by Clare Daly
She hurried down the avenue, the road busy with morning traffic. In desperation, she flung herself out in front of a carriage. Her body slammed into the two black horses with such force, that it broke the legs of both animals. They fell onto the cobbles, crushing her underneath as the carriage overturned, throwing its driver to the pavement. Passers-by screamed. Anyone else would have died there and then, yet all that Evelyn suffered was the painful truth that she had caused harm where there was no need. She was truly indestructible. And she had injured two horses in the hope of defying it. She rose from under them, horrified and ashamed. A crowd were gathering and she knew that she had to flee. She moved quickly, vanishing from sight and soon she was miles away, standing at the water’s edge, as the morning sun glistened on its surface.
When she returned to the house, Mafdet was waiting for her and they slept together curled up beside Sasha, Evelyn’s tears soaking into her soft fur. When darkness came, Sasha awoke with a start. His hand sprung across to feel her beside him. She opened her eyes looking at him.
‘I dreamt you had been killed,’ he said disorientated.
‘Do we still dream?’ she asked.
‘Every day is a dream,’ he said. ‘Come, let’s hunt.’
33
‘Oh, my dear Louisa, it’s simply divine,’ she said, the fruit cake shifting slowly back and forth into the corners of her mouth. ‘You must give me the recipe and I’ll get Annie to make it for me at once. I don’t know where you find the time for baking yourself – and the mess, well you must be covered in flour by the time you’re done.’
‘I don’t mind, Ashleigh. I like baking,’ said her friend, delighted with such fine praise.
‘Well, you’re so good at it,’ she said. ‘And I only brought you a jar of Annie’s pickles. What must you think of me?’
‘Annie’s are the finest in the county. Everyone knows that.’
‘Yes, we’re lucky to have her. Such a fine cook. Well, I’m afraid I must get on. Father will be wondering where I’ve gotten to. Merry Christmas, my dear friend,’ she said grasping her hands.
The girls stood, the bustles on their dresses falling in layers behind them as they embraced, and Louisa Yates knew that the best of her day was already behind her. Not even a present from her parents could equal the joy of a visit from Miss Ashleigh Boudreaux. She was one of the most popular young women in the county and the prettiest, known for her beaming smile and signature blond ringlets that bounced as she walked. They swung merrily either side of her head as she waved an enthusiastic goodbye, holding the pound cake, as a large negro man helped her into their cart, before taking the reins.
Ashleigh sat quietly and patiently at his side as they left the grounds, her feet tapping ever so slightly up and down and when they had cleared the house from view, she tossed the cake high into the passing trees where it landed with a thud. Free of it, she broke her silence.
‘I almost spat it out, Bailey. Right there in front of her. An odious thing. I don’t know who told that girl she could bake. You wouldn’t feed that to anyone. Not even you,’ she said, nudging him, a joke just between them. ‘Now hurry up, I want to get home,’ she said.
Bailey didn’t respond, his eyes forward on the road, flapping the reins to hasten their journey. He had learned very early on not to engage in conversation with his owners, lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a whip. So, he did what he always did. He simply shut out her voice, pretending she wasn’t there. He’d been at the Boudreaux plantation for all seventeen of her years, watched her grow from a beautiful baby into a horrible child, and then a nasty young woman. Perhaps Miss Louisa had tried to poison her. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Lost in thought, he only saw the flash of fur at the last minute, as an animal darted out in front of them. He pulled the reins to the right, the cart swerving but their speed coupled with it, sent them into the rocky roadside. Wood crunched on stone as the front wheel splintered then broke, sending the cart over on its side. Bailey and Ashleigh were thrown forward, Bailey out onto the road, Ashleigh held captive, her dress caught, pinning her to it.
Along the road, Michael was on his way back to Oak Hill, having delivered a Christmas goose to the Reverend and his wife in town. The first thing he heard was a high-pitched squealing, like a wild animal in distress. Then it took human form in the words, ‘Bailey! Bailey!’ yelled at the top of the squealer’s voice. The tone was one of anger more than peril, and as he came upon them, he saw the young woman or rather part of her concealed beneath an upturned scarlet dress, her white bloomers and stockings exposed. Her foot was trapped and a black man, Bailey, he presumed, was trying to free her.
‘Get your hands off me, Bailey,’ she screamed. She stopped when she saw Michael, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of some real help. Climbing quickly into the upturned cart, he freed the piece of broken wood that held her captive, slipping her foot out as Bailey grabbed her under the arms. When she had two feet planted firmly on the ground, she struck the man, not with force but with feeble dissatisfaction.
‘Bailey, you idiot. I could have been killed.’ Her gold ringlets bounced wildly as she hit out at him and though a foot taller than her, he appeared to cower from her touch. It was obviously an accident, the man visibly shaken.
‘I can take you home?’ he suggested to them both. ‘Miss, are you hurt?’
‘Oh, nothing a hot bath won’t sort out,’ she said with mock bravery. ‘One of these days Bailey will kill us all – just to avoid the local beasts on our roads. Sir, your offer is kindly accepted. I don’t suppose I’m going home in this.’
She kicked the cart hard with her good foot like a spoilt child. She winced in pain and for a moment Michael thought he saw a glimmer of a smile pass across Bailey’s face.
‘Bailey, stay with the cart. I’ll get one of the others to come back for you. Father won’t be happy you know.’
Turning to Michael with a demure smile, she said: ‘My name is Ashleigh Boudreaux. May I lean on you, Sir?’ she said taking his arm, limping on her sore foot. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come by.’
Michael helped her into the cart, sure that it was a relief for her man servant not to have to listen to her whine any longer. As they rode along, she continued her rant.
‘My father will be livid. That Bailey – a useless aide if ever there was one. He’ll get fifty lashes of the whip for this one.’ Michael resisted the sudden urge to push her out of the moving cart. He allowed himself the daydream of it and then realised she was asking him something.
‘I said where are you from? Your accent. Are you a northerner?’
‘New York,’ Michael said.
‘Ah you see I knew it!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you passing through?’
‘Actually, I’m working at Oak Hill,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Her interest dropped immediately and he sensed she was sorry she asked.
‘Not quite the knight in shining armour you were hoping for?’ he said.
‘This is just the worst day,’ she sighed.
It was only when they pulled up to the Boudreaux plantation of Raven Wood, that she quickly re-evaluated her rescuer. Her older sister Marianne came out to greet her and was unable to hide her excitement on meeting the attractive stranger who had come to her sister’s aid. She blushed as he extended his hand to her in greeting, his clear blue eyes meeting hers. Rugged and a little rough around the edges perhaps but Ashleigh had to admit he was handsome and his value once again began to rise, labourer or not. She regaled her sister with her terrifying ordeal and the bravery and chivalry of her dashing saviour. Near hysterical with both horror and excitement at the story, Marianne ran inside to fetch her father, Alfred.
‘I shall ask my father to give you a job,’ she said. ‘Mr. Foster, our overseer, can always do with another pair of hands where the slaves are concerned.’
‘I l
ike to find my own way, thank you Miss Boudreaux.’
‘Don’t be silly. I shall insist upon it.’
‘I already have a job,’ he said.
‘Nonsense, now come inside and meet my father,’ she said grabbing him by the arm and marching up the porch steps. As they did, a shriek came from inside and Michael thought to himself that the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree. Mrs. Boudreaux came flapping down the hall, clutching a lace handkerchief to her mouth, followed by her husband.
‘Oh Mama, the fool crashed the carriage,’ Ashleigh squealed, her pitch even higher than before.
‘My dear child, are you hurt? Who is this young man?’
As Ashleigh explained the circumstances again, adding extra flourish to every detail, Alfred Boudreaux shook Michael’s hand. He shouted to the young farm hand, who had come to tend to Michael’s horse.
‘Thomas,’ he barked, ‘you go now and get Bailey and that carriage back here, do you hear? And be quick about it.’
Michael saw the look of concern on the young man’s face.
‘He’s okay,’ Michael offered to him. ‘Probably just a little bruised.’
‘He’ll be black and blue by the time I’ve finished with him,’ snorted Mr. Boudreaux.
‘He’ll need a new wheel too,’ Michael said ignoring the older man’s comments.
‘Please come join us inside for a glass of eggnog. Annie makes the best there is and it is Christmas after all,’ said Mr. Boudreaux.
‘I’m afraid I must be getting back, but thank you, Sir,’ said Michael.
‘Nonsense,’ he said with the same dismissiveness as his daughter. ‘I insist.’
A moment later they were all seated in the living room, Ashleigh moving quickly to secure the seat beside Michael before Marianne could, a smirk of defiance as she smoothed out her skirts.
‘Don’t you want to change?’ asked Marianne spitefully.
‘I will in a moment. Why, I’m still shaking. A glass of eggnog will soothe my nerves.’
Michael looked about the room. It was a shrine of wealthy decadence, with the loveliest Christmas decorations he’d ever seen. They even had a tree on which hung sugared fruits and handmade garlands of popcorn strings and beads, the branch tips sugared like snow. A bushy green garland extended over the mantelpiece with sprigs of holly worked through, their shiny red berries like rubies among the foliage.
The sound of tinkling crystal glasses signalled the arrival of the eggnog, carried on a large silver tray. Michael breathed a sigh of relief, eager to drink it as fast as he could and get away from this family – so spoilt and blindsided by their wealth that they had abandoned the most humane behaviour to their fellow man. He looked at the tray bearer and was struck suddenly by a sight so vibrant as to render the rest of the room to a dull grey. Elegant hands held tightly to the tray, the rolled-up sleeves of her cornflower blue dress, stark against her dark skin. Her white apron layered over it, was pulled tightly around her waist and her hair was concealed beneath a woven red cloth, revealing the stark beauty of her face. As she brought the tray to him he took a glass, thanking her, meeting her brown eyes but for a moment, before they looked away. She was judging him with them, he thought and he wanted to stand up immediately and denounce such a practice.
‘Hurry up, Salome,’ said Ashleigh grabbing a drink from the tray as the girl moved past her to tend to the others. When she was finished, she went and stood beside the walnut sideboard, the empty tray flat in her hands. She did not look at them but every now and then Michael couldn’t help glancing at her, as Ashleigh once again recounted their perilous adventure. Secretly he hoped she was listening, him being the hero of the piece but her face remained stoic, her eyes staring in front of her, until Mrs. Boudreaux declared she could clear the empty glasses. They were right, the eggnog was truly delicious, the brandy warming his throat, while the cinnamon and nutmeg played on his tongue, new tastes he had never encountered before. As he finished the last sip, he rose, sure that Mr. Kempner would by now have thought him very late.
‘Very well,’ said Mr. Boudreaux, half to him and half to his precocious daughter who had leapt to his side and was whispering excitedly in his ear. Michael bade goodbye to Marianne and her mother as they stepped out into the hall.
‘Thank you again Michael for coming to the aid of my daughter,’ said Mr. Boudreaux.
‘Anyone would have, Sir,’ he said.
‘Well be that as it may, my daughter wants me to give you a job and what my Ashleigh wants, she tends to get,’ he said with a note of exasperation.
Michael smiled. ‘I appreciate it Sir, I do, but I have a job at Oak Hill that does me just fine.’
‘She will be disappointed,’ he sighed. ‘I can pay you well. Whatever you’re getting at Oak Hill, I’ll double it.’
Michael was about to refuse again when he caught sight of Salome in the hallway, carrying out the empty glasses. As she moved by Ashleigh, the girl bumped her arm purposely, causing them to shake and fall on the tray. Salome tried her best to balance them before they crashed to the floor.
‘You should be more careful, Salome,’ she said.
Michael hesitated before extending his hand to Mr. Boudreaux.
‘Sir, it sounds like an offer I can’t refuse. When do I start?’
34
Since their visit to Staten Island, Evelyn had again refused to feed with the others. She would accompany them as they dined on prince and pauper and Gabriel allowed them to hunt in Manhattan once they adhered to the rules.
‘You will grow weak again,’ Sasha said, the taste of blood fresh on his tongue as they walked through Union Square, the trees shading them from the moon’s light.
‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ she said.
‘Why won’t you talk to me? I can help you.’
‘Like you’ve helped me already? I can take care of myself. If I want to speak to someone, I’ll speak to Gabriel.’
‘Perhaps he’ll take you from me,’ he said. ‘I only did as he asked and yet you persecute me instead of him.’
‘Your will is your own,’ she said.
‘Not always,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry if you do not like this afterlife you have been given, and that you befell it by my hand, but you can’t hold on to your resentment indefinitely, for it will never end and this life, as it is, will be worth nothing. Like human life, this existence is what you make it. I was a prisoner for many years after my changing, so I know what you’re feeling and how you must wish for death, as I did. But things happen and the world changes and one day you find yourself free to roam again, to experience all that this world has to offer, and even to grasp some humanity from it. I had to come back for Vladimir. I had to see his betrayal face to face and when I did I couldn’t bear it. I wanted him to see the horror of what I had become, know the fate he left me to endure. As my brother, that’s unforgiveable. I honestly didn’t know if I would do it but then I saw him, this grey-haired man, who had wasted the life he was given. No wife, no family – a joyless life, shared with no-one, wasted on his pursuit of useless knowledge.’
‘Where is he now?’ she said.
‘He’s in the Hudson or probably The Narrows by now, whatever’s left of him. You’ll soon come to realise that you cannot feel remorse for those undeserving of their lives. The ne’er-do-wells, the thieves, murderers, betrayers – they will never by mourned by us, our family, and while you are right to seek the infirm, who may welcome your kiss, you can also prey on those that prey on the innocent.’
‘A protector?’ she said.
‘Yes, an aide to humanity. That’s what Gabriel wants I think. Not many of our kind tread as carefully as we do.’
‘Are there many of us?’
‘I suspect so, but this country is so vast that it allows us to move about with ease. Who knows how many there are or how many in Europe, even
your homeland.’
‘I don’t think there are any in Ireland,’ she said.
‘Of course, there are. Where there is human life, we exist. Do you think all your dead are the result of famine?’ he asked.
‘You’re teasing me now.’
‘Where there is great loss of life, they gather, a chance to be invisible.’ He paused. ‘You thought it a condition of this continent alone?’
‘I suppose I did,’ she said.
‘Talk to Gabriel, he has a path for you. One you may be happy to be on. Now will you please feed?’
‘Tomorrow,’ she said resting her hand on his. ‘Tonight, you take me to Gabriel.’
His concern for her was genuine and she felt the guilt begin to gnaw at her conscience for not confessing, that first of all, she was alarmingly immune to the power of the sun and secondly that she had now chosen daylight hours in which to hunt. There was something about the beginning of a new day, bright light across winter skies, when people were just preparing for the possibilities it may bring. It was a time when the city was vibrant and she loved it. Streets flooded with people as they made their way to work; businessmen in fine carriages, news boys for The New York Tribune and the Aurora yelling the headlines, bakers in white aprons delivering hot baked bread, nannies wheeling prams and holding the hands of children as they walked in the park.
She would sit in the window of the Tontine Coffee House, a hotel once devoted to the business of stocks and trade, and watch all these people living their precious lives. Of course, the city was not without its undesirables, preying on its good souls. There were pickpockets on every corner. Even children as young as seven and eight working in pairs. One would fall at a gentleman’s feet, while the other delicately and with lightning speed, lifted their leather pocketbooks, as they bent over to help.
