fierce-looking, his full lips longing to kiss hers. I saw her tremble as she removed the pins from her hair. With a look of pure desire, she slid out of her gown and stood before him.
And I sketched. He watched her, wanted her, desired her more than life itself…
My pencil shuffled across the page.
“Jessica! Have you gone deaf? Do you want one or two?”
“What?”
Megan was looking at me like I had two heads. She didn’t even notice the sketchbook in my hands. “One hamburger or two? Jamie wants to know.”
“Oh. One, please. No mustard.” She went off to tell him, and I turned back to my sketch. I stared at it like I’d never seen it before. What had I drawn? Where did that come from? I shook my head and rubbed my fingers over the pictures. Then Avery stood beside me and looked down at the pages.
“You see them too?” she asked.
“Yes, I see them. They haven’t left. I wonder if they’ll always be here.”
She smiled sadly and said nothing else as she examined the page. She touched Ambrose’s face with her fingers, and then Reed came to whisper in her ear. She forgot about Ambrose for a moment—that was good. She went with Reed, and they walked down a path to another part of the garden. Jamie didn’t appear to notice. He probably should have.
One day she would have to choose. And soon. I wondered if she knew that.
As surely as I knew my own name, I knew I would be back here. I would be back at Sugar Hill. One day, Avery would call me, and I would come back. Somehow, we were connected now. All of us were connected.
“Hello, Handsome,” I said to the older man as he slipped quietly into the party through a gap in the hedge. He carried a basket of peaches in his hands. Nobody else seemed to notice him. “Those look like delicious peaches. May I have one?”
“Yes, but just one. These are for Miss Avery. She likes peaches.”
I agreed to take just one, and as I reached for it, I listened. It was as if I could hear a rad
io playing somewhere, an old familiar song.
“You feeling all right?” Concern clouded Handsome’s face.
“Must be a radio playing somewhere, ’cause I thought I heard jazz. I think it was Billie Holiday.”
Handsome smiled so big I thought his face would split. “You heard her too! Yeah, she’s singing. Singing up a storm, like she always does when there’s trouble a-brewing.”
“Is trouble brewing?”
“Yes, ma’am. There’s always trouble brewing these days. But we’ll be here. Me and Miss Billie. We’ll be here.”
“I am glad to hear that, Handsome. And I’ll be here too. Whenever I hear the music, I’ll come. I’ll help.”
“You promise? Miss Billie don’t sing for everyone. She likes you, though. She sings for you.”
“Yes, I’ll always come. I will never let her down—or you, Handsome.” I dug in my pocket for a business card. This was the first time I’d ever given one away. “Take this. Call me if you hear her singing again and she mentions my name. I want to help you—and Avery. Please call me, Handsome.”
“I will, Jessica. I will.”
He hugged my neck and handed me an extra peach. We sat on the bench together, eating the juicy peaches and listening to the music. Handsome sang loudly, and soon I was singing with him.
There was no reason to pretend I couldn’t hear Billie. Let Mike and Megan think I was crazy. I didn’t care. Becker wasn’t around; he was undoubtedly saying his goodbyes to Summer Dufresne. No, that couldn’t be right. She was over by the grill flirting with Jamie. I wondered where Becker had gone, but I didn’t bother to find him. I listened to the music and sang along with Billie.
I wouldn’t leave this place for long. Then I had a thought. A true thought. I knew it was true as soon as I thought it.
When I return here, I will never again leave.
It didn’t matter. Whatever that meant, it didn’t matter because at least I could finally hear the music.
More from M. L. Bullock
From the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection
A smile crept across my face when I turned back to look at the pale faces watching me from behind the lace curtains of the girls’ dormitory. I didn’t feel sorry for any of them—all of those girls hated me. They thought they were my betters because they were orphans and I was merely the accidental result of my wealthy mother’s indiscretion. I couldn’t understand why they felt that way. As I told Marie Bettencourt, at least my parents were alive and wealthy. Hers were dead and in the cold, cold ground. “Worm food now, I suppose.” Her big dark eyes had swollen with tears, her ugly, fat face contorting as she cried. Mrs. Bedford scolded me for my remarks, but even that did not worry me.
I had a tool much more effective than Mrs. Bedford’s threats of letters to the attorney who distributed my allowance or a day without a meal. Mr. Bedford would defend me—for a price. I would have to kiss his thin, dry lips and pretend that he did not peek at my décolletage a little too long. Once he even squeezed my bosom ever so quickly with his rough hands but then pretended it had been an accident. Mr. Bedford never had the courage to lift up my skirt or ask me for a “discreet favor,” as my previous chaperone had called it, but I enjoyed making him stare. It had been great fun for a month or two until I saw how easily he could be manipulated.
And now my rescuer had come at last, a man, Louis Beaumont, who claimed to be my mother’s brother. I had never met Olivia, my mother. Not that I could remember, anyway, and I assumed I never would.
Louis Beaumont towered above most men, as tall as an otherworldly prince. He had beautiful blond hair that I wanted to plunge my hands into. It looked like the down of a baby duckling. He had fair skin—so light it almost glowed—with pleasant features, even brows, thick lashes, a manly mouth. It was a shame he was so near a kin because I would have had no objections to whispering “Embrasse-moi” in his ear. Although I very much doubted Uncle Louis would have indulged my fantasy. How I loved to kiss, and to kiss one so beautiful! That would be heavenly. I had never kissed a handsome man before—I kissed the ice boy once and a farmhand, but neither of them had been handsome or good at kissing.
For three days we traveled in the coach, my uncle explaining what he wanted and how I would benefit if I followed his instructions. According to my uncle, Cousin Calpurnia needed me, or rather, needed a companion for the season. The heiress would come out this year, and a certain level of decorum was expected, including traveling with a suitable companion. “Who would be more suitable than her own cousin?” he asked me with the curl of a smile on his regal face. “Now, dearest Isla,” he said, “I am counting on you to be a respectable girl. Leave all that happened before behind in Birmingham—no talking of the Bedfords or anyone else from that life. All will be well now.” He patted my hand gently. “We must find Calpurnia a suitable husband, one that will give her the life she’s accustomed to and deserves.”
Yes, indeed. Now that this Calpurnia needed a proper companion, I had been summoned. I’d never even heard of Miss Calpurnia Cottonwood until now. Where had Uncle Louis been when I ran sobbing in a crumpled dress after falling prey to the lecherous hands of General Harper, my first guardian? Where had he been when I endured the shame and pain of my stolen maidenhead? Where? Was I not Beaumont stock and worthy of rescue? Apparently not. I decided then and there to hate my cousin, no matter how rich she was. Still, I smiled, spreading the skirt of my purple dress neatly around me on the seat. “Yes, Uncle Louis.”
“And who knows, ma petite Cherie, perhaps we can find you a good match too. Perhaps a military man or a wealthy merchant. Would you like that?” I gave him another smile and nod before I pretended to be distracted by something out the window. My fate would be in my own hands, that much I knew. Never would I marry. I would make my own future. Calpurnia must be a pitiful, ridiculous kind of girl if she needed my help to land a “suitable” husband with all her affluence.
About the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection
When historian Carrie Jo Jardine accepted her dream job as chief historian at Seven Sisters in Mobile, Alabama, she had no idea what she would encounter. The moldering old plantation housed more than a few boxes of antebellum artifacts and forgotten oil paintings. Secrets lived there—and they demanded to be set free.
This contains the entire supernatural suspense series.
More from M. L. Bullock
From The Ghosts of Idlewood
I arrived at Idlewood at seven o’clock thinking I’d have plenty of time to mark the doors with taped signs before the various contractors arrived. There was no electricity, so I wasn’t sure what the workmen would actually accomplish today. I’d dressed down this morning in worn blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. It just felt like that kind of day. The house smelled stale, and it was cool but not freezing. We’d enjoyed a mild February this year, but like they say, “If you don’t like the weather in Mobile, just wait a few minutes.”
I really hated February. It was “the month of love,” and this year I wasn’t feeling much like celebrating. I’d given Chip the heave-ho for good right after Christmas, and our friendship hadn’t survived the breakup. I hated that because I really did like him as a person, even if he could be narrow-minded about spiritual subjects. I hadn’t been seeing anyone, but I was almost ready to get back into the dating game. Almost.
I changed out the batteries in my camera before beginning to document the house. Carrie Jo liked having before, during and after shots of every room.
According to the planning sheet Carrie Jo and I developed last month, all the stage one doors were marked. On her jobs, CJ orchestrated everything: what rooms got painted first, where the computers would go, which room we would store supplies in, that sort of thing. I also put no-entry signs on rooms that weren’t safe or were off-limits to curious workers. The home was mostly empty, but there were some pricy mantelpieces and other components that would fetch a fair price if you knew where to unload stolen items such as high-end antiques. Su
rprisingly, many people did.
I’d start the pictures on the top floor and work my way down. I peeked out the front door quickly to see if CJ was here. No sign of her yet, which wasn’t like her at all. She was usually the early bird. I smiled, feeling good that Carrie Jo trusted me enough to give me the keys to this grand old place. There were three floors, although the attic space wasn’t a real priority for our project. The windows would be changed, the floors and roof inspected, but not a lot of cosmetic changes were planned for up there beyond that. We’d prepare it for future storage of seasonal decorations and miscellaneous supplies. Seemed a waste to me. I liked the attic; it was roomy, like an amazing loft apartment. But it was no surprise I was drawn to it—when I was a kid, I practically lived in my tree house.
I stuffed my cell phone in my pocket and jogged up the wide staircase in the foyer. I could hear birds chirping upstairs; they probably flew in through a broken window. There were quite a few of them from the sound of it. Since I hadn’t labeled any doors upstairs or in the attic, I hadn’t had the opportunity to explore much up there. It felt strangely exhilarating to do so all by myself. The first flight of stairs appeared safe, but I took my time on the next two. Water damage wasn’t always easy to spot, and I had no desire to fall through a weak floor. When I reached the top of the stairs to the attic, I turned the knob and was surprised to find it locked.
“What?” I twisted it again and leaned against the door this time, but it wouldn’t move. I didn’t see a keyhole, so that meant it wasn’t locked after all. I supposed it was merely stuck, the wood probably swollen from moisture. “Rats,” I said. I set my jaw and tried one last time. The third time must have been the charm because it opened freely, as if it hadn’t given me a world of problems before. I nearly fell as it gave way, laughing at myself as I regained my balance quickly. I reached for my camera and flipped it to the video setting. I panned the room to record the contents. There were quite a few old trunks, boxes and even the obligatory dressmaker’s dummy. It was a nerd girl historian’s dream come true.
Fire on the Ramparts (Sugar Hill Book 2) Page 17
