Day Dreamer

by Jill Marie Landis

  “All of you go back to the house. She may have returned by now. If you wait much longer, the road will be impassable. I’ll get Bobo and the dogs and go back to the garden and start from there.”

  Cord did not wait to see them off. He ran back to the distillery, where Bobo was supervising a crew in coating rum barrels with wax to keep the rum white while it aged. When he approached the overseer, Bobo gave Cord his full attention.

  “My wife is missing.” It was all Cord had to say.

  Bobo dropped the bellows he was using to stoke the fire below the wax pot and nodded. He pointed to two of the men.

  “Good trackers,” he explained. “Goat hunters.”

  “Get the hounds, too.” Cord had already started out of the mill. The men dropped what they were doing and hurried after him.

  * * *

  It was nearly dark. The fetid sweet smell of rotted mangoes and guava was cloying without the cover of rain. Celine, soaked to the skin, shivered uncontrollably as the evening breeze eddied through the snarled branches above her.

  Without the rain, mosquitoes swarmed her exposed skin, mercilessly stinging, retreating, then stinging again. Her bound hands allowed her no way to protect herself. At sunset, a chorus of bullfrogs had begun, and their scolding had soon reached a maddening din. She wanted to scream, but feared that once she started, she would not stop.

  Battling to retain her sanity, Celine worked against the bonds that held her imprisoned. She felt the warm dampness of her blood on her hands. Convinced no one would ever find her this deep in the swamp, she struggled, trying to get loose and make her way out. She made a vow to not stop fighting until she had lost every drop of blood.

  Had anyone at the house even missed her yet? She had not returned to the house for the midday meal. Surely Foster or Edward would have noticed if Ada had not.

  And what of Cord? How long would it be before he realized she was missing? Would he care?

  She closed her eyes against the darkness that crept through the swamp like a fog, threatening to steal any hope of rescue. She lifted her face to the dark heavens, opened her eyes and strained to catch sight of even one star through the jungle boughs. Desperately, she searched for one point of light, something to hold onto, some hope. She found none.

  So this was her punishment for killing Jean Perot, she suddenly thought.

  She had escaped the hangman’s noose, and now God had taken his own revenge. Celine shook her head, fighting off the twisted logic. She had killed in self-defense, not out of anger or evil. Would God still choose to punish her?

  Perhaps she should not have tempted fate, should have stayed in New Orleans, turned herself in to the police—

  But then she would never have met Cordero. Never have married him or come to St. Stephen. Never have made love with him …

  Would she take it all back now, even if she could?

  The image of Cordero’s eyes came to her, those wounded eyes that had so often sought hers and then shied away, unwilling to reveal any emotion. She wanted to give him back his laughter, make him believe in living, in love. By offering him love, she had hoped to heal his wounded heart. But she had not even begun to come close.

  She cried out at the injustice of it.

  Chills shook her. Cord’s bloody jacket was lying somewhere in the mud at her feet. Was he already dead? Had the obeah man brought down his revenge on all of them?

  She itched all over. Countless mosquitoes plagued her. She was going mad from stings that she could not scratch. Then, just when she thought things could not get worse, she suddenly felt the horrifying tickle of a hundred spidery legs on her thigh.

  In a flash of memory, she saw the glass coasters filled with water beneath the furniture legs.

  “A necessary precaution, dear. The centipedes are quite poisonous.”

  She began flailing and kicking, but the creature continued to climb her thigh.

  She jerked again. A piercing, excruciating pain near her groin forced Celine to double over. When she lunged forward and strained at the rope, the movement tightened the bonds on her wrists. Intense pain radiated up each arm, but it was nothing compared to the burning injection of venomous poison the centipede released.

  A scream tore its way out of her throat. Just as she had feared, she did not stop screaming until everything went black.

  Trailing mud, Cord paced the stone floor of the kitchen, pounding back and forth, giving vent to anger stoked by fear and frustration. For three hours, he and Bobo, the trackers and a pack of worthless hounds had scoured the fields and forest near the house. The rain had wiped out any sign of a trail.

  Thoroughly frustrated, Cord had given up the search long enough to talk to the others, sending Bobo to question the slaves at the same time.

  Ada was near collapse but holding up far better than Cord had expected. Ever calm, Foster had advised both Ada and Edward to take seats at the worktable in the center of the kitchen. Lying forgotten on the table’s wooden surface were the makings of supper—cold ham, salt fish, a basket of fruit, some sliced pineapple.

  Howard Wells, a silent but concerned observer of the proceedings, reached out for a pineapple slice and began to nibble on it.

  “Try to get ahold of yourself, Edward Lang,” Foster snapped.

  Edward had buried his face in the crook of his arm on the table. His shoulders heaved with sobs.

  “She’s lost to us now. There’s no telling what ’appened to ’er. Whoever carried ’er away probably done ’er in by now. Poor little miss. It ain’t fair. Just when she an’ Cordero were startin’ to make sompin’ of—”

  Suddenly he stopped and raised his head to see if Cord had been listening. He earned a dark glance to add to his misery.

  “This ain’t the time to give out with that kind o’ talk,” Foster warned. “No need upsettin’ everybody more than necessary.”

  “But this is so upsetting. What happened to her?” Ada wailed.

  “Maybe that high-and-mighty gent wot was ’ere last night decided not to take no for an answer,” Edward suddenly hiccuped a heartfelt but dramatic sob.

  “What’s he saying? What does he mean?” Ada asked, drying her tears with the hem of her gray gown.

  Foster comforted the woman with a pat on the back, then shot a warning glance at Edward, silencing him.

  “Celine has a good head on her shoulders,” Wells interjected. “I’m sure wherever she is, if indeed she is a captive of that unscrupulous Collin Ray, she is plotting an escape.”

  “Shut up. All of you. Please just shut up.” They were driving Cord mad. He couldn’t think—not that he dared let his thoughts flow in the sorry direction theirs had taken.

  His attention was drawn to the sound of voices outside the open door.

  Forced to stoop to enter the kitchen door, Bobo shoved a lanky young male in ahead of him. With one meaty hand around the back of the boy’s neck, he thrust the youth at Cord. The quaking boy kept his gaze focused on the stone floor at his feet.

  Bobo did not let go of the youth. “Obeah man took de mistress. He went missin’ a few hours now. Nobody talkin’ ’bout him, but dey say dis one be wid obeah man ’fore he go.”

  Cord walked over to the boy and stood so close that the tip of his heavy riding boots was a fraction of an inch from the slave’s muddy, bare toes.

  “What’s your name?” Cord demanded.

  “Philip.” The boy’s thin shoulders turned in on themselves.

  “Tell us what you know, Philip, and I want the truth. I’ll know if you are lying.”

  The young slave remained mute.

  “I said talk.” Cord stifled the urge to beat the truth out of him.

  “I kin make him talk,” Bobo promised.

  The boy started trembling more violently. He glanced up at Cord, then over at the hulking giant beside him. He chose the coward’s way out. “Obeah man took de woman to the swamp. Say she bad magic. Gotta stop. Me an’ Gunnie go wid him. Gunnie, she run off to the hills wid obeah man
. Dey lef’ me here and not comin’ back, I tink—”

  Cord reached for the half-naked boy. His hands tightened on the slave’s sweaty skin. Already trembling, his eyes wide with fear, the youth whimpered.

  “Don’ kill me,” he begged, writhing beneath Cord’s hands.

  “Believe me, I’m tempted, but I need you to lead me to my wife. Do that and we’ll see about letting you live.”

  “Too dark.” The boy’s fear of the swamp at night was greater than any fear he had of Cord. He tried to squirm out of his hold.

  Bobo swatted the boy on the head.

  “Take him and don’t let him out of your sight. Get the trackers and the dogs. We’re not coming back without her,” Cord told Bobo.

  He wanted hot coffee and a change of clothes, but opted for only coffee. Foster, who knew Cord’s wishes before he could voice them, handed him a steaming cup. Grateful, Cord nodded and deeply inhaled the rich aromatic brew. It was laced with brandy.

  “Thank you, Foster,” he said softly. “You’ve always been too good to me.”

  Taken aback by Cord’s unexpected words of appreciation, Foster cleared his throat and looked away.

  “Aunt Ada, see that Celine’s room is ready and that there is plenty of hot water. I’m sure she’ll want nothing more than to bathe and get into clean sheets,” Cord told her, refusing to imagine any other outcome but Celine’s safe return.

  Ada nodded, pulled herself together and with newfound purpose bustled out of the room. Howard Wells started after her, then paused in the doorway.

  “I’ll select some reading material for her,” he volunteered.

  “I’ll go see about some lavender to sprinkle on the linens,” Edward sniffed. His eyes were red-rimmed, his complexion blotched. He walked out of the room, shoulders sagging, steps measured.

  Only Foster remained. He watched Cord swallow the last of the coffee.

  “You’ll find her, sir, and bring ’er ’ome safe.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The two of you were meant to be together, else Miss Celine would never have come to you. Sometimes no matter how we try to fight it, fate wills things another way.”

  “Things could go another way tonight,” Cord said, fighting to shrug off the heaviness around his heart, wishing he could call back every harsh thing he had ever said to Celine, hoping it wasn’t too late. Wishing they could start over.

  “You’ll find her, sir,” Foster said again.

  Cord could not let himself consider the alternative.

  He choked down fear with every step. Holding his pitch torch aloft, hacking at the jungle with a lethally sharp cane knife, Cord followed Bobo, Philip and the dogs. The trackers had refused to go any farther once the search had led them into the maze of swampland.

  At the first mention of the swamp, alarm had jolted Cord. As a child he had been lost once in a swamp, and even though the experience had lasted for no more than two hours, and it had been daylight, it was an ordeal he would not wish on anyone. He hoped Celine’s usual pluck held firm and that she believed he would find her.

  Then he realized how absurd that hope was. When had he ever given her a reason to believe in him?

  He had so carefully cultivated his isolation, spent so much time rigorously guarding his heart, convincing everyone, including Celine, that he cared about nothing and no one, it wouldn’t have surprised him if she held out no hope at all of anyone ever finding her.

  As he raised the pitch torch higher, he began to shake. This was no time for his knees to buckle, he told himself as he crashed through the dense undergrowth.

  The air was close and dank with the smell of rotted fruit and all manner of decay. In the inky darkness, the insects were unrelenting. Cord tried to speculate on how much protection Celine’s clothing might afford her. He had not even seen her since he had so coldly bid her good night the evening before, so he had no notion of what she might have on.

  There was a shout from Bobo, and a moment later the hounds sent up earsplitting howls. In his haste, Cord nearly tripped and fell headlong into the muck. They had paused in an almost undetectable clearing in the swamp. Illuminated by the glow of torchlight, bound to the trunk of a wild mango tree with her arms extended, Celine slumped forward. Her head hung down nearly to her waist. The ends of her long hair trailed in watery mud so deep her feet and shoes were buried.

  Bobo was hesitant to approach her. Cord handed his torch to the man and waded over to Celine. His hands shook as he reached for her, searching for some sign of life.

  His fingers connected with her skin. She was as cold as death, clammy. He pressed his fingertips gently against her throat and found a weak, thready pulse. A surge of relief almost brought him to his knees.

  “Cut her down,” he commanded Bobo.

  The giant shoved the torch into the mud and stepped behind the tree, then sliced the rope with his cane knife. As Celine fell forward into Cord’s arms, Bobo came around and started to lift her.

  “She’s my wife—I’ll carry her,” Cord said, tightening his hold.

  “Should I kill him?” Bobo asked a moment later.

  Cord looked over his shoulder. Bobo had his cane knife pressed up against the boy’s thin neck. Philip sobbed silently, his eyes as wide as gold pieces.

  Cord gave the boy a long hard look, considering Bobo’s suggestion. Near death, Celine lay limp in his arms. It would be so easy to pronounce judgment on the boy, he thought, fully aware that most planters would not have hesitated to hang him. It was well within his rights to mete out justice on the plantation, but as he stared over at the quaking youth, Cord knew that snuffing out Philip’s life would not save Celine’s. Only God’s mercy could do that.

  And he was in no position to rankle God.

  “Bring him with us,” Cord commanded over his shoulder as he headed back. The boy broke down with relief and babbled deliriously.

  Bobo’s long strides soon led him past Cord. He held his torch aloft, lighting the way for Cord as they wound their way back along the newly cut path.

  She was dying and she knew it. She was on fire. She was in hell. She was racked with chills.

  Celine tried to speak, to cry out against the blinding pain that rippled through her in waves. She would welcome death. Anything. Anything would be better than this.

  She felt as if she were moving, drifting through the dark swamp. Where were the stars? Even when she had been so miserable at sea, there had been stars to follow. Now there was only darkness.

  She let her thoughts drift away from the pain, let herself settle into the warm arms that she imagined held her. Against the blinding red pain behind her eyes she saw New Orleans, the streets, St. Louis Cathedral, the marketplace. Old Marcel, the vegetable vendor. She silently thanked him for his smile.

  Persa. Persa was there. Waiting in the little cottage on rue de St. Ann. Waiting for her. Smiling. Extending her hand in welcome.

  Persa would take care of her. She always had. Persa, who’d told her that her dreams of finding one true love were foolish daydreams. Persa had tried to teach her it was enough to be different. To have a gift. To hold love in her heart. She should have listened.

  “Hold on, Celine. We’re almost home.”

  Cord’s voice came to her through the pain, found her through the red haze. She wanted to beg him to let her go. The pain was too great.

  Cord, who had so much left to learn about life and love and laughter. There was so much she’d wanted to do to help him. Alyce’s gardens were not finished. The old house demanded new life.

  And there was Foster. Edward. Aunt Ada.

  She had stepped into Jemma O’Hurley’s life and out of her own. All she had ever dreamed of was so close, and yet so far. Given time she might have been able to convince her husband that there was room in his heart for love. For her.

  But time had run out.

  Cradling Celine in his arms, Cord tore across the veranda, kicked open the door and started up the stairs. Ada met him
at the top of the stairs and led the way to Celine’s room.

  “We’ll need hot water, Aunt,” he shouted over his shoulder as he headed down the hall.

  “Foster and Edward have everything ready. They heard you yelling up the drive. I’m certain the entire island heard you—”

  “Pull the spread and sheet back.” He hovered in the doorway with Celine in his arms, anxious to make her more comfortable, to wash the mud off her and do what he could to fight the fever raging through her. As he gently laid her in the center of the bed, Foster and Edward arrived with pitchers of hot water and clean rags.

  Cord set to work, directing Ada and the others, admonishing his aunt when her trembling fingers were not moving fast enough to suit him. Instead of falling apart, Ada proved far more capable than he would have guessed. She sent the servants from the room and helped Cord strip off Celine’s ruined clothing.

  “Damn it,” Cord swore when he saw the welts covering Celine’s skin. He wanted to weep for her, but there was no time. She was burning up with fever.

  Together he and Ada sponged the mud and dirt off Celine, who remained unconscious throughout their ministrations. As Cord lifted her bare arm, as he ran one damp rag after another over her lifeless limbs, he swore under his breath. He was cursed, he decided. Anyone who dared to care for him was doomed. His mother. Alex. His father. And now Celine stood at death’s door, with one hand on the knocker.

  “Cordero, dear, you really must do something about your language. What would Celine do if she were to awaken and hear such a vulgar tirade?”

  She would still love me.

  The words had come unbidden to his mind. Cord did not bother to answer. He continued to swab Celine’s skin, making note of each red welt on her body. “We need camphor oil for these bites, Aunt.”

  “Quinine,” Ada said. “A dose of quinine for the swamp fever. And ammonia. Ammonia mixed with sulfuric ether. We must bathe her scalp.” Ada stepped back, crossed her arms over her waist and shook her head. “All that beautiful hair. It will have to go.”