Thanks for letting me stay here tonight.
In just a few seconds, he wrote back.
My pleasure, and I can’t wait to cook breakfast for you.
Sounds yummy. Goodnight.
Night, CJ.
I closed my eyes and pulled the key out of my nightgown. I stared at it and rubbed it. I thought about the house and about Calpurnia. I went to sleep praying that I would see what I wanted to see. Many hands had held this key over the years; I wondered whose hands I would see when I finally stepped into the dream, if I dreamed at all.
I thought about Ashland and what the future might hold. I thought about his beautiful face, his soft lips, his kind ways. People had no idea how kind he was….soon I was asleep and dreaming.
A pink painted fingernail spun the key on the black dining room table. The music box sat in front of her, and she slid the key into the slot. She turned, turned and turned until the music began to sing. It was a melancholy tune, one that haunted her at night, but she couldn’t help herself. She could almost imagine Calpurnia singing this tune, humming it while she combed her hair or wrote in her diary.
“Mommy! Mommy!” A little boy with pink cheeks and a shock of white-blond hair ran into the room with a wooden car in his hands. “Look, Mommy! Look what my cousin gave me.”
A dark-haired man smiled from the doorway. She smiled back, yet she had questions about him. Unanswered, dangerous questions. Did he really love her? Or was he only getting close to her so that he could take her son away for his own nefarious reasons? She laughed at herself. Surely, she was being paranoid about her cousin Robert. He’d never been accused of such things. It was her mind, as always, playing tricks on her.
“Mommy! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes! Yes, it is. Now put your car down and dance with Mommy.” The little boy did as he was asked. He put the car on the table and walked back to his mother. He gave her a little bow and began to waltz with her. She laughed with delight, and he smiled up at her.
“Oh, Ashland. I love you, son.”
Ashland? I woke up from the dream, sitting up straight in bed, sweating and breathing fast. That was Ashland and Emily! Poor woman. Her mind had been a fog of uncertainty—fear and curiosity. Poor Ashland—poor kid. I tried to calm my breathing and clear my mind, but it wasn’t working. I decided to take a quick shower, desperate to wash away the memory of that disturbing dream. In just a few minutes, I was standing under the warm water, letting it beat down on me. Then I slid on my nightshirt and towel-dried my hair. I climbed back into the bed, purposefully banishing Ashland from my dreams. I rubbed the key and thought about Calpurnia dancing in the garden. I thought about how she felt when Muncie held her hand, how she loved to hear her mother sing those French lullabies, the ones from her childhood.
Again, I fell asleep.
A smile crept across my face when I turned back to look at the pale faces watching me from behind the lace curtains of the girls’ dormitory. I didn’t feel sorry for any of them—all of those girls hated me. They thought they were my betters because they were orphans and I was merely the accidental result of my wealthy mother’s indiscretion. I couldn’t understand why they felt that way. As I told Marie Bettencourt, at least my parents were alive and wealthy. Hers were dead and in the cold, cold ground. “Worm food now, I suppose.” Her big dark eyes had swollen with tears, her ugly, fat face contorting as she cried. Mrs. Bedford scolded me for my remarks, but even that did not worry me.
I had a tool much more effective than Mrs. Bedford’s threats of letters to the attorney who distributed my allowance or a day without a meal. Mr. Bedford would defend me—for a price. I would have to kiss his thin, dry lips and pretend that he did not peek at my décolletage a little too long. Once he even squeezed my bosom ever so quickly with his rough hands but then pretended it had been an accident. Mr. Bedford never had the courage to lift up my skirt or ask me for a “discreet favor,” as my previous chaperone had called it, but I enjoyed making him stare. It had been great fun for a month or two until I saw how easily he could be manipulated.
And now my rescuer had come at last, a man, Louis Beaumont, who claimed to be my mother’s brother. I had never met Olivia, my mother. Not that I could remember, anyway, and I assumed I never would.
Louis Beaumont towered above most men, as tall as an otherworldly prince. He had beautiful blond hair that I wanted to plunge my hands into. It looked like the down of a baby duckling. He had fair skin—so light it almost glowed—with pleasant features, even brows, thick lashes, a manly mouth. It was a shame he was so near a kin because I would have had no objections to whispering “Embrasse-moi” in his ear. Although I very much doubted Uncle Louis would have indulged my fantasy. How I loved to kiss, and to kiss one so beautiful! That would be heavenly. I had never kissed a handsome man before—I kissed the ice boy once and a farmhand, but neither of them had been handsome or good at kissing.
For three days we traveled in the coach, my uncle explaining what he wanted and how I would benefit if I followed his instructions. According to my uncle, Cousin Calpurnia needed me, or rather, needed a companion for the season. The heiress would come out this year, and a certain level of decorum was expected, including traveling with a suitable companion. “Who would be more suitable than her own cousin?” he asked me with the curl of a smile on his regal face. “Now, dearest Isla,” he said, “I am counting on you to be a respectable girl. Leave all that happened before behind in Birmingham—no talking of the Bedfords or anyone else from that life. All will be well now.” He patted my hand gently. “We must find Calpurnia a suitable husband, one that will give her the life she’s accustomed to and deserves.”
Yes, indeed. Now that this Calpurnia needed a proper companion, I had been summoned. I’d never even heard of Miss Calpurnia Cottonwood until now. Where had Uncle Louis been when I ran sobbing in a crumpled dress after falling prey to the lecherous hands of General Harper, my first guardian? Where had he been when I endured the shame and pain of my stolen maidenhead? Where? Was I not Beaumont stock and worthy of rescue? Apparently not. I decided then and there to hate my cousin, no matter how rich she was. Still, I smiled, spreading the skirt of my purple dress neatly around me on the seat. “Yes, Uncle Louis.”
“And who knows, ma petite Cherie, perhaps we can find you a good match too. Perhaps a military man or a wealthy merchant. Would you like that?” I gave him another smile and nod before I pretended to be distracted by something out the window. My fate would be in my own hands, that much I knew. Never would I marry. I would make my own future. Calpurnia must be a pitiful, ridiculous kind of girl if she needed my help to land a “suitable” husband with all her affluence.
The coach and four turned down the red dirt road that led to the mansion. Seven Sisters, Uncle Louis had called it. Massive dark oaks lined the wide, dusty lane, so massive that I could not see the building until we were very close. When we cleared the trees, I gasped at the sheer size of the house. Seven towering columns lined the front porch, reaching up, up, up like an ancient Greek temple shining white in the glorious sun. Children and house servants scurried about to greet us, and even a couple of old hounds barked a welcome. I squealed with delight, clapping my hands. I’d never seen anything so fine in all my life. I wanted this. This was who I was, where I belonged! I was no poor relation, no orphan. I was Isla Beaumont! I deserved this kind of life, didn’t I? The coach had barely stopped before I got out, excited to arrive at last.
I was disappointed that my cousin had not greeted me herself. How important was she that she could not afford to take a moment to show her “poor” cousin a kindness? When I did finally meet her, I was astonished. Taller than me by six inches, she moved with natural grace and had a quiet manner. She would never squeal with delight or misbehave as I did…as often as I could. Calpurnia was easily the prettiest girl I had ever seen, and I didn’t count myself the least of those. Uncle Louis was obviously besotted with her and forgot me instantly. The two beautiful ones left
this mere mortal behind, slipping away for a private chat in one of the many gardens surrounding the plantation. Again, I felt my heart harden and my hatred grow stronger. In Uncle Louis’ heart, I would always be second. Well, that was no matter to me. I could play this game as well as any woman could. They did not know how smart I was, did they? I could sing, read, do figures and speak French, a little.
The servant, Hooney, didn’t like me. I knew that from the moment she laid those wise, yellowed eyes on me. That made me hate her too, but I smiled as if I were as sweet as honey. It didn’t do any good; she didn’t tolerate foolishness, even if she was a slave. I played the game, pretending to love my cousin. But all the while, I wished she were gone from here, leaving me as the heiress. Wasn’t I a Beaumont? That was far better than being a Cottonwood, surely. Perhaps I should remind Uncle Louis of that.
Hooney let me know that Christine Cottonwood did not want to see me now, that she was ill and in bed ready to have a baby. No matter to me; I hoped she would never get out of that bed. She could die there, like Marie Bettencourt’s mother. “Worm food now, I suppose.” I laughed at the memory.
After a few days, the newness of my surroundings began to fade, and I began to explore beyond the house. This time, no one stopped me. No one said a word to me. Where I had been a prisoner before, I now was free! I was the friend, nay, the cousin of the heiress. I was given free run of the house. Unfortunately I could not find a single man to kiss or any place where I could have fun. One day I quietly watched some of the slaves bathing in the river. I’d never seen a naked black man before. I climbed up into a live oak and nibbled on a biscuit as I watched them. I did this many times, enjoying the games they played as they splashed in the water. I wondered how shocking it would be to climb down the tree, step out of my dress and jump into the water. Would they catch me? Would they caress my white, wet skin? Would they make me their woman? I would rise out of the water like Venus emerging from the sea, my long blond hair plastered to my naked breasts. They would worship me.
Ah, only a fantasy. Even I knew that black men never touched white women—not if they wanted to live beyond the touching. Still, it must be wonderful to be had by one of these magnificent men. It was the boy Muncie who spotted me. I saw him when he did it, telling the other boys to put their clothing on. Oh, Muncie! You infuriate me! You of all people should hate Calpurnia—she is your master, your mistress. I knew he loved her in a way that he should not. I smiled at him and slithered down the tree like the snake did in the Garden. I munched on an apple and stared at the surprised boys. I took a bite and then shoved the apple into one boy’s open mouth before turning and walking away. I heard them whispering behind me, some of them praying, others talking fearfully. That had not been the way I wanted that to go, but Muncie had thwarted my plans. Very well, I would hate him too!
The longer I stayed at Seven Sisters, the more people I found to hate. Reginald Ball, a cousin of Uncle Jeremiah Cottonwood, was one such person. Another man infatuated with Calpurnia, who I had decided was no great beauty after all. She had that mulatto eye color that shifted from brown to green, and her neck was far too long. I also hated Uncle Jeremiah, for he had slapped me when I tried to kiss him. I couldn’t understand why he would refuse me a kiss—but when I followed him around a bit, the answer became apparent. Uncle Jeremiah had another lover—and not another woman. No, he’d chosen for himself a boy, a lovely boy with light skin, white teeth and a handsome face. His name was Early, and I believed that slave boy fancied himself in love with his Master. It made me laugh and laugh when I saw the two of them slip off into the Moonlight Garden together. What they did there was less amusing to me; I didn’t care. After my spying, I’d walked back to the house smiling. The people in this house had so many secrets—secrets that would smother them. I laughed again.
I walked up the stairs to my room, wanting to think some more about this house of secrets, when I heard someone speak to me. “You seem to be enjoying your stay here.” I turned on the third step, pressing my bottom against the railing, and looked into the face of a man who seemed to know me. “Have we met, sir?”
“I should think not. I have come to pay court to Calpurnia Cottonwood. But as I do not find her about, you shall do nicely.”
I walked down two stairs and leveled my gaze at him. “I don’t play seconds to my cousin, good sir.”
“Well, had I known that you were here, I would have courted you first. How can one love a moth when such a butterfly is fluttering about?”
“You talk like you know poetry, sir. Are you a well-read man?” I stood on the step above him, and we talked in whispers now.
We talked for another hour, taking a stroll in the rose garden while Calpurnia ministered to her mother, who had taken a turn for the worse. At that first meeting, my words were careful and well-chosen. But after three such walks, we discovered that we were after the same thing—the vast riches of Calpurnia’s fortune. The word was out that Christine and Louis had converted the fortune into a collection of precious jewelry pieces and that they planned to hide them from Jeremiah. The man had become a drunk and a poor manager of the Beaumont-Cottonwood estate. At least, that was what the jeweler had told Captain David Garrett while aboard the Delta Queen for a night of cards and bad behavior.
I wanted to be free, and that would take a fortune so I could live like the lady I was. David wanted to go with me; we would travel the world, first in the Bahamas, then on to Paris and then to Greece. Oh, to travel! I had kissed David impetuously in the rose garden that day, but he barely responded. His beauty attracted and stirred me as no other had. He gently pushed me away and whispered an apology, but that only made me want him more! Eventually I knew why he was so hesitant to kiss me, court me, and make love to me—because he secretly hoped that he and Calpurnia would marry. He would be the rightful heir to the fortune. I had a choice to make: stand aside or work my magic on David Garrett. If I wanted to keep him, I could. I knew enough tricks to please a man for a hundred years. But did I want him? That was the question. I couldn’t make up my mind—until I saw the way Calpurnia looked at him. Her lips parted, her face tilted up, listening to his every word, her hand worrying over her intricate coiffure. Yes, it was clear she wanted him.
I went to bed smiling; now the snare could be set. I would have those jewels and David Garrett too. I had been there only a few weeks, and I already knew all about my cousin. I knew her weaknesses—those damn books of poetry, the ones that talked about love, falling in love, being in love. That’s how we would do this. We would write notes; he would woo her into trusting him, and I would pass them on to her, both of us laughing at our craftiness. From time to time, he appeared to feel guilty. When I saw his resolve relaxing, I would win him over again with the tricks I’d learned with the General and his friends.
One dark night, a storm settled over Seven Sisters, and it seemed determined to tear the place down. Lightning popped around the house, snapping trees, sparking around the ponds and fountains in the Moonlight Garden. Was God punishing us for all the evil we had done? I didn’t know, but I prayed for the first time in a long time. “Dear Lord, I hate Calpurnia Cottonwood. Please strike her with lightning so I alone will be the heir to the Beaumont fortune.” He did not answer me, nor did my cousin die that night. Still, it did get me to thinking about the baby that Christine carried. I had heard the nurse say it was a miracle he had lasted this long; perhaps the thing would die and I wouldn’t have to take care of him. I had no taste for murder, although murder had happened here, not so long ago.
Uncle Louis—beautiful, perfect Uncle Louis—was dead, buried behind the mausoleum, if those yapping dogs had not dug him up and eaten him by now. I’m sure I should feel sad about it, but I do not. Early, the slave who loved Mr. Cottonwood, had done the deed. The tall Frenchman had wandered into their trysting place (someone may or may not have told him where it was) and discovered their lovemaking. Drunk on corn whiskey, Jeremiah swore at the man but didn’t do anything else.
Early ran after him, his half-naked body exposed as he smashed him in the head with a garden curiosity, a concrete ball that rested atop one of the many fountains. He smashed him over and over; Uncle Louis had not made a sound from the first blow to the last. When he was through, Early put the ball back on the fountain and the waters turned to blood. I laughed quietly at the biblical allusion from my hiding place in the maze.
Thinking that Mr. Jeremiah had done the killing before he passed out, Stokes helped Early hide the body, burying it where it lay. “Worm food now, I suppose,” I whispered to myself. “Oh no, dear Calpurnia. What can you do? Uncle Louis is gone. Who will protect you now?”
I spent the rest of the evening with Calpurnia, pretending that I had not seen a thing. We danced to the tune of the music box, and I pretended to be a doting cousin. It was an easy charade. Muncie came to serve us our dinner, and I teased him a little by asking him to join us. Calpurnia scolded me for it, but before I could make a sound against her, Stokes came in and announced that Mr. Louis’ horse had returned but our uncle was missing. This news greatly alarmed Calpurnia, but I smirked. I knew! I knew what had happened! Calpurnia sent Stokes for the Sheriff and went downstairs to arrange the staff to go help look for him. It was believed at that time that he had fallen from his horse and may be in dire need of help. As the staff—even Hooney—clambered into the foyer for instructions, I silently walked towards Christine’s chambers. She was asleep when I went in, but she woke up and inquired about my health. I did not offer her sweet words or hedge about my business. I began speaking in a whisper, like I was casting a spell—I told her everything that I had seen, everything I had done before I came to Seven Sisters. And when that was through, I told her what her husband was doing and who he was doing it to. I told her things you would never tell a genteel lady. I shocked her over and over again, her heart breaking with each word. She cried, but no one could hear her now that the search had started. I stood before her as she clutched the wooden bedpost, leaning against it for strength. “Louis is dead, dead, dead now. Gone. Worm food now, I suppose.” That phrase had worked on Marie Bettencourt, and it worked on a fine lady like Christine Cottonwood too. She let out a heart-wrenching cry and fell to her knees holding her belly, weeping. Before I left her, I said, “You will die too now, and that baby will die. You will all be together as worm food. And when you are dead, they will put you in that cold, cold mausoleum alongside the other dead ones.” She didn’t answer me but stared off into space, not crying, no longer moaning, saying nothing. She finally stopped crying and sighed a little.
Seven Sisters Collection Page 20
