Something had driven them away. Something frightening.
His thoughts scattered to the eerie temple Graves had found earlier: the stark silence surrounding the area, the heaviness in the air, the odd Latin phrase about catacombs. Could something from that unholy place have caused the last colonists to leave? But no. From the looks of it, no one had set foot there in years.
The setting sun speared golden rays through the web of green,casting a bluish hue over the jungle, before sinking beneath the tree tops. And just as quickly, the warble of birds transformed into the buzz of crickets and croak of frogs. Though Hayden ought to have been accustomed to it by now, the sudden onset of night took him by surprise. Rising, he struck a match and lit one of the many lanterns hanging on posts throughout the camp while other men did the same. The golden cones lit the street at intervals and made the camp look almost civilized. Almost. Settling on a bench beneath one of the lights, Hayden resumed his whittling as James Callaway, the doctor-preacher approached and eased beside him.
“What are you making?”
Hayden studied the long piece of wood he’d formed into what could pass for a table or chair leg. “Not quite sure.”
“You’ve got talent, Hayden. We could use some decent furniture around here.” James shifted on the bench, causing it to wobble. “Whoever made these didn’t know what he was doing.”
Hayden nodded his agreement. The ramshackle furniture had been shabbily assembled and would no doubt fall apart within a year. And though Hayden would love to put his skills to use, he had no plans to remain with the colony. He had to leave, find his father, and make him pay. But he couldn’t tell James that.
“Where did you learn woodworking?” James asked.
“I spent a summer working in my friend’s furniture shop in Savannah.”
“It shows.” Groaning, James stretched his back and gazed over the darkness that now inhabited the field they’d been plowing all day. “I tell you, I’ve never worked as hard as I have these past two months.” He chuckled.
Hayden had no doubt James was unaccustomed to hard work, except, perhaps, for his years as a battlefield doctor. Before the war, the man had been a preacher. And a hypocrite. But then no one knew about that except Hayden from the one time he’d seen him in Tennessee back in ’60. Regardless, the doctor’s family came from big money. Not like Hayden’s. No, Hayden had been forced to scrape and beg just for scraps to eat. Until he figured out how easy it was to swindle the rich.
Too easy, as it turned out.
Angeline’s sweet laughter drew both men’s gazes to the comely russet-haired seamstress carrying a platter of food to the table in the meeting house. She not only drew their gazes, but those of several of the other single men, including Mr. Dodd, who took a seat on a stump across from Hayden. Hayden hated the way the man ogled her, and he wasn’t altogether pleased at James’s interest in her either. Yet, what did it matter? Hayden wasn’t staying long. But if he was…well, the woman intrigued him. He was sure he’d seen her face on a wanted poster in the Norfolk, Virginia, jail. He never forgot a face, especially a beautiful one like hers. And now that he’d discovered she had a sweet disposition and a kind heart, the dichotomy of her brush with the law fascinated him all the more.
Setting the platter on the table, she returned to the fire and began stirring a kettle. Though she claimed her family were wealthy shipwrights, she did not shy away from hard work.
So unlike Magnolia. Who now entered the clearing, flanked by her pretentious parents and followed by their slave, Mable. Wearing a lilac taffeta gown and with her flaxen hair pinned up in a waterfall of curls about her neck, the spoiled plantation owner’s daughter presented a rather alluring picture.
As long as she kept her mouth shut.
Her gaze brushed over him with a dismissal that pricked his ire. He shrugged it off. He’d been engaged in verbal battle with the shrew ever since he’d wandered into her cabin on board the New Hope with a bullet in his side. Since then, the only time she’d been quiet was when he’d kissed her on board the ship. But oh, what a kiss! He reacted even now at the remembrance, and his knife slipped over the wood, slicing his finger. A thin line of blood rose from his skin.
“Let me see that.” As if the war nurse could smell blood on the wind, Eliza appeared out of nowhere.
The doctor, sitting beside Hayden, had the same ability but the opposite reaction. Coughing, he turned his face away, and Hayden had the sudden urge to shove his bloody hand into the man’s vision just to see him squirm. But that wouldn’t be nice. And Hayden did like the doc, even if he was a bit preachy.
“It’s nothing,” Hayden said.
Eliza knelt to examine his hand. Reaching into a pouch clipped to her belt, she opened a jar and spread salve over Hayden’s wound as a night breeze swirled around them, cooling the perspiration on his neck.
“Ouch.” Pain brought his gaze down to Eliza pressing against his cut. “It felt better before you touched it.”
“Don’t be such a baby, Hayden,” she chided him. “You don’t want it getting infected, do you?”
The spicy scent of the food drew more people from their huts in anticipation of supper. The blacksmith and his wife, the baker, the cooper, several farmers, another plantation owner, and several exsoldiers, forty-two in all. Most of whom got along just fine.
Eliza wrapped a bandage around his finger. “I believe you’ll live.”
Hayden grinned as she rose and looped her arm through her husband’s, who had just joined them. For all his sternness, the colonel, and leader of their ragtag southern outpost, melted like wax whenever he looked at his wife. Ever since their wedding on the beach the day after the ship set them ashore, the two hadn’t kept their eyes—or their hands—off each other.
Hayden averted his gaze from the look that now passed between them. A private look of promised love and intimacy.
Sarah, the teacher, announced dinner and the group moved to sit in the meeting shelter, the women at the table and the men scattered about on chairs and stools. After James said a prayer of thanks to bless the food, Thiago educated them on their Brazilian fare for the night.
“Rice, beans, carne seca or dried beef, boiled cabbage with garlic, fried bananas, roasted bacalhau or cod, and mandioca cakes.” The guide smiled broadly. “Mandioca is a root that grows here in Brazil,” he continued in his Portuguese accent. “It is poisonous if you eat it raw but once cooked it is safe. Known as the bread of Brazil. Very good.” He rubbed his tummy and smiled, eliciting a few chuckles from the colonists. “Eat and enjoy!”
Hayden gathered a plateful, anxious to appease his hunger after a long day’s work. The food tasted as good as it smelled, and he couldn’t shovel it into his mouth fast enough to satisfy his aching belly. While they ate, James and Blake discussed what else needed to be done before they planted the fields, as well as the best way to organize the men and gather materials to build a sugar press, mill, and barn. With each spark of enthusiasm in their voices and each glimpse of excitement on their expressions, Hayden’s heart sank. He couldn’t join them. No matter how much he longed to be a part of recreating a Southern utopia in this strange new land, he couldn’t stay. He’d come for a different reason, and he must keep his focus.
His gaze landed on Magnolia, who seemed as miserable as he was. Scowling, she picked at the food Mable had brought her as if it were poison. Her father leaned toward her and said something that further deepened her frown and sent her dashing down the main street in a riot of taffeta and lace. Her abrupt and over-dramatized departure, however, did nothing to dampen the jovial mood of the colonists, who continued to converse and laugh while the children giggled and played in the center of the square. Hayden shook his head at her childish behavior even as pity stung him for the way her father treated her. As no father should treat a daughter.
The soothing rush of the river harmonized with the buzz of nighttime insects to create a pleasant tune that, combined with the scent of orange blossoms
in the gentle breeze, settled an unusual peace over Hayden. Despite the hard work involved in tilling the farmland and building the colony, Brazil was indeed a paradise: green and lush and teeming with life, and with more wild fruit and fresh water than a person could want. What Hayden wouldn’t have given to have spent his childhood here instead of begging and stealing on the streets of Charleston. At least he would have had plenty of food and not been surrounded by hooligans and drunks intent on taking advantage of a young, innocent boy.
As if reading his thoughts, a predatory growl echoed through the trees,causing the hairs on his arm to stand at attention. Silence descended on the camp as all eyes shifted toward the dark jungle surrounding them. They’d heard beastly howls before but this one seemed closer, more intent. Thiago hopped up from his seat beside Sarah, yanked four polished stones from his pocket and headed toward Blake.
“Colonel, put these rocks at four corners of camp, they will keep out the Lobisón.” Fear sparked in his dark eyes as he cast a wary glance over the jungle. “The man-wolf. That is his call.”
“Man-wolf?” Blake stood. “What nonsense is this?”
“No nonsense, Colonel. He is part man, part wolf. Legend says if he attacks you and you live, you become Lobisón too.”
James closed the man’s hand over the charms as if the sight of them repulsed him. “We have no need of these, Thiago. God is far more powerful than any wolf. He will protect us.”
Thiago narrowed his eyes. “You do not know what Lobisón can do, Mr. James. These rocks are part of the Penha, a mountain rock consecrated to Virgin, our Lady of the Rock. Very powerful against evil.”
Hayden was about to remark on the foolishness of such a notion when a woman’s scream split the night.
CHAPTER 5
Magnolia batted tears from her face and stormed toward the edge of camp. Could her father not cease his harsh censure of her for one meal? Just one meal when she wasn’t castigated for her appearance or the improper way she was eating her food? She could almost understand, almost, if they were seated at an elegant linen-clad table, dining with British royalty or even with the upper-crust of Georgia—rich, eligible men of substance and power—but they were sitting on stumps in the middle of a primordial jungle eating with commoners! She was tired of being told what to wear and how to fix her hair and how to sit and walk and speak. And behave. It wasn’t like she had to impress anyone except snails and toads and oh—something cracked beneath her shoe. She froze, cringed, and slowly lifted her foot, not daring to glance down. A squishy sound met her ears, sending the few bites of supper she’d consumed into her throat.
“Oh…I hate this place!” she squealed and glanced back at the glow of the campfire flickering between leaves. She’d been so distraught, she’d passed her parent’s hut and plunged into the jungle unaware. Buzzing and chirping and croaking surrounded her like a living, breathing entity—a dark, breathing entity made up of quivering shadows and pulsating greenery. She grabbed her skirts, intending to head back to camp when the soothing sound of water beckoned her onward. Perhaps she could wash her face and have a moment’s peace before she faced the colonists, who were no doubt entertaining themselves this very moment with gossip about her sudden departure.
Glancing around at the dark foliage, she took a tentative step toward the bubbling sound. Truth be told, she seemed to provide the citizens of New Hope with much entertainment of late. Just because she was different: educated, more attentive to her appearance, genteel, and refined while most of them were nothing but farmers, soldiers, and tradesmen. Why, oh why, had her father subjected her and her mother to such plebian rabble! She swept aside a branch and moved forward.
Something buzzed by her ear. “Oh, shoo!” She batted it away, hoping the insect wouldn’t get caught in her hair. The hair Mable had spent nearly an hour curling and pinning before supper. Just to please Magnolia’s father.
Moonlight penetrated the canopy in a clearing up ahead and sparkled over a rippling creek. The scene appeared so serene, it was hard to believe there were dangers in the jungle like the jaguars and wolves Hayden had told her about. Over her shoulder, she could still see the lights of New Hope through the foliage. Perhaps it would be safe enough to sit for a while and clear her thoughts.
Gathering her skirts and adjusting her crinoline, she lowered onto a flat boulder, allowing her billowing gown to settle around her. Moonlight transformed the tiny creek into silvery braids that rose in a mist of fairy dust across the clearing. The beautiful sight did much to calm her spirits. But she had something else that would help even more. After one last glance at the camp, she withdrew a flask from the secret pocket she’d sewn in her petticoat, uncorked it, and took a long draught of the port she’d stolen from her father. The smooth, tawny liquid eased down her throat, unwinding her tight nerves with each warm embrace. She drew in a deep breath of the moist jungle air, fragrant with passion flowers, and tried to forget her father’s reprimand for the slouching manner in which she sat. “So unlike a lady,” he had said.
Another sip of port and the disappointment blaring in his tone began to fade. Her shoulders lowered, and the rod that held up her spine melted. Leaning over, she untied her ankle boots and kicked them off, not caring if her stockings became soiled. Hiking up her skirts, she wiggled her toes, took another sip, and giggled as she dipped them, stockings and all, in the cool water. If her father could see her now.
A crackling sound joined the nightly hum of the jungle. Low at first, gentle like the hiss of a dying fire. But then it grew in intensity and sharpness. Magnolia sat up and scanned the foliage but the oscillating shadows of dark and gray revealed nothing. No fire. No torch. “Hello?” The crackling stopped.
Shaking her head, she took another sip. It was almost gone. And the way her father kept track of his precious liquor, she doubted she’d be able to steal more any time soon. At least not enough to benumb her mind and heart against her horrid circumstances. Not enough to make it bearable to rise each morning and face the heat and insects and back-breaking labor. Or at least her attempt at labor. No, she would have to find another source of liquor. Mr. Lewis, the old carpenter, seemed to have an unending supply. Perhaps she could cajole him into sharing.
The crackling began again. Or was it simply the wind quivering the leaves? But, there was no wind. At least not enough to cool her skin. Perspiration moistened her forehead and neck, and she leaned toward the creek to splash water on her face when she caught her reflection.
Moonlight silhouetted curls the color of the morning sun that fell from her chignon about her shoulders. Only one errant strand was out of place in an otherwise perfect coiffeur. Oval eyes that were almost catlike in shape reflected blue from the silvery water. High cheekbones, a refined chin, a small perfectly shaped nose, and rosy lips completed the visage that had brought so many gentlemen to their knees. One of whom had destroyed her family. And another whose suit she would have accepted—whose family and reputation could have restored her own family’s name—if only her parents had not dragged her off to Brazil.
If her father hadn’t been so proud and stubborn and allowed them to wed before the war, they’d all be sitting in a comfortable parlor in Atlanta sipping tea from china cups instead of drinking river water from pewter mugs.
As if reading her thoughts, the crackling turned to laughter, soft, malicious laughter. Magnolia corked her flask and put it away. No more port for now. She was starting to hear things. A shadow slithered through the greenery. And apparently see things, as well. “Hello?”
A growl rumbled through the trees. Close, but yet, not close. Magnolia froze. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her fingers grew numb. She scanned the forest, afraid to move. Something flickered in the water. Leaning over, she gazed at her reflection again.
Her beautiful golden hair began to shrivel. Like old twine left too long in the sun, it shrank and grew brittle until, strand by strand, it slid off her head, landed on the water, and floated away. Leaving her bald. Completel
y bald!
Flinging her hands to her head, she did the only thing she could think to do. She screamed at the top of her lungs.
Hayden was the first one to burst into the clearing, James and Colonel Blake on his heels. What he expected to see—what his worst fears imagined—was Magnolia being mauled by some wild animal. What he saw instead was the lady gripping her head and screaming,“My hair! My hair!” After scanning the clearing for a wolf, he dashed toward her, forced her hands to her sides, and led her into the moonlight to see if she’d been bitten or injured. But aside from her hair being hopelessly torn from its pins, she seemed unscathed.
Yet her eyes told a different story. They were wide and etched with fear. No, not fear—absolute, excruciating horror. They searched his as if looking for an answer. “My hair,” she sobbed.
“Your hair? What about it?” Hayden wondered if she’d either gone mad or—he dipped his nose toward her mouth—had too much to drink. Obviously the latter due to the pungent scent of alcohol hovering around her. Angry, he released her.
“What happened? Are you all right?” James approached and drew her into an embrace. She fell against him and started to cry. Of course she did. Hayden couldn’t believe he’d been so gullible. That was exactly what she wanted—attention.
And everyone fell for it. Blake, pistol in hand, surveyed the edge of the clearing, while Eliza rushed to Magnolia and took James’s place by her side.
“My hair,” Magnolia whined.
“What about your hair, dearest?” Eliza brushed a lock from Magnolia’s face.
“Don’t coddle her. Nothing happened.” Hayden huffed as James circled the camp, examining bushes and sweeping aside leaves.
“It was gone. All gone.” Magnolia’s gaze shot to the small creek. “When I looked at my reflection”—she drew in a shredded breath—“my hair fell out. I was bald!” she whimpered, tears spilling from her eyes. “I was completely bald.”
Elusive Hope Page 4
