“What happened to Eli?”
“Eventually he and Elise returned. He continued at Caoin House, buying more property. He had the ability to turn whatever he touched into money, a true Midas touch. While he had wealth in abundance, everything he loved he lost. He never remarried. He threw himself into this place, to bringing it back to life after the devastation of the war. Some say he worked to build a living monument to the only two women he loved. So that’s what I know about your uncle’s beautiful home. It has a tragic past.”
“Tragedy is always good fodder for a ghost tale. Are there stories that Caoin House is haunted?”
Pretta nodded. “It’s said that some can see Eva’s ghost, wearing a lovely white gown and moving among the oak trees right here. Brett has hinted that he’s seen Eva’s ethereal spirit.”
I had to laugh at the idea of my uncle seeing spirits. He was a wonderful storyteller and a well-known prankster. I had no doubt his talk of ghostly sightings had more to do with his sense of mischief than any real event. But my curiosity had taken another direction. “And Eli? Does he not haunt the grounds?” I had seen a Confederate soldier, not a female.
“The stories I’ve heard feature Eva, but it would seem sensible that Eli, too, would haunt the place he loved so much.”
“Are there any pictures of him?” I asked.
Pretta frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard mention. He was black Irish, with dark hair and a dark complexion. That’s what I’ve heard. Brett will know. Just ask him.”
“Have you ever seen a ghost?” I asked.
“Heavens no.” She mimed horror. “I would die of fright.”
“There’s a famous medium in New Orleans next week. Uncle and I are planning a trip over to attend a séance. I think I’ll invite her back to Caoin House to see if we can bring Eva and Eli out of hiding. Perhaps we can give them some peace and send them on their way. It’s sad that they would stay here, hoping for what?”
“Oh, Raissa, you are too brave. In fact, you are foolhardy. No one has any business messing with the dead.”
I put a hand on her arm to calm her. “I won’t mess with them—I promise. But if I could listen to them, or tell them something they needed to hear so that they could finish their earthly business and rest in peace, wouldn’t that be a good thing?”
“I don’t think a Christian should involve herself with matters of the dead. Leave this to the priests and ministers.”
“An excellent idea. I’ll invite one of each to attend.”
Pretta turned to walk away, but she turned back. Her shock made me bite my lip to keep from laughing. “You can’t be serious. That just isn’t done. The people who consort with spirits and the dead—they’re going to hell, you know.”
“I want to write ghost stories. It’s research. Surely a little risk of hellfire is worth a good story.”
Pretta was even more upset. “Call it whatever you want, but society people will shun you. If you want to stay here in Mobile with your uncle, please don’t do this, Raissa. Decent people won’t have anything to do with you.”
I couldn’t laugh and hurt her feelings. She was sincere and attempting to be a good friend. “There’s no need to worry. I won’t become a social outcast—I promise.” I hadn’t indicated that I had considered my uncle’s offer to stay, but I thought it was sweet of Pretta to be concerned for my social welfare. How awful to be a widow, a schoolmarm, and a social outcast.
“If you dabble in spiritualism, Raissa, you’ll be worse off than a colored person. Quality people won’t invite you into their homes.”
I didn’t answer because I wondered if her words held more truth than I wanted to hear. To me, this was a means to an end. I would learn things to use in my stories. And I couldn’t be afraid to explore the supernatural world if I was going to write about it. Damn the social consequences. Uncle Brett would cast the deciding vote on my proposed adventure. Even if I couldn’t invite the renowned medium to Mobile, I could attend one of her séances in New Orleans. My mind was made up about that.
“Raissa, I hope you aren’t mad at me.” Pretta tentatively touched my arm.
“Of course I’m not mad. You’re trying to look out for me.” I took her arms and led her back to the drink tent. She’d finished her punch and needed a fresh drink. Behind her was a clear view of the second-floor balcony outside my room, and standing there was the Confederate soldier. He put a finger to his lips, as if to hush me. His smile was conspiratorial. And then he was gone, his place marked only by the sheers of my bedroom blowing wildly out the window.
My expression gave me away, and Pretta turned to see what had caught my interest. “What is going on with those curtains?” she asked. “Someone must be in that room playing a prank.”
“Highly possible,” I said, though I couldn’t keep a ripple of fear from slipping down my skin. I didn’t mention that it was my bedroom. While I craved dancing with the dark side, I wasn’t immune to the chills.
CHAPTER NINE
I had almost forgotten about Carlton’s surprise when Uncle Brett used a megaphone to call us all under the main tent. Uncle turned the game over to Carlton, who divided us into teams of two, holding out the promise of a grand prize more wonderful than anything that could be found in The Arabian Nights. I would have preferred to slip away from the game with Robert, but we’d been put on separate teams. I was partnered with Isabelle, and I couldn’t have picked better. Her knowledge of Mobile and Caoin House, combined with her fun-loving spirit, made for the perfect ally. Uncle teamed with Robert, so my new friend could use the time to advance his business schemes.
The boundaries for the game included all of Caoin House proper, the oak and pecan groves, the slave quarters behind the pecans, the family cemetery, and the fringes of the swamp. With each clue found, the team advanced to the next clue. The team that finished first would win.
The first clue told me instantly that Carlton had worked very hard to create a puzzle that could be solved, yet would take some hard thinking. Each team had a local person on it, to be sure that those from out of town were not totally at a disadvantage.
I read the first clue. “Brett spends his nights beside a woman of great beauty, the loveliest woman of the Confederacy.” A bit racy, but that was Carlton’s creative style.
“I know where the clue is,” Isabelle whispered. “Wait until we can slip away.”
While some gamers wanted to search Isabelle’s pockets and shoes, I knew better. When the other players were preoccupied, Isabelle led the way to the house. We went to my uncle’s morning room and stopped before the portrait of a woman who was not only beautiful but regal. Eva Whitehead. I’d not frequented my uncle’s suite, so I studied the image of a woman whose beauty compelled. She wore a rose-colored silk gown that dropped off her shoulders, revealing an elegant neck and flawless chest. Beautiful and tragic.
The setting for the painting was not the traditional staircase or beside the mantel, but the oak grove. Although the trees were not so massive as they were now, sixty years later, I recognized one tree with a branch that swooped to the ground and came back up to create a perfectly flat surface. A large book rested on the limb, and Eva’s left hand held the book in place. I couldn’t make out the title, but it was bound in leather and appeared to be heavy.
She looked into the distance, and a hint of joy touched her features, as if some long-awaited guests were coming down the drive. Her pink lips were slightly parted. She looked so alive, I almost expected her to speak. No wonder Caoin House was reputed to be haunted by her. She was a woman who could defy death if she chose.
“If I were the jealous type, I’d have to banish this portrait from Brett’s morning room,” Isabelle said. “I wonder if she was this beautiful in real life, or if the painter enhanced her?”
Eva’s dark eyes seemed to follow me as I stood on tiptoe to search behind the heavy frame. “She is truly beautiful, but she died a tragic death. Pretta just told me.”
“Indeed.�
�� Isabelle came to help me lift the frame from the wall.
I felt behind it and finally discovered the slip of paper. I pulled it out and gave it to Isabelle to read as I readjusted the painting.
“In the long, sleepless watches of the night, a gentle face—the face of one long dead—looks at me from the wall, where round its head the night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.” Isabelle frowned. “What does that mean?”
I knew the poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I’d taught it to my class, and had sometimes read it for comfort in the long days after I learned of Alex’s death. “It’s a poem about death. ‘The Cross of Snow.’”
Isabelle stepped back from the portrait, distaste sliding over her face. “That’s rather morbid—don’t you think?”
Voices came to me. Another group of searchers were hard on our heels. “Shall I put the clue back?” I was tempted to take it and win the game by illicit means.
“We have to play fair.” Isabelle’s good humor was restored. “Put it back. Perhaps they won’t be as literate as you are and will miss the reference. I would have.”
I quickly replaced the clue, and we were at the doorway when John Mills, a banker from Birmingham, and Pretta came in.
“Did you find it?” Pretta asked. “It has to be Eva’s portrait. I told you Eva was considered the most beautiful woman in the Confederacy.”
I widened my eyes to perfect innocence. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Pretta giggled. “I’m right behind you, Raissa. I won’t let you win.”
Isabelle and I hurried away, cutting through the dining room and a long hall that eventually led to a door that opened on the pecan orchard. When the coast was clear, we ran through the orchard and toward the woodland trail that led to the Whitehead family cemetery. In my visits to Caoin House, I’d never had occasion to seek out the burial plot of the Whitehead family. None of my kin was buried on the grounds. My parents reposed in the First Episcopal Church of Savannah. Now, though, after hearing the tragic story of the Whitehead family, I was curious to see the place where Eva and Eli had been put to rest. Already I could think of a scene for my first story, “The Haunting of Beauty.”
“Carlton must really want us to get some exercise,” Isabelle said. “He’s sitting under the tent drinking a cocktail while we’re running through the woods, all for some unnamed prize which will more than likely be a joke.”
“It isn’t about the prize,” I said, wiping the sheen of perspiration from my forehead. “It’s the pride of the win.”
She put her hands on her knees and bent down to catch her breath. “You are just like Brett,” she said. “He adores winning.”
I’d never thought of myself in that way before, but I liked it. I wanted to be the girl who came home with the blue ribbon, the prize. “Do you find that a negative quality in my uncle?”
My question made her stand up tall and examine me, but it didn’t upset her. “I love your uncle. I believe, long ago, he lost a woman he truly loved, and now he is reluctant to test those waters again. Some hearts love too hard, and I believe he is like that. But I don’t dislike his competitive streak. He wakes up each morning, raring to take on the day. So many people die and simply fail to crawl into a coffin. Your uncle is alive. Part of his joie de vivre comes from the win. How can I not love the quality that makes his eyes sparkle and brings forth that great laugh?”
Whatever else I could say about Isabelle, and I could say many complimentary things because I liked her, she loved Uncle Brett. “I hope you can share your life with him. I want you to know, should I move into Caoin House, I don’t want to be a hindrance to your relationship.”
Her laughter struck the tree trunks that surrounded us and bounced back. “You make your uncle happy. His happiness becomes mine. I’m glad you’re here, and I sincerely hope you stay. Now let’s find the next clue before Pretta catches up to us. She’s very clever for a girl who pretends making candy all day long is the sum of her ambitions.”
We started forward at a brisk walk, the sunlight filtering green around us. The song of a mockingbird followed us, making me think of Hansel and Gretel and the bread crumbs that would never lead them home. We hurried through the afternoon light to a wrought iron arch. “Whitehead Cemetery,” in an elaborate scroll, was centered above the path. In smaller script was a verse: “Let those who enter rest in peace.”
The cemetery was beautifully maintained, and it was much larger than I’d anticipated. The Whiteheads were not a big family, but there were grave markers for at least thirty people. Behind a screen of cedars, I saw wooden crosses that stretched into the woods. “Who are all those people?”
“Slaves,” Isabelle said. “The mortality rate was high for the field-workers.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. The numerous grave sites made slavery a reality. “Are there no stones or markings to tell their names?”
She shook her head. “Not for slaves or soldiers. In death we are all anonymous.”
“Except for the ruling class.” I hadn’t meant the sentence to sound so judgmental, but there was no taking it back.
Isabelle wisely ignored it, and we walked into the cemetery shaded by live oaks, cedars, and sycamores, with their pale, mottled trunks that made me think of a snake shedding its skin.
“Where would Carlton hide the clue?” she asked.
“Eva’s grave.” Her portrait had sent us here. Besides, from the little I knew of Carlton, this sounded right. Eva had been the Queen of Caoin House. Her grave would appeal to his sense of drama. I surveyed the cemetery, aware of the beauty of this plot of ground where the dead slept, often covered with a slab of marble. The Episcopal cemetery in Savannah held the same moss-covered oaks, the same sense of time caught and held. Time meant nothing to the dead. For the living, time was either a weight or a sliver that evaded containment.
“Eva is buried over here,” Isabelle said. She, too, had fallen into a pensive mood. “I came here once, with your uncle.”
She led the way to a sarcophagus that bore a beautiful woman carved into the granite lid. I recognized Eva from her portrait. Though marble was a cold stone, the effigy of Eva was lifelike and alive. She wore a gown that flowed about her, and her curls spread across the marble as if arranged by the artist. “The work is incredible,” I said.
“It is.” Isabelle’s hand traced the stone coils of Eva’s hair. “The detail is exquisite. Coming here calms me. It’s as if Eva merely slept.”
Except for the white, unseeing eyes that stared skyward. To avoid those eyes, I focused my attention around the base of the grave, hoping to find a clue. The sun had slipped behind a cloud, and goose bumps danced on my skin.
“Are you cold?” Isabelle asked.
“No.” I stood up, pondering my body’s reaction to this tomb. “My mother would say someone walked over my grave.” I rubbed my bare arms. “I just had a sense that something bad might happen. Foolishness.”
We heard voices behind us, and I resumed my hunt. “We’d better hurry or we’re going to lose our lead.” My fingers worked the grass at the edge of the vault, pulling the thin carpet of runners back a little so I could look for the clue. At last I found something and brought it forth. The third clue.
“In the midst of vegetation, a mirror reflects the sun. Beware the lure of Narcissus. Look but do not touch.” I read it aloud and returned it to the hiding place.
“What is Carlton going on about now?” Isabelle asked. She looked around the cemetery as if she expected someone to step out and reprimand us for being there. “Let’s get out of here.”
I shared her sentiment. “The clue directs us to that little pond on the way to the swamp. Let’s hurry.” We were almost to the lych-gate when I saw Travis. He came at a slow run, as he was a big man unused to moving with such speed. Instantly I knew he sought me, and for a reason that would hold pain.
“Travis!” I ran to meet him. “Is Uncle Brett okay?”
“He is. It’s the young man, Robert.
He’s had an accident. You must come quickly; he’s asking for you.”
“What kind of accident?” Instead of speed, I was paralyzed. A red skein dropped behind my eyes. I saw nothing but pulsing veins. The red curtain fell away, and in my near-paralyzed trance state, I saw the blood. It ran in rivulets down the marble steps of Caoin House, inching ever toward the ground. So much blood. I knew the vision to be true.
Travis gripped my arms to keep me from falling to the ground. “Miss Isabelle. Help her.”
“Raissa!” Isabelle patted my cheek. “Raissa.”
I came back to the moment with the certainty that Robert was dead. “What happened?” I was unnaturally calm.
Travis could barely contain his agitation. “The young man took a fall. No one knows how. Miss Raissa, he’s asking for you.”
I sprinted toward the house, running like a creature pursued by the hounds of hell.
When at last I came out of the woods and raced across the pecan orchard, I saw the gathering of partygoers, once so festive, now standing in shock. I ran past them, failing to register the faces. No one attempted to stop me as I rushed toward the front steps of Caoin House, where my uncle, Carlton, and Winona were gathered. Uncle Brett held Robert in his arms, the bright blood seeping away from them, inching and slowly spilling down the cascading steps. Just as in my vision.
“Robert!” I fell to my knees at his side.
The sound of my voice roused him, and he tried to lift a hand to me.
“Robert, don’t go.” I touched his face. I had no doubt he was dying. He lingered only for another moment. “Please, don’t go.” I grasped his shoulders as if I could force the life back into him. “Please, Robert. Stay with me.”
Blood frothed at his lips, and he was gone.
CHAPTER TEN
The sequence of events that followed isn’t exactly clear to me. Dr. Martin, Uncle Brett’s personal physician, could do nothing. Robert was dead. Winona called the sheriff. Isabelle managed to coax me away from Robert’s body and take me up to my room. Somewhere in the middle of it all, the guests departed and the servants dismantled the tents, tables, food, and drinks and hauled them all away.
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 6
