My grief and shock were so acute, the doctor was sent up to attend to me. Though I struggled against it, potassium bromide was administered to calm me. I’d read about the effects of this treatment on patients, and I didn’t want it, but the doctor prevailed. Finally, the image of Robert, his fine eyes boring into mine for one last moment before the life departed, slipped from my consciousness. Lethargy overtook me, and I slept.
When I awoke, the moon danced through the oak branches outside the French doors, which stood open. The night was pleasantly cool but far from cold. At first I had no recollection of the past day, but my reprieve didn’t last long. Robert, a man I’d begun to develop feelings for, was dead from a fall, a freak accident.
But what was he doing, and how did he fall? My uncle’s suite was on the main floor of the house. Robert’s room in the south wing was also on the first floor and faced the cypress swamp, not the front of the house. It didn’t make sense.
When I checked the clock in my room, I found it was only three in the morning. I couldn’t go to my uncle and ask the questions that battered at my forehead like the wings of a moth against a streetlight. Answers would have to wait until tomorrow. My uncle was upset and tormented, too. If he’d fallen asleep, it would be wrong of me to wake him.
Although my spirit was raw, my body demanded food. I’d eaten nothing but a few bites of omelet and the bit of bacon I’d playfully snatched yesterday from Robert’s breakfast plate. The medication had unsettled my stomach. Not even twenty-four hours earlier, he’d been alive and healthy, delighting in a biscuit and bacon. It was impossible that he was dead, and yet he was.
I thought to go down to the kitchen, but the lethargy came over me again, and I returned to bed. I felt as if I were falling, falling down a tunnel of wool darkness. I dreamed that someone called my name. “Raissa! Raissa, come down to me.”
The balcony doors were open, and the voice called to me from the lawn outside. I went out into the night and looked upon the oak grove. The soldier stood, fifty yards from the house, in the middle of the trees. The dark oak branches, like the legs of giant spiders, stretched and bent. The moss gyrated in a soft breeze, and I thought of the tatters of a shroud.
“Who are you?” I called down to the soldier. Even though I spoke barely above a whisper, he could hear me.
“Raissa, come down to me.”
I moved as if my will had been stripped from me. Back into the bedroom, down the hall, down the cantilevered spiral staircase that seemed to hang suspended. At last I was at the front door. After turning the lock, I stepped into the night. I would find this soldier and name him, once and for all. I would learn why he called to me.
I crossed the drive and stepped into the dew-soaked grass, so cool beneath my bare feet. A wind caught the fabric of my cotton gown and blew it against my body, outlining my form in a rather indecent way. I didn’t care. My only goal was to meet with the soldier. He didn’t walk, but he drifted closer to me. I heard the clank of his sword against his polished black boots.
“Who are you?” I stopped beside the limb where Eva Whitehead had stood for her portrait.
“I’ve waited for you,” he said. “Come with me.” His voice was deep, with the hint of an accent that was more Mississippi or rural Alabama than society Mobile.
“Who are you?” He was not three feet away. His face, gaunt and handsome, held mysteries. Three stars gleamed on the collar of his tunic. His cavalry hat was held in one hand. The other hand extended to me, imploring.
“What do you want?” A glimmer of warning traced up my back. “Who are you? Tell me or get out.”
He began to fade away. From transparent he dissolved into nothing.
I came to my senses on the floor of my bedroom, head pounding. At first I couldn’t remember where I was, or why the furnishings of the room were so elegant. I looked out the open balcony doors into a night graced with the soft shadows of a full moon. I was at Caoin House. The whole dreadful day came back to me. The doctor had given me a drug to calm my emotional turmoil, and the sedative had resulted in the strangest dream. I’d spoken with the Confederate soldier, a man who was long dead.
The clock in my room showed three thirty. Soon it would be daylight. But not soon enough. I forced myself from the floor and into the bed. I’d thought I’d never sleep, but the bliss of unconsciousness came over me instantly. I escaped into a gray landscape of fog and the echo of hounds on the trail of prey.
“Raissa, wake up.” The soft voice called to me as someone shook my shoulder. “Raissa, are you okay? Wake up.”
I opened my eyes to bright sunlight and a worried Isabelle leaning over the bed. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was so dry, I coughed instead.
“Here.” Isabelle helped me sit up and put a cup of strong black coffee in my hand.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“It’s nearly noon. The sedative knocked you out.” She sat on the side of the bed and offered a bite of scrambled egg to me. “Eat this. You need to put something in your stomach or the medicine will make you queasy.”
The thought of eggs made me want to retch, but I ate a bite. And another of toast. With each mouthful, I felt more like myself. “I had terrible dreams.” Truthfully, I couldn’t discern between the horrible dreams and the even more awful reality.
“It’s a side effect of the bromide,” she said. “Nasty stuff, but you were so upset. Brett was terrified that your mind would snap. For such a young woman, you’ve suffered many losses.” She looked away for a moment to compose herself. “I’m so very sorry, Raissa.”
“Where is . . . he? Robert.” There were so many questions to ask. His body had been removed, but where had they taken him?
“The doctor took him to the hospital in Mobile. Brett has been trying to notify his next of kin, but we can’t seem to find a living relative. He was such a young man—surely he has parents or siblings or cousins. Did he mention anything to you?”
I hadn’t thought to ask Robert about his family, possibly because I had none of my own to share. The interest we’d nurtured hadn’t moved beyond the immediate. It was a blow to realize I knew nothing about Robert, except for the wartime loss of a beloved brother. I had no answers regarding his next of kin or even his permanent residence. “I didn’t ask. There wasn’t time to . . .” I swallowed back the emotion. “It’s ridiculous to feel so bereft when he was a stranger to me.”
Isabelle patted my hand. “I don’t know what’s hardest, losing someone you’ve loved for a long time or young love cut short. And I know you weren’t in love, but the attraction was plain for all to see. I’m so sorry you’re hurting.” She brushed my hair back from my face. “If you feel up to it, your uncle needs you. He’s very upset, and he’s worried about you. Seeing you up and about will do him a world of good.”
Though I wanted to burrow into the pillows and coverlet, I could not fail Uncle Brett. “Yes. I’ll get dressed and come downstairs.” I tossed back the covers and stopped. The sheets were streaked with mud and grass. Isabelle looked at them, and I looked at her.
“What happened?” she asked.
Pieces of grass still clung to my feet and ankles. “I dreamt I went out onto the lawn to meet a Confederate soldier. But . . .” My mind was still foggy from the bromide. It wasn’t possible that I’d actually gone out onto the lawn. Yet my dirty feet told another story.
“Tell me about this soldier,” Isabelle said.
“He’s not real.” I had to explain this properly or Isabelle would think I’d lost my mind. “He’s a cavalry officer. I believe it’s Eli Whitehead.”
“Eli’s dead. He’s buried in the family cemetery.” Worry drew her brows together. “You were sleepwalking, Raissa. It’s another of the side effects of the bromide.” Her tone changed. “I told the doctor not to give you a full dose. And you should know, the effects linger for several days up to two weeks.” She grasped my hands in a gentle grip. “Potassium bromide can lead to hallucinations and a trancelike state. I sh
ould have stayed here with you to keep you safe.”
“Other than dirtying the sheets, I’m not hurt.” I didn’t want her to think that I had a weak mind. “I’m fine, Isabelle. Really. I had a dream and saw a ghost.” I almost mentioned that I’d seen the soldier long before I took the medicine, but for some reason I didn’t. Isabelle was too upset, and I didn’t intend to worry her more. “Let me freshen up, and I’ll be down. Please tell Uncle Brett that I’m in no danger.”
“I’ll tell Winona to send a girl to change the sheets.” Isabelle rose. “We’ll get through this, Raissa.”
“Yes, we will.” My resolve to travel to New Orleans to meet with the famed medium had grown stronger. If I could see and speak with a Civil War ghost with whom I had no connection, then why not Robert? Or Alex? Or my parents? There were many on the side of the dead with whom I wanted a word.
I hurried through my toilette and dressed in a skirt and simple blouse. Uncle Brett was standing in the foyer, and the relief on his face made me wish I’d not slept half the day away.
“Raissa, how are you?”
I kissed his cheek. “I’m okay. I have questions.”
“I thought you might,” he said, taking my elbow. “Isabelle, would you ask Winona to send coffee and something light to the library?”
“Of course.” She left us and went to the kitchen.
“Shouldn’t Isabelle be with us?” I asked. It seemed unkind to exclude her.
“There are things I wish to tell you and only you,” he said. The skin under his eyes tightened. “You are heir to Caoin House, Raissa. My only blood. Should anything happen to me, you will inherit. It’s time to settle some things between us. Robert’s tragic death has brought that point home.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Winona served coffee and a bowl of fresh strawberries. I’d told her earlier how much I loved the summer crop of berries. Worry was etched on her face, and her gaze lingered on Uncle Brett. She was far too discreet to show her emotion publicly, but she was worried about him. I thanked her for her kindness, and she left with only one backward glance at Uncle Brett.
“Ask your questions,” he said. This was a side of him I didn’t see often, the businessman who dealt with unpleasantness head-on. “Ask and I’ll answer honestly.”
“How did Robert fall?” I kept my voice steady by great effort. If Uncle Brett could be open and direct, I could be sensible and strong.
“No one can figure out what he was doing on the roof. Carlton and I went up there and found a handkerchief with his initials. Perhaps he went for a better view of the hunting teams. All I know is that he was beside me one minute, and then he was gone. I had no idea what had happened to him. I wasn’t much inclined to continue the hunt without my partner, so I went to talk to Carlton in the beverage tent. I don’t know if we’ll ever understand what motivated Robert to climb onto the roof.”
I didn’t react, but I found that possibility unacceptable. I would learn what drew Robert to his place of death. As soon as I was out from under the watchful gaze of Uncle and Isabelle, I would go to the roof myself.
“You were teamed with Robert,” I said. “Did he say anything?”
“Only that he was disappointed not to be teamed with you.” Brett’s words were tinged with sadness. “He was enchanted by you, Raissa.” He patted my hand. “I liked him. In time, he might have been the son I never had, and you the daughter.”
In his own way, Uncle Brett had lost as much as I. It struck me how lonely Uncle Brett must be. I changed the subject. “Who was Robert involved in business with?” I realized when I asked the question that I sought motive for a murder—not an accidental fall. Uncle Brett realized it, too.
“Next you’ll ask which of the guests was unaccounted for.”
“That was my next question.” The certainty that I was on the right track made my lungs contract ever so slightly.
“As far as I understood, Robert was starting his own business in Mobile. And I have no idea where half the guests were. They were all over the property hunting for clues.” He sighed. “You suspect foul play?”
“I don’t know, but I’m not ruling it out. Robert was fit and athletic. It makes no sense that he was on the roof, and it makes even less sense that he somehow managed to fall.”
“Your observations greatly trouble me.” Brett pushed his cup and saucer back from the edge of the table and stood. “There are things about Caoin House you should know.”
“I know the house is haunted.” I dared a lot, asking my uncle to believe in my visions.
“You’ve seen her?” Brett asked, his healthy color fading into pale. “Thank God. I thought I was the only one who saw her.”
“Her?”
“Eva Whitehead. She haunts the house and the grounds. It’s why I had the sarcophagus built for her. I wanted her to find rest, and the priest told me that building a final resting place for her might work, but it didn’t. She beckons me outside. There are nights I’ve awakened at the gate to the family cemetery. I feared I was going mad.”
“And no one else has ever seen her?”
“As if they’d come out and say, ‘Oh, by the by, Brett, old boy, you have a ghost sporting about the house.’” He frowned. “What is it?”
“The ghost I saw wasn’t female. He was a Civil War officer. Three gold stars on his tunic collar.”
“A colonel. Eli Whitehead was a colonel.”
We stared at each other, both thinking the same thing but unwilling to express it. The original owners of Caoin House were still here, and something was holding them to this property. I found the notebook and pen I’d left on one of the library tables and sat down to make notes. “Tell me about Eva,” I said.
The woman my uncle described could have stepped right out of the portrait in his morning room, except her time among the shades had darkened her beauty. While she was as alluring as ever, my uncle also feared her.
“She insinuates herself into my dreams,” he said, now pacing in front of the cold fireplace. “She begs me to go with her to the cemetery.” He inhaled and swallowed. “I fear her desires are degenerate.”
“She died during a terrible assault,” I said, feeling my way into my own thoughts. “Perhaps her behavior is residual.”
“As if she’s still angry and wanting to punish the men who harmed her?”
I had only the tales of Poe, Le Fanu, and others of that ilk to go on. “Maybe. I don’t know. The man I saw seems only sad and lonely.”
“These are not healthy imaginings,” Brett said. “I have changed my mind about you staying here. Evangeline was right. It would be best if you returned to Savannah.”
“My mother . . .”
“During a visit, something upset her. You were a child, but you were hysterical. She never returned here. And I think you should leave.”
“No. I won’t do it.” I’d never openly defied my uncle—or any other figure of authority.
“Raissa, this house is dangerous.”
“No, I won’t leave you. If you wish to come to Savannah, I’ll accompany you. We can put the house and grounds on the market. You can build and sell your steamboat contraptions as easily in Savannah as here.”
Pain shifted across his face. “I can’t leave here.”
“Then I can’t either. We’re in this together.”
“I admire your courage, but this house isn’t safe.”
“Then we’ll get to the bottom of what’s wrong here.” I rose and faced Uncle Brett. “I want to write. I want to be a serious author, to tell stories. Ghost stories.” I inhaled so that my voice wouldn’t shake. “I have a gift. I can see them. And I want to write about them. To discover why they remain trapped here.”
“And you think you can do this? You think you want to do this?”
“I want to try.”
“Then I’ll support you, though I simply can’t imagine sitting alone and making up a tale.”
The relief was immense. Uncle Brett hadn’t laughed or scoff
ed at me. “Oh, I won’t be alone,” I reminded him. “Now tell me about Caoin House.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pretta had related the bones of the story. Uncle Brett fleshed them out. It wasn’t surprising that my timid friend left the more gruesome details of Eva’s death out of her version. Uncle Brett spared me none of the gore. He had his reasons, as I was to learn by the end of the conversation.
“I don’t believe Eva died at the hand of some deserter Union soldier,” he said.
“What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know, but there’s more to the story. I found some letters.” His face reflected his serious thoughts. “I haven’t told anyone about these letters, not even Isabelle.”
“What kind of letters?” My uncle acted as if he’d uncovered correspondence between President Wilson and the kaiser making illicit plans to take over the world.
“Love letters.”
I didn’t laugh, but I wanted to. “Whose love letters?” I’d read my fair share of love letters regarded in literary circles as the ultimate declaration of romantic love. I couldn’t think of a single example that warranted such dark concern.
Brett went to one of the built-in teak shelves of the library and removed all the books. Using a letter opener from his desk, he manipulated the back panel, which sprang free and revealed a shallow hiding place. “Many of the homes of the wealthy have small hidey-holes in different places around the house. During the Civil War, the women stashed the household silver, valuables, papers of slaves, things of that nature, when they anticipated the Union troops were headed their way.”
Uncle Brett reached into the depression and brought forth a bundle of letters tied with a green silk ribbon. “There are no names, but it’s evident to me by the dates that Eva is the recipient. The author is a mystery.”
I reached for the letters, but he withdrew them. “When I bought Caoin House, someone had ransacked the property. The former owner, Charles Wickerton, told me he’d been robbed three times in the years he owned the house. Nothing of value was taken—none of his silver or his wife’s jewels. But someone systematically combed portions of the house, searching for something. He had no idea what.”
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 7
