“You tell your friend Brighton I want my two most precious commodities returned post-haste. I, in turn, will not tell the soldiers who keep sniffing around Charleston that I know the location of their precious cargo.”
I stride past him, easing Sarah from the floor and into my arms.
“If I cannot derive coin from the two of them, then the reward on her head shall be compensation enough, I suppose.”
I hold perfectly still as he makes for the door. “Tell that fat choirboy Plimpton to ready Allegra’s symphony. We shall perform it by Friday and I’ll find some other firebug to do Brighton’s job. How hard can it be?”
Chapter Thirteen
Jonesy
“Was that supposed to happen?” The lady beside me breathes. The white feathers of her swan costume ruffle as she clutches her husband’s forearm.
The second masquerade, sans LeFroy or Allegra, has so far managed to be adequate. No longer.
Sarah’s black eyes turn to meet my gaze as her hands clutch the boat’s railing. A crash thunders overhead.
Her eyes widen in fear as the fireworks rain down, casting a blood-red glow across her upturned face.
Beside me, the orchestra struggles. Musician’s shift with anxiety in their seats as they attempt to ignore the fire in the sky.
A muscle beneath Plimpton’s eye flinches with every botched note like a muscular metronome.
We hadn’t enough time to practice it. Allegra’s symphony was layered and marvelous—not a piece to be taken lightly.
Fear hums through the musician’s rows; an unwanted harmony to the symphony’s melody.
Ill-timed fireworks collide in fits and starts and pops, too close to our heads. Patrons’ murmur, their voices unsure and nervous.
Silas glares at the light-show like a man possessed. A strange flashing light seems to emanate from him. I squint and swallow, realizing his time-piece reflects the light from his quivering hands. His lips draw back in a tight grimace I’ve come to associate with impending violence.
Brighton’s replacement is aiming the pyrotechnics hair-singeingly close to his paying-patrons-heads.
Hoisting a megaphone, Silas bellows, “Isn’t our lightshow wondrous? We shall be retiring inside now for refreshments—”
A hum hits our ears; grows louder and louder as the night becomes brighter.
A stray streak of blue light shoots toward Silas like a calculated cannonball. The rocket slams into the deck, smoldering then crackling to life.
Silas leaps away from the blaze as the megaphone clatters. The orchestra halts in a din of clangs and warbles.
Above, two, four, six pairs of rockets collide in mid-air. Instead of beautiful falling sparks, globs of burning fire rain down like dragon’s breath.
They are too close. I shake my head. “Too close.”
I spring from my orchestra chair and hurry through a litany of screams to the spot where Sarah stood, seconds before the crowd blocked her from my view.
Brighton had expertly calculated the angle and trajectory of the fire so it would harmlessly fall into the bay. But now—with the idiot randomly exploding rockets—I duck as a bolt of fire whisks past so close I feel the heat on my cheek.
Shrieks and shouts erupt as I weave and spin, trying to make my way to Sarah.
“Sarah!”
The fire is spreading across the riverboat’s deck. I feel the heat at my back.
“Sarah!” I scream, the blaze incinerating my self-control.
“I’m here, Percy!”
I burst out of the thick crowd and sigh in relief and grasp her shaking hand to my chest.
Men and women retreat, scurrying backward across the deck in a jumbled mass of screams, away from the now-raging bonfire.
The musicians scatter, abandoning their chairs.
“Assemble the bucket brigade,” Silas barks.
Thick-muscled men appear through the crowd, casting buckets over the side and then passing them in a line to douse the blaze.
“Oh, Percy. Oh, Percy.” Sarah’s voice trembles and her eyes dart everywhere, seeing nothing.
I grasp her cheeks, forcing her eyes to meet mine. They finally shift and hold.
“They aren’t going to beat it; it is too far gone. We must get off the boat, Sarah.”
Her empathetic eyes sweep through the elegant ladies. “Oh, Percy…”
I grab her elbow, forcing her along the tight walkway running along the boat’s sides. “Keep moving. They have lifeboats. There’s no sense waiting; we will be last to board anyway. We are highly expendable.”
She whimpers.
“It’s alright my love. It’s alright. Stay calm.”
My eyes steal out across the moonlit water of the bay. Thank the heavens we are not too far from shore. The hair on my neck stands to attention. We are, however, in salt water. I am fully aware of the leviathans which glide unseen beneath the frothy waves. Especially on warm nights.
We leap onto the back deck where a few other less-importants gather, apparently of like-mind.
I bend down, sliding my hand under Sarah’s skirt.
She slaps it away. “Percy, what are you doing?”
I shove them back under and my fingers continue on, searching for layers. I spin her round to unbutton her back, loosening the tight bodice which binds that beautiful chest. After a few moments struggle, I ease it off her.
“Jonesy!” Her face is all mortification. As are the few onlookers.
A few protests of, “Scandalous!” and “See here!”
I ignore them. My singular concern is to get her to shore alive.
“You will drown, my darling.” I stare at her, letting my words sink in. “The clothes are much too heavy. Your strength shall give out halfway to shore.”
Even in the dim light, I see the remaining color drain from her already-pale face.
“We are. We are swimming?” Her voice is incredulous.
She thrusts her head out to look at the lights of the shore, shining in the distance. She swallows, fanning her face.
“Yes, we must. And you must rid yourself of as much weight as possible.”
Tears bead and flow down her cheeks in earnest, but she nods, lifting her arms to assist me. I helped her shimmy out of her layers till only her shift remains.
Scathing scowls change to terror as comprehension dawns on the onlookers faces. Soon the deck is littered with underclothes and waistcoats worth a fortnight’s worth of wages.
We move to the railing. Screams erupt behind us like staccato bits of fear in the night. And the heat. I can feel the heat now.
Lifeboats splash to either side of the boat as Charleston’s finest scurry over the side like common bilge-rats.
I pull Sarah back against my chest and whisper in her ear. “Miss Sarah Goodwin, will you be my wife?”
“What?” She whirls. Her eyes sparkle with astonishment “I. Well. Yes, yes of course I will.”
Her warm arms wrap around my neck and soft lips press against mine. I squeeze her tightly for a single breath and push her back.
A few couples around us clap briefly and then cast off the side, splashing into the black water.
We clamber onto the rail, balancing on its edge. “Are you ready?”
Sarah gives a solemn nod.
“Together?”
We join hands, and leap—the shock of the cold water seems to stop my heart. I sputter, feeling in the water till I find her hand.
* * *
I sit on the dramatic four-poster bed, staring out the window at the vast acres which comprise Moreland. A flutter catches my eye and I quickly stand. A curious netting is draped along the bed’s top and I reach up to slide it between my fingertips.
“That’s for the mosquitoes, Allegra.”
I start, my heart hammering against my ribs like galloping hooves. “You startled me, Lucy.”
“Brighton says they’re deadly. Carry all kinds of pestilence. At night, be sure to pull them down around your bed, for protection.”
I swallow, staring up at them. So much I do not know about these states. “Thank you.”
“Come. I want to show you everything!”
“Everything is much for one day,” I say, but Lucy is dragging me behind her down the massive staircase to the foyer.
She leads me to the porch where two large horses wait at the bottom of the steps.
“We’re going by horse?”
“Yes, silly goose. Couldn’t rightly walk it. Not in one day, anyway.”
The large man holding the horse’s bridle stares at me. It’s Toby.
He tips his hat. “Miss.”
“Thank you.”
Toby eyes Lucy with discerning eyes. “Miss Lucy, take it easy on Miss Allegra. She may not be used to riding like you are.”
“Oh, no. I love to ride—but thank you for the concern.”
Toby tips his hat again and turns to walk toward the stables.
“Toby—”
“Yes, Miss?”
I nudge the horse up alongside him. “Might I be so bold to ask you something?”
He tilts his hat back to better see my face, his eyes wary. “Mam?”
“Did you not say Brighton doesn’t believe in slavery? I’m. I’m a little confused. Are all those slaves I saw in the rice fields…paid workers?”
I see the light in his eyes lessen a fraction. “No, Miss. Brighton has his own, paid staff. Bought and freed from his father, by his own sweat.”
“His father…doesn’t believe in emancipation?”
His laugh is disturbing. Like a bow pulled at an errant angle across the strings.
“No. Brighton and his father…disagree on many things.”
Lucy trots beside us. “Yes. Father threatened to cut Brighton off when he purchased his men’s freedom. But Brighton didn’t care. He left for six months and—”
“Miss Lucy. That information is a might personal. Perhaps he wouldn’t want you—”
“Oh, no. Miss Allegra is his particular friend. He told me so himself.”
One of Toby’s eyebrows rise in question. “That so? Well, we still should let him share his own secrets, don’t you think?’
Lucy’s lower lip pouts but she shrugs. “If you say so.”
Toby turns to go, speaking over his shoulder. “Best be back by dark Miss Allegra. Crocs, ’skitoes, and all sorts of badness lurk in them swamps.”
“Thank you.”
“Hurry Allegra! I’ll race you.” Lucy kicks her mare and bolts across the yard toward the thick live oaks.
I take a deep breath and follow—“Ha!”
Chapter Fourteen
The light is waning as Lucy leads me through thick clusters of Magnolia’s lining the footpath. I shiver at their number, thinking of my recurrent dreams.
She’s shown me the slave’s cabins, the rice fields and a vast, stretching multitude of gardens and stables and truth be told…I am utterly lost.
Morelands is the largest estate I’ve ever seen in the colonies.
My horse halts of his own accord and I look up to see Lucy sitting rigidly atop her mare as she stares across a large pond.
My heart instantly beats faster and my chest burns. I bite my lip.
I’m quite sure my mother never saw this pond; at least it is not in her journal.
Spanish moss and Resurrection Fern snugly envelope the surrounding Magnolia’s tree trunks like a lady’s green gloves. My eyes steal to the heavens, sensing the impending storm. The air is dense, pregnant with moisture.
What remains of the sun cascades through the white blossoms, distorting and bending the light which bathes the ground in an off-putting color?
I stare and cock my head, taking in the hues. It’s like walking through a dream.
“There’s something…off about the light?”
Lucy turns to meet my gaze. “It’s called the Violet Hour.”
I must look confused because she clarifies. “The light is tinged purple. It’s because of the Magnolia’s. George called it, Magnolia Magic.”
“George is your brother?”
She nods, but then her eyebrows pull together. “Bright has never told you about George?”
I think of the mention in her father’s journal; “George’s fits. I do this for him.”
I shake my head. “No. When I met you and you spoke his name was the first I had ever heard of him.”
“That is very very odd.”
We are quiet for a few long moments as she stares across the pond.
Tears shine in her eyes, making them abnormally bright. “What is it, Lucy?’
“He comes sometimes, to the pond.”
“Who comes?” I ask, my heart speeding up so fast the world tips a tiny bit. I think of the images, the smithy, my mother.
She swallows. “George. I miss him s-so much.” Her lips tremble and she hides her face behind those delicate hands.
I ease the horse alongside her, so our legs touch.
I hesitate, not sure I want to hear the answer.
“What happened to George?” I gently prompt.
“Brighton says he’s alive…just…somewhere else. I didn’t believe him. I thought he was dead, like Momma. That Brighton was just trying to spare my heart. But then one night at dusk I came here, in the Violet Hour.”
I must look confused because she clarifies. “It only happens twice a day; just before daybreak and twilight. When the night and the day pass by one another. And you need the Magnolias. Lots and lots of Magnolias to get the color.”
A violent shiver rocks my body. My mind stutter-steps as I fight to find words.
“Brighton was gone, George was gone and Danvers might as well be gone, he never even looks at me. And…” Her breath catches as a sob chokes out. It’s too sharp and deep for someone so very young. “George was like a child, but the most wonderful, mischievous child you could ever know. We did everything together. He. He…”
Her face buckles under the pain.
I understand and feel my own pain, hovering in my mind and my heart breaks open in my chest for her. Innocence never spared me pain.
Pain rains down on the worldly and innocent alike.
I grasp her hand in mine, and give it a little shake. “I lost my Momma, too. She was the only warmth in my house. In my life.”
Lucy’s eyes flick to mine and sharpen. She wipes the tears with the back of her and nods. “I’ve seen him…” she hesitates.
“I don’t understand. Where is George?”
She points, “There.”
“In the water?” I repeat.
The sour flood of dread fills my mouth. “I still don’t understand, my dear.”
Oh, but you do.
The burning on my chest becomes unbearable.
Thunder rumbles overhead as if The Almighty answers in her stead. A flash of blue lightning strikes, jumping through the trees, heading straight for us.
I grasp the reins and wheel the horse around, readying him to flee. “Lucy, come! We must go. This is not safe.”
The searing on my chest is like a tiny bolt of lightning and I gasp, clutching at it.
It is my pendant. My Magnolia pendant scorches as if it is on fire.
I pull back on the reigns, fighting the horse’s stutter-stepping, he trots forward—but Lucy is rooted. Shaking her head, staring at the approaching, sizzling bolts.
A blue flash. It strikes the Magnolia.
A blue flash. It strikes the shore.
“Lu-cy!” I urge the horse back alongside hers and yank the reins from her hand, hauling her mare around.
“No!” she screams, her tears streaming again. “I will miss him! I must see him!”
She slips from the saddle, flying in a whirlwind of white and lace toward the water.
“Oh my Providence.”
I urge the horse to an instant gallop. Lucy’s almost at the water. If she falls in…and the bolt strikes…
A blue flash. The lightning touches-down upon the pond.
The blue b
olt connects, streaming on and on in a sparkling blue and white glittery current; like ground diamonds and sapphires have electrified into a malevolent star-dust.
Rippling waves of cornflower-blue resonate from the bolt’s core, stretching in larger and larger circles—like a stone cast into a pond. They expand till one reaches the shore with a thw-ack.
A crush of pressure envelopes us, like an invisible bubble. The horses whinny in protest, ears lying flat, but stand utterly still. Mesmerized.
“Lucy.” I dismount and gather her into my arms, unable to tear my eyes away. “Come away,” I manage to whisper.
The stream of light ceases—its celestial candle gutted.
The pond ripples and I inhale sharply. Pictures shimmer on its surface.
“It’s like God’s Looking Glass,” Lucy murmurs. “That’s what I call it.”
I gasp, hauling her backward, away from the water.
She pushes back, wrenching free of the cage of my arms. “No. Look there! Do you not see him, Allegra?”
A light sheen of sweat breaks on my brow and I squint. A young man appears on the surface, his hair the exact shade of Brighton’s. I breathe deeply, trying not to swoon. He walks with an ungainly lope.
“That is George.”
Lucy’s face twitches with a contradiction of emotion. Tears stream to her chin but her lips curl into a tiny smile of utter joy.
She claps her hands then cups them around her mouth to bellow, “George! Oh Georgie, I miss you! Pleeeease come back!”
The figure makes no sign of hearing her plea. His slightly unfocused eyes stare at something behind him.
The now-purple light intensifies. I am wonderstruck. Is this the secret in those books? This is what Brighton seeks. I am certain of it.
His brother is lost. He’s near mad to find him. He feels responsible somehow.
How does it open? Why does it open? Where does it open?
What sort of place exists, outside of our world? It looked not-quite our world, indeed like peering through the looking-glass. Our world in reverse. I squint, trying to make out George’s surroundings. Flowers litter the field where he lopes.
The colors, the bulbs…are different, shades I’ve never seen before.
The light is fading. Someone unseen must call to George, because he turns, his eyebrows rising, limping toward a voice only he can hear.
The Violet Hour Page 13
