April of Enchantment

by Jennifer Blake

  Weak with relief, Laura took a few steps, then went down on her knees, picking up the candelabrum Myra had dropped. Of the six candles it held, four had gone out as she flung it down, one had fallen from the socket to be snuffed out in the pile of the carpet, and one still burned. Tilting the flaming wick in her direction, Laura gently blew it out and watched the thin blue wisp of smoke curl upward toward the ceiling.

  Abruptly the door swung open. People poured in, crowding around her, shouting above the sound of the alarm, screaming at the sight of smoke. Farther back in the hall, there came shouts of “Fire! Fire!”

  It was Justin who came swiftly toward Laura, helping her to her feet. His father moved around the table, jerked out a chair, and unceremoniously climbed up on the seat to snatch off the cover of the smoke alarm, silencing it.

  In the sudden quiet, everyone stopped speaking except a man in the hall who could be heard passing the word to those who could not see that the damage was minor and there seemed to be no danger.

  “Laura, what happened?” Justin asked, his hands firm upon her shoulders.

  She drew a deep breath, but before she could speak, Myra pushed forward, elbowing her way to the front of those gathered around.

  “Can't you see what happened, Justin?” she cried, pointing to the smoking candle in its silver holder still in Laura's hand. “Isn't it obvious that sweet little Laura tried to burn down your house?”

  “No, she couldn't,” came a voice Laura recognized as her mother's, then Russ stepped up.

  “Now, why,” he drawled, “would she want to do that?”

  “She was jealous,” Myra shrilled. “Jealous of me, and spiteful because she is in love with Justin and she knew she didn't have a chance. She knew she would never be his wife, never live in this house, because he is still engaged to me!”

  Laura could sense the withdrawal in the man beside her, the deep, tightly controlled anger that gripped him, though he did not move. “No,” she said, her voice strained as she stared at the other girl, “that's not true. It was you.”

  “Listen to her try to switch the blame to me. Why in the world would I do that?”

  “I don't know,” Laura said, carefully, “but you did.”

  Myra glanced from Laura to Justin, then back again. “It's your word against mine, isn't it? And you are the one with the motive.”

  Russ spoke again, moving to stand on the other side of Laura. “We still haven't heard what happened.”

  “No, we haven't,” Justin said. “Laura?”

  She told them quickly, leaving out nothing. Justin's father moved to the pantry door and shook the handle. “It's still locked.”

  “And the window is open,” Russ put in, “and I would be willing to bet that Laura's petticoats are still inside. A complicated business to go through, don't you agree, Myra? It would have been so much easier for her to set the fire and run, if she really wanted to destroy Crapemyrtle.”

  “She's not stupid,” Myra sneered. “She knew we would suspect her, so she waited until the chef had put everyone out of this room, then went into her act so we would all feel sorry for her. She thought we would treat her like a heroine instead of seeing through her game.”

  Justin reached to take the candelabrum from Laura's hands, removing the single warm candle, holding it in his hand as he set the silver piece on the table behind him. “That would have been intelligent, if she had done it that way,” he mused, looking from the candle to the drapes, then back to Myra. “But there's one thing wrong.”

  A wary light came into the woman's green eyes. “And that is?”

  “Laura is the one who chose the drapes hanging at the windows there, just as she chose the others throughout the house. As a preventive measure, the material they were made out of was treated for flame retardation, something Laura knew very well. But you didn't, did you, Myra?”

  “Why should I? What do I care about things like that?” The woman laughed, a hollow sound. “It makes no difference to me.”

  “I think it does,” Justin said. “This candle is yellow, to match the roses in the centerpiece on the table and the gold drapes at the windows. It doesn't go too well with your dress. You are the one who set the fire, Myra.”

  Myra stared down at the splotch of hot wax that had streaked the taffeta of her skirt. Her head came up. She stared from Justin to Laura, then glanced at Russ before she swung back to the man who was her fiancée. “You think you're so smart, all of you! All right, then, I did it! So put me in jail. Who cares? You'd like that, wouldn't you, Justin? You'd like to be rid of me! I know it, don't think I don't! I know why you refused to let me announce our wedding date tonight, why you wouldn't let me do anything in this house. You thought I would call off the engagement, didn't you? Then you wouldn't have to feel guilty for being in love with another woman! That woman there that you're so ready to protect!”

  Mr. Devol, murmuring soft, soothing phrases, stepped to his daughter's side then. He tried to put his arm around her, but she shook him off, pulling at the diamond on her hand. “No, no, let me do it, let me do it! I've got news for you, Justin Roman! I will call off the engagement, I will! I don't want to marry you. I hate you! I hate your house! I wish I had burned it to the ground with you and your Laura in it!”

  With shaking fingers, she wrenched off her engagement ring, and drawing back, threw it at Justin. It struck his cheekbone and bounced away, falling to the carpet. He made no move to retrieve it, but stood unmoving, his face stern as he stared at Myra.

  Suddenly she burst into tears, crouching over, covering her face with her hands. Her father patted her awkwardly. “Come, sweetheart, let's go home.”

  “I'm sorry,” Justin said, speaking to the older man.

  Mr. Devol shook his head. “Don't blame yourself. I guess I should have got help for her a long time ago.”

  The crowd parted to let them through. In the silence could be heard a distant banging from the direction of the kitchen as the catering staff discovered the locked door. There was a general stirring among those nearest the scene. Justin's mother, her voice carrying, said, “I think the party is over. The best thing for all of us to do is go home.”

  Mrs. Nichols came to her daughter, giving Laura a gentle hug. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  “Yes, I'm fine,” she answered, and realized it was the truth. Justin's arm was around her now, and inside she felt the burgeoning of a hope she dared not examine just yet.

  Her mother lifted her head, staring at the dark-haired man beside her, though she spoke to Laura. “Russ is going to take me home. I'm sure Justin will bring you later, when you have had a chance to straighten up a bit.”

  “Yes, I'll do that,” Justin's voice was quietly reassuring, before he turned away the next instant to accept the good-byes of departing guests as manners demanded, regardless of circumstances.

  “Bye, Laura,” Russ said, and she nodded in farewell, unable to speak, allowing the expression in her eyes to convey her thanks for his intervention on her behalf.

  Justin's mother left the room for a few minutes, returning when the crowd had begun to thin. She stepped close to brush a quick kiss across Laura's cheek, before turning to her son to do the same.

  Smiling, she said, “The keys were found in the basket with the extra dance programs. The kitchen staff will come in to clear away the food in a minute. It's quite ruined, full of bits of black ashes. I'll tell them they can put everything away, and leave, though I don't know how the chef will take it. And, Laura, I told one of the maids to take your underclothing upstairs to the room the ladies were using. I hope you don't mind, but I thought you might like to get away and collect yourself, freshen up a bit.”

  Laura was glad to follow that suggestion, though when she reached the blue bedroom where the ladies had left their coats and shawls, she was almost afraid to look in the mirror. If both her mother and Mrs. Roman thought she needed attention to her appearance, she must look a fright. They were not far from wrong. Her hair had
escaped from its ribbon, she had a scraped place on one shoulder where she had climbed through the pass-through, and there was a smudge of soot on her cheek. Combined with the way her skirts hung, dragging on the floor without her petticoats, it was enough to make her look like a disheveled waif.

  The room was clear. The maid who had been stationed there had carried the last of the wraps downstairs to distribute them. Laura was able to make her repairs without too much loss of time. Regardless, when she descended the stairs once more, the house was empty. Many of the lights of the lower floor had been extinguished, leaving the great, echoing rooms shadowy and still. She paused at the foot of the staircase. It was then that Justin, his gaze steady upon her, emerged from the sitting room.

  “Come in here,” he said, moving forward to take her hand. “There is something I want to show you.”

  The rose-and-cream room glowed in the light of the overhead chandelier. The drapes had been drawn over the windows, giving it an air of quiet intimacy. Justin seated Laura in one of the wing chairs drawn up in front of the fireplace; then, standing in front of her with his back to the marble mantel, he carefully removed his watch from one pocket of his waistcoat and, from the other, took the fob, a round disk nearly as large as the turnip-size timepiece it anchored.

  He glanced at her, smiling a little as he saw her mystification. “This belonged to Jean Bienvenu Roman. He was wearing it when he died, and his manservant, who went to war with him, brought it all the way back to Crapemyrtle with the rest of his effects. There's absolutely no doubt of the ownership, because his initials are engraved both on the watch and on this other gold piece.”

  He held the engraving up, and Laura nodded.

  Justin went on. “My great-grandfather, if you will remember, was just a child when his father, Jean, died. By the time he grew up, the watch was out of date, old-fashioned; he never wore it that much. When he died, it was handed down to my grandfather, who for some reason took a liking to it. He was the one who, about forty or fifty years ago, was playing around with the fob and discovered that it twisted open, like this.”

  He gave the gold piece a dexterous turn in his strong hands, and it came apart in two halves. On one side was a smooth surface of gold so shining bright it looked new. It held a piece of glass underneath which was a single, gleaming blond curl of hair. On the other was what appeared to be a miniature of a woman.

  “I see,” Laura said.

  “Do you? The lady in this picture was definitely not Jean's wife, my great-great-grandmother. You have seen her portrait in one of the bedrooms upstairs, a quiet lady with brown hair and eyes, nothing at all like this angelic creature. There was quite a bit of consternation and gossip in the family, but at that distance in time no one could shed any light on the identity of the young lady. My grandfather put the watch and chain away in a drawer, and it was forgotten again. About ten years ago, it became the property of my father. When I bought this house last fall, he gave it to me.”

  As he finished speaking, he leaned to place the watch and gold piece in Laura's hands. Staring up at her was a miniature of her own face, a head and shoulders likeness in tiny detail, obviously done from the Healy portrait of Lorinda.

  “Oh,” Laura breathed.

  “Can you understand now,” Justin asked, his voice low, “why when I saw you in this house a few weeks later, I was not quite certain that you weren't a shade from the past, one who belonged at Crapemyrtle?”

  Laura glanced up, her lips curving into a smile. “It must have been a shock.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, the look in his eyes warmly reflective. “It would be wrong to say that I had fallen in love with the picture of a dead woman, and yet she fascinated me. You were so like her that even though I didn't believe you could handle the restoration, I wanted to see more of you. Against my better judgment, I decided to let you try. That was a mistake, because the more I saw of you, the more I wanted to see and the less satisfied I was with the way I had arranged my life up until then.”

  Laura looked away. “You are saying I was the cause of your disenchantment with your engagement?”

  He made a sharp gesture with one hand. “Not entirely. I knew it was a mistake from the beginning. When I started taking Myra out, I saw her as an attractive woman, a good hostess, someone with an outgoing manner. I was grateful to her father for the help he had given me. She made no secret of how she felt toward me, and she seemed to have the qualities that would make a good corporate wife, able to direct a house and entertain business acquaintances. I let myself drift into a relationship, mainly because I was doubtful, after so many years of feeling nothing very strong for the women I took here and there, that it was possible to care deeply for anyone. By the time I discovered how self-centered and narrow Myra was, how her interests focused only on fads, what she called the best people, and herself, we were engaged. It was an understood thing; she had even gone down and picked out her own diamond at the smartest jewelry store in town and had them send me a bill.”

  “You didn't ask her to marry you?”

  “I honestly don't remember saying the words, but I suppose we must have discussed the possibility. Looking back, I think one reason I went ahead and bought this house, other than the fact that it had belonged to the Romans, was because I thought Myra might well refuse to live out here, this far from Baton Rouge and her father.”

  “You wanted her to jilt you.”

  He made a slight movement of his shoulders. “It didn't work. I gave her ample reason, but she always backed off. Every day she became a little more irrational, and I wasn't exactly patient. I no longer owed her father a penny, but I felt indebted to him all the same, and I could see how much he was counting on my marriage to his daughter, not only because I would be able to support her and manage the money she would someday inherit, but also, I think, as a stabilizing factor.”

  “That was quite a weapon to hold over your head.” Laura stared down at the miniature she held.

  He watched her, a brooding look in his eyes. “I never felt its weight so much as that day we went to look at the Mallard bed. When I saw you standing beside it in that dusty antique shop, I knew I would never be able to share it with any other woman.”

  “Justin,” she whispered. She raised her head, her violet-blue gaze clashing with his dark regard.

  He reached then to draw her to her feet. The watch slid from her lap and down the cushioning sweep of her skirts to the floor, where the miniature on its chain lay faceup, forgotten.

  “This evening,” he said, intensity edging his deep voice with strain, “when I saw how near Myra came to harming you, when I heard her dare accuse you of her own crime, I wanted to throttle her. I had already given her every chance to set me free, when I spoke to her earlier, refusing to announce the wedding date, telling her I felt nothing for her. The only reason I didn't break it off then and there was because I knew the kind of scene she was capable of enacting before everyone. It might have been better if I had let her vent her rage against me instead of turning it toward you.”

  “No,” she whispered, shaking her head.

  “Yes,” he said, pressing her close in the warm circle of his arms, cupping her face with his hand. “When I saw what she intended, what she would have done to you if she had succeeded, I no longer felt any pity for her, and yet I was also grateful for the hint she had given that you might care.”

  “Justin,” she began.

  “No, let me finish. I wanted just then to be free of her more than life itself. Until tonight, there had been something else that prevented me from telling you how I felt, a barrier that was suddenly removed.”

  “You mean—?”

  “Russ. I thought you cared for him; he certainly made no secret of how he felt about you. Then, tonight, just before the alarm went off, he told me you had refused to marry him.”

  “What else did he tell you?” She seemed unable to sustain his dark gaze.

  “Nothing, though he threatened to get out his horsewhi
p if I ever hurt you. He knows, you see, that I love you.”

  “Do you?”

  “How can you doubt it? I can't stay away from you, or prevent myself from touching you. You are more warm and real and precious to me than I can say, a living woman who fills my thoughts and dreams and leaves me always hungry to know more.”

  He kissed her then with tender promise, molding his lips to hers with gentle strength. When he lifted his head again, the gold flecks in his eyes were bright.

  “And what of you, Laura? The miniature and the keepsake of Lorinda's hair that Jean carried all his life stand as proof of what he felt for her, and in her diary she writes plainly of how she loved him. But though Myra was certain you are in love with me and despite the fact that you wore my rose, I still don't know how you feel.”

  Her violet-blue eyes held a deep, unshadowed stillness as they met his dark, demanding gaze. “I love you. Justin. It seems sometimes that I always have.”

  He caught her close once more. It was some time before he released her, some time before the silence of the rose-and-cream room was broken.

  “It seems Crapemyrtle is without a mistress,” Justin said, his voice musing, soft with affectionate certainty. “Since you have arranged everything else so satisfactorily, I wonder if you could see to a replacement for me?”

  She smiled, tracing the cleft in his chin with the tip of one finger. “I think I can manage that. I have just the person in mind.”

  “I'm hard to please,” he warned. “She must be intelligent; have perfect taste; love roses, old houses, antiques, and look like Lorinda, who lived a hundred and forty years ago.”

  “No problem,” she murmured.

  “On second thought, never mind. I'll arrange it myself.”

  Quiet descended. Outside, a gentle night wind drifted through the live oaks and swirled about the rose garden, stirring the slumbering scent of the old-fashioned blossoms. In its breath it carried the sound, soft and tantalizing as a ghostly dream, of shared laughter.