I didn’t finish. He kissed me—a long, searing kiss that caught me by surprise. My brief marriage had given me a taste of what it meant to have “the other” in my life. Someone to count on for companionship and affection. Someone to hold in the long hours of the night when bad dreams sent me on a walkabout. And someone for me to pour my love on, because I had so much I wanted to share.
Carlton’s arms tightened around me, and I gave myself to the kiss. This was not the exploratory kiss of a young man. Carlton had, no doubt, experienced numerous lovers. He was not a libertine, but he was an attractive, wealthy man with no encumbrances. He was free to take as many lovers as he wished.
“I’ve restrained myself as long as I could,” Carlton whispered into my ear. “I want you, Raissa.”
And in that moment, I wanted him. I was a widow, not a callow young girl. The pleasures of intimacy were known to me, but I didn’t have the freedom to take a lover. Not openly. And certainly not on my uncle’s front lawn, which was where this encounter was headed.
Regard for my reputation, and for Uncle Brett, made me push Carlton away. For a moment I thought he might resist, but he stepped back, breathing heavily, as was I.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve thought about this moment for so long. I let my need overrule my sense. I didn’t mean to take advantage of you.”
I struggled to regain my breath. “You don’t owe me an apology. I wanted it, too.” I’d never been so direct in speaking of my desires. “This isn’t the place. Anyone could be awake and watching.” Pretta and her husband were on a front-facing room on the second floor. Travis was always up before the sun.
Carlton looked around, and slowly a grin replaced his determined need. “No, it isn’t the place I would choose to make love to you. I want our first time to be silk sheets, champagne, and strawberries, a place with soft music and candles.” He nodded toward the house. “We don’t have an audience . . . yet. But it could happen.”
The thought of all the houseguests gathered on the porch watching us act out our passion broke the tension. It was too easy to imagine pretty Pretta’s face, eyes and mouth wide in a mien of lustful disapproval. She thought Carlton was handsome. Isabelle would only arch an eyebrow, acknowledging that we’d given in to our human nature. And Uncle Brett? I wondered if he would approve of my growing intimacy with Carlton. “Now that would be a delicious scandal.”
“We could blame it on the ghosts of Caoin House.”
And in some regards, we wouldn’t be that far off. It was Eli who’d lured me into the front yard with promises of secrets to be shared, who’d left me vulnerable to Carlton’s advances. But no one other than Reginald would understand that explanation.
“Let’s go back inside.” The hands of my watch were inching toward four thirty. It was pointless to go back to sleep, but I could wash, dress, and tidy myself up for our aquatic adventure. As I took my first step, I cried out in pain.
“What’s wrong?”
I looked down at my poor bruised and scraped feet.
“You’ve hurt yourself,” Carlton said as he knelt to examine the damage. “You didn’t feel anything?”
I shook my head. “The dream was so intense.”
He scooped me into his arms and began the journey back to the house. “Tomorrow, when all of the guests have gone, I want to hear about this dream that’s so powerful you cut your feet and don’t feel anything.”
By the time that happened, I would have a story ready to tell. For the moment, though, I enjoyed the sense of being carried in a man’s arms. Maybe it did play to the damsel-in-distress syndrome that I disdained, but for these few minutes, I allowed myself to enjoy it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Caleuche was a beautiful vessel with spacious accommodations. Uncle Brett had designed it for a floating business office, and as such, it had all the amenities. The name came from Chilean mythology—a ghost ship. While most of the party remained inside sitting comfortably in plush chairs, I took a position on the bow of the paddleboat. We were headed into the heart of darkness, a wonderful term coined by Joseph Conrad in his novel of the same name. The Tensaw delta was a place of great mystery, and only those who’d grown up in the area could successfully navigate the intricate and winding waterways that curled and doubled back upon themselves, leading the unfamiliar into watery cul-de-sacs and dead ends.
“Raissa, you’re very quiet this morning.” Pretta came to stand beside me. The morning sun peeked over the tree line.
“Last night took the wind out of my sails.” I didn’t mind admitting that much, and I was glad Carlton had told no one about my nocturnal adventure. “The séance was intense.”
“What did you really see?”
I wasn’t about to tell her the truth. “Reginald would be the one to ask. I was merely his assistant.”
“That horrid little toy that flew across the room. How did you do it?”
I smiled. “I promise you—I didn’t. Nor did Reginald. That was spirit phenomena, like the tapping. It’s how spirits communicate.”
“Reginald says that spirits with the power to move objects are dangerous.”
He’d told me the same thing. “Yes, Madam warned us of such things. But the spirits are gone now. Reginald helped them move on.”
“Move on to where?” Pretta’s pink cheeks were paler than normal.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think spirits can be evil?”
It was a question that nagged at me, too. “If humans can be evil, then I suppose spirits can, also.” Logic might not be the best approach to supernatural laws, but I wasn’t certain anyone could answer this with absolute fact. The pantheon of beliefs covered a lot of ground about what happened after death.
“Do you think the ghosts at Caoin House are evil?” Pretta asked.
“Evil or not, they’re gone. At least Reginald thinks they are. We’ll know in a week or two.” But I already knew. Eli was there. And at least one other—the one who’d been in the room beside mine watching us.
“I’d love to see a ghost,” Pretta said. “You know these swamps are haunted by the Indians who died here while hiding from the federal troops trying to push them to Oklahoma. Folks say it’s the ghosts of the Indians who kill hunters and trappers who go off into the swamps.”
“Really? They believe the ghosts literally kill people?”
“They do. Or at least a lot of the locals do. They see the moving lights in the swamp and believe it’s torches carried by raiding parties of Indians as they prepare to attack.”
“You know the area well, Pretta. This is fascinating.”
“I wasn’t always a candy maker. When I was a child, I traveled with my grandfather, who was a physician. He treated a lot of the Native Americans and those without the resources to come to town for care. While he was busy with treatments, I talked with the family members. I loved stories, and they were happy to share with me.”
I pulled a tiny notebook and pen from my purse and took down her tale. “What else do people say?” This thrilling story would make the foundation for another creepy tale by the chilling Mr. James.
She thought a minute. “There was a tiny shred of gossip attached to Caoin House. The property stretches all the way to the Chickasabogue Creek, which feeds into the delta.”
“What gossip?”
“I’ve heard the rumor that Eli Whitehead often stole Choctaw children and worked them as slaves.”
“Are you serious?” The Indians were free people. To enslave a man, woman, or child, whether black or red, was despicable.
“That’s the rumor.”
“Is it true?”
She laughed. “I don’t know. People can say anything they want. Proving it is another matter.”
“I never viewed Eli Whitehead as the kind of man who would do such a thing.” But he owned and worked slaves. Children were frequently taken from their parents and sold far away. Husbands and wives were split apart and sold separately. Was it such
a big step to steal a child—a free asset?
“Eli is hard to pin down,” Pretta said. “Hubert’s family knew the Whitehead family back in the 1850s and 1860s. Eli loved beauty and beautiful things, but he had a dark streak, according to the Paul family stories.”
“Such as?” I wanted to ask why she’d failed to mention this earlier, but to do so might sound like an accusation.
“The stories I heard most often involved his jealousy. Eva was beautiful, and men were drawn to her, which he loved. He enjoyed being envied. But at a certain point, he would grow angry. He was the same way about Elise. He ran off a number of suitors, some of them from prominent Mobile families, so you can see that left a bad taste. He settled on Charles Todd DeMornay. He made certain Elise’s future husband met all of his demands.”
“Poor Elise. A dead mother and a controlling father.” I wondered what role this played in her tragic death. While I might never know the truth, it was certainly fodder for a tale.
“There were other stories, too. That Eli acquired more than one Indian child, for himself and for his friends. Most of the children were sold away from Mobile because he feared they would escape and return to the swamps where he’d never be able to retrieve them.”
Movement in my peripheral vision made me jerk to the north. Standing among the trees and fronds was the silhouette of a man. He walked to the edge of the water and stood motionless, as if he watched us passing by. Not ten yards away, an eight-foot alligator sunned in the mud.
As we drew abreast of the figure, I caught the flash of something shiny where the sun struck it. I used my hand to shade the sun from my eyes and froze. I recognized the uniform. Eli Whitehead had left the grounds of Caoin House and was spying on us from the swamps.
The truth struck me like a fist to the heart. The child in the attic. The poor child clinging to a gruesome toy. Was he the unhappy spirit of a child stolen and sold into slavery who had died at Caoin House? I felt myself sway, and I grabbed the railing.
“Raissa, you should sit down. I think the ride is making you seasick.”
“Yes.” I let Pretta lead me into the cabin and to a chair. “I haven’t acquired my sea legs,” I said by way of explanation.
“Let me make you a seltzer,” Uncle Brett said.
Isabelle came to sit beside me. “Last night was a strain for you, Raissa. Are you okay?”
“I am.” I hugged her. “I’m tired, and I did get a little queasy. I’m right as rain now.”
I sipped the refreshing beverage Uncle Brett gave me and returned to the deck with Pretta, Isabelle, and the men. Carlton came to stand beside me. When the others had drifted away, his fingers found my hand and gave a squeeze.
“This is some of the loveliest scenery in the world.” He pointed to an inlet where five beautiful white cranes stood in the shallows fishing. The birds saw us and took flight, their wings spanning at least five feet, and their long skinny legs trailing behind.
I told him of my sense of journeying into Conrad’s literary terrain. And then I asked about the story Pretta had mentioned.
“I’ve heard the same rumors,” he said, “but I’ve never seen any solid proof. Caoin House estate was once part of the Choctaw nation. The land was taken from the Indians. The methods used were brutal and unjust. Eli Whitehead was no different from any other white man at the time. He took advantage of every situation to build his fortune.”
“Even stealing the children of free people.” It made me sad.
“I don’t know that it’s true, but it’s certainly possible.”
“Do we ever know the truth?”
Carlton slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me against him while the others were busy talking and laughing. “My truth is that I want you more than anything I’ve ever wanted.”
His words thrilled me, but they also made me shy. “I’m not ready for this, Carlton. I found out things about Robert.”
“What things?”
I couldn’t tell him that I knew Robert was a con man. I would never tell anyone. “He wasn’t the man I thought he was. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“So you liked someone you didn’t know well. That’s no reason to lose faith in your judgment. You’re a smart, talented young woman. Never lose faith in yourself. Besides, Brett can vouch for me. I am what you see.” His palm stroked my cheek, and his grin was devilish. “And one day, when you’re a famous writer, you can support me and we’ll travel to exotic places.”
“Like Eli and Elise?”
He looked a bit shocked. “Not as father and daughter.”
It was my turn to be shocked. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Thank goodness! I intend to have you, Raissa James. I will win your heart and make you mine.”
He was succeeding with the heart-winning part, or at least convincing me to open to the possibility. But I wouldn’t be rushed. This was too important. “Look,” I said, pointing to a small cove filled with the jutting stumps of cypress knees. It was an eerie and enchanted vista.
The rest of the crew came out to the deck as we moved slowly around the secret pathways of the delta. Uncle Brett had hired a boat captain whose lovely golden skin tone and high cheekbones spoke of possible Choctaw heritage. He certainly knew the byways of the delta, and there were many intersections of canals and streams. It would be easy to get lost.
Reginald was deep in conversation with Pretta and Isabelle, and Hubert had joined Brett. When Carlton went to refresh my seltzer, I listened to Reginald put the finishing touches on last night’s performance. He had to make the women believe the spirits of Caoin House were gone. Judging from their expressions, he was making a success of it.
As the sun rose higher, we found alligators lazing in the shallows. At first I thought they were logs bobbing in the muddy brown water. More than one moccasin zigzagged through the river. We were safe in the boat, but the sense of nearby danger held an edge of excitement. Uncle Brett was the perfect showman, telling of the history of the area, the place where the last slave ship to enter the United States—illegally—had gone down. A host of stories that I filed away for future use as rich texture for my supernatural tales.
Uncle Brett’s invention, a more powerful mechanism that propelled the wheel of the paddleboat, appeared to be a huge success. The boat easily maneuvered upriver without strain, and under the expert command of the captain, moved about the delta with great agility. It was everything Uncle had hoped. He was on the way to making another fortune.
We returned to the Mobile dock famished and excited by the beauty of the Tensaw area. At last the Caleuche was securely moored. A member of the boat crew came forward to hand me off the boat, but Carlton stepped to my side and took over. To my surprise, a young man in gray slacks and a starched white shirt standing on the dock called out to Carlton. At Carlton’s signal, he ran to us and delivered an envelope to him.
Carlton read the address and tapped the envelope against his hand, watching me before he extended it. “It’s a telegram. For you.”
“For me?” Curious, I tore into it. When I read the three sentences, I didn’t believe them. I looked up at Carlton; his face creased with pleasure.
“Congratulations!” he shouted. “Everyone! Raissa has sold her first story. She will be a published author in a few short months!” He whispered in my ear. “I took the liberty of asking the editor to send a telegram if he accepted your story. Waiting is too hard.”
“Thank you.” I floated on a sensation that was impossible to describe. My story would be published in the Saturday Evening Post. People across America would be able to read the tale I’d made up. It was thrilling.
“Raissa! I knew you would be published! I told you, didn’t I?” Pretta kissed my cheek. “This is wonderful.”
Uncle Brett clapped his hands. “Well, then, we should celebrate. It’s not every day a budding literary genius is in our company. My favorite downtown establishment, the Dockery, is open. Why don’t we adjourn there? Drinks are on me.” Uncl
e Brett swept me into a hug and kissed my cheek. “My niece, soon to be the literary light of Mobile.”
Questions came at me from all sides as we made the short walk to the restaurant, which served delicious Gulf seafood and also the beverages no one seemed to believe were illegal. Prohibition might be the law, but my uncle and his friends ran their alcohol consumption wide-open.
Uncle Brett, Isabelle, and the Pauls entered the club while I stood on the sidewalk to catch a minute with Reginald. He grabbed my hand and kissed it with all the aplomb of a French royal. “You did it.” He spun me around. “You achieved your dream, Raissa. I’m so happy for you.”
“I can hardly believe it.”
“Now you must write another. One day your stories will be known by an entire country. You’ll be spoken of in the same breath as Mr. Poe.”
I had to laugh at that. “It’s one story. I believe we’re getting ahead of ourselves. And we have more serious matters to discuss. What about Caoin House?”
“I’ve convinced Brett and Isabelle the house is free of all negative spirits,” he said, “but that’s a dangerous lie. Raissa, you need to be careful. They know you can see them.” The skin beneath his eyes was white with tension.
“Can’t you send them on their way?”
“I did what Madam taught me. Sometimes a spirit won’t leave until an injustice has been righted.” He pulled a cigarette from his jacket and lit it. “I might take the train to New Orleans and consult Madam about Caoin House. Maybe there’s additional action, something I haven’t thought of. Maybe a priest . . .”
I didn’t like the idea of a priest. The gossip would be all over Mobile. It was bad enough that the Martins had been so badly frightened. If a priest was called to the house, the reputation of Caoin House would be lost. “The ghosts aren’t only in Caoin House. I saw Eli in the swamps just after Pretta told me how he supposedly stole Choctaw children and worked and sold them as slaves.”
Reginald’s face went stony. “That isn’t good. The spirits aren’t confined, then.”
“And they’re growing stronger. Last night Eli called me out of the house. I was all the way to the cemetery with him before Carlton pulled me from the dream state.”
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 21
