by Carolyn Hart
As she watched, she saw Henry come around the corner of the second-story veranda and begin to struggle with the shutters on that side. He was battening down Devereaux Plantation for another storm. The house had withstood storms for almost three centuries.
Three centuries. So many lives had been played out in that house and on those broad verandas. And somewhere in that line of forceful people who had withstood Indians, plagues, war and famine, did there run a strain of darkness, a selfish, twisted refusal to be thwarted no matter what the cost?
Was that her legacy?
The path turned her, and she faced directly into the wind. She had to lean into it and struggle to move forward. She had grown up with the wind that could shatter concrete buildings, uproot steel, topple brick walls. She understood that kind of wind. She knew, too, the wind that came before a spring rain, blowing one way, then another. But she didn’t know a wind that came hard and flat and steadily from one direction. The sky was still a smoky, sullen pewter color, but there were no mountainous banks of purplish-black thunderclouds, like those that hung in a tornadic Texas sky. She battled the wind and was grateful to reach the lee of the house.
She looked swiftly around but saw no one. Relieved, she hurried up the rear steps to the second-floor veranda, hesitating for a moment when she reached the screen door to her room.
Her room. Mary Ellen’s room. Marthe’s room.
Then she plunged inside, closed the door and turned on the light. Once again, she looked at her image in the mirror. A white face, windblown hair and huge dark eyes stared back at her.
“I should never have come.”
She said it aloud, to that forlorn image in the mirror, to a wounded heart.
Grandmother Shaw had left everything she’d known behind her, a middle-aged woman fleeing a horror too great to be borne.
Leah slumped onto the dressing-table chair. In Louisa’s letter, she’d said she was wrong about that night . . .
Wrong about what? Leah sat bolt upright. Wrong that Mary Ellen had killed her husband and then herself? How had Louisa been deceived? And by whom? Color surged into Leah’s face.
Cissy said that Louisa had come running to the house to get help. That could be true enough. If Louisa had found Mary Ellen and Tom dead, could someone have convinced her it was murder and suicide when it was really murder and murder?
It was all linked to the appearance of the ghost. Or was it?
Leah got up and paced wearily up and down. She could imagine and guess and hope, but there was no way she could ever know. . . . Her pacing slowed. There was still one person alive who knew something of what had actually happened—Old Jason. He’d told Kent that Mary Ellen haunted him, lying in that cursed ground.
Leah frowned. Mary Ellen and Tom had been thrown into the river. Jason must have confused Mary Ellen with Marthe, who was buried in unhallowed ground.
She pressed her hands to her temples and closed her eyes tight. Marthe and Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen and Marthe. And her.
She stood in the middle of the room, trembling; then gradually, unexpectedly, a feeling of calm filled her. Louisa and Cissy could have been wrong. She wasn’t going to give up on that. At least not until she’d talked to Jason.
She glanced at her watch. It was just past four. Perhaps she could—Lightning crackled, and suddenly rain swept against the house in blinding sheets. She walked to the window and peered out. No, she wouldn’t be driving into Mefford today. But she could call the hospital, find out what the visiting hours were and go see him tomorrow.
She hurried downstairs to the telephone in the alcove near the main staircase. It took a few minutes to find the number, then explain who she was to the hospital operator and that she wanted to visit Old Jason from Devereaux Plantation.
The hospital operator knew his name and apparently knew of her. “Oh, he’ll be so pleased, Miss Shaw. You can come in the morning. And he’s doing very well. He’s old, of course, but he’s gaining strength. He’ll be so happy to have someone from the plantation visit him.”
Leah was putting down the receiver when she heard the front door open. She turned and saw Merrick standing there, his face grim and hard. “I called you. All afternoon.”
“I took a ride with Cissy.” She could see pain in his eyes, as she had when they’d walked in the garden at Ashwood and he’d told her about his marriage and waited for her response.
But that was all fake, wasn’t it? He didn’t love her. He loved Ashwood and would do whatever was necessary to make certain that he would inherit it, just as Cissy and John Edward intended to stay always at Devereaux House.
“Ashwood is one of the Devereaux plantations, isn’t it?” she said bluntly.
“Yes, it is. Why?”
“You oversee all of them for Grandmother.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
She started to turn away.
He reached out and pulled her around to face him. “Dammit, what’s wrong with you?”
She stood frozen, then said huskily, “It’s just . . . I believed it, you know. I thought it was like a fairy tale. But I should have known better.”
“Known what?” His face was heavy with anger.
“You don’t really care for me. It’s only Ashwood you love.”
“Who’s been talking to you?” he demanded.
“No one.” She fought back tears. “But I overheard Cissy and John Edward. They think it’s wonderful, the way you’ve persuaded me to believe that you care. They’re so pleased. I’m sure they think that will make it so much easier for all of you to remain in control of Grandmother’s properties.”
His hand fell away from her, and he stepped back a pace. “How could you . . .” He stared at her, his eyes stricken. “How could you believe that?”
She clenched her hands tightly. “What else can I believe?”
“A great many things,” he said in a bitter voice. “If you loved me, you would believe in me—not them!” He turned around and strode off.
She watched as the front door slammed shut behind him. She stood still for a long moment, her heart aching; then she ran to the door and opened it, just in time to see the station wagon jolt out of the driveway.
But that was better, wasn’t it? She shouldn’t try to talk to him again. Her mind must control her heart.
“Leah.” John Edward stood behind her in the doorway to the library. “Do you have a moment?”
She turned and saw a middle-aged man with a boyish face and hostile eyes. He was so irrelevant to the feelings of loss and pain that swirled within her.
He stepped out into the hallway, and the light from the chandeliers made his hair glisten like gold. “I need to talk to you.” His manner was determined and not especially pleasant.
“Of course, John Edward.” She walked into the library, and he followed, closing the door behind them. They faced each other, hostility crackling in the room.
He jammed his hands into his pockets. “It’s pretty clear what you’re up to.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice was as hard as his.
His mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “Little Miss Innocence, aren’t you? Carrying ugly tales to an old lady with a heart condition.”
“She had a right to know what’s happening.”
“Even if it kills her?”
Sudden fear shot through Leah. Had something happened to her grandmother? She turned to reach for the door.
John Edward caught her by the wrist. “Oh, no, you’re not going to bother her again. She had an attack of angina this afternoon, but she took a nitroglycerin tablet and it passed. She’s asleep now.”
“She was fine at lunch,” Leah said loudly.
“Maybe. All I know is she’s sick now. And we know who’s telling her lies.”
“Not lies. The truth.”
“Does it matter, if it kills her?” He stared, his eyes cold. “But that’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“No! That’s terrible—”
“Then yo
u can inherit Devereaux Plantation.”
“I don’t want Devereaux Plantation!” Leah was close to tears. She pulled away from him and opened the door.
“Don’t you?” he called after her.
Leah ran up the stairs. Why hadn’t they told her that Carrie was ill? She felt isolated, a pariah. She turned toward her grandmother’s room and knocked lightly on the door.
Cissy opened the door, her face pale and set. She still wore her riding clothes. She stepped out into the hall and stared at Leah. “She’s sleeping. Haven’t you done enough?”
Tears swam in Leah’s eyes.
“Why don’t you get out?” Cissy demanded in a low harsh voice. “Leave us alone. We were fine until you came.”
“I suppose you were,” Leah said miserably, aware of the anger stirring within her. It wasn’t she who had staged a ghostly appearance in the garden or had arranged accidents. “But I’m not going until I learn the truth about my mother—until I talk to Old Jason and find out what really happened that night.”
She turned away and hurried to the sanctuary of her room. At dinnertime, she sent word that she would have a tray in her room. She checked twice on her grandmother, who once roused enough to smile warmly at her.
But as the storm ebbed and rose, rain sometimes rattling the windows, sometimes easing softly against the panes, Leah sat in her room and remembered Merrick’s face and how the anguish in his eyes had turned to bitterness.
She also remembered what Cissy and John Edward had said. Somehow she would survive the pain in her foolish heart.
Finally, after the house had settled into quietness, she decided to take advantage of a lull in the storm. She pulled on a sweater and walked along the veranda and down the steps into the garden. She ambled toward the pond, but she knew no ghosts would be out on a night like this. The trees still whipped, and thunder rumbled ominously. The storm wasn’t over.
As she came back up the path amid a burst of rain slanting in from the southeast, she realized it was on a night such as this that her parents had died.
When she reached the steps, she paused and looked down toward the pond. She could almost picture Louisa running up the path, frightened and horrified. The idea was so unbearable to Leah that she began to run up the steps in an effort to block it out. Just then a rush of air fanned her, and the earth next to her shuddered.
Her hand flew to her throat as she stared down at a broken jumble of pottery and huge clumps of earth. An immense urn that sat on the second-story veranda had crashed to the ground at the very spot where she had been standing. If she hadn’t moved when she had, the falling urn would have crushed her. Slowly, horror welled inside her. She looked up, but nothing moved on the second story.
Her heart thudded erratically, she began again to climb the stairs. She moved cautiously, trying to see into the darker shadows. Once she had reached her room and opened the screen door, she turned on the lamp and looked in every corner. Satisfied she was alone, she locked the veranda door and pushed a chair beneath the knob to the hall door.
Gradually, her breathing eased, though she still looked nervously from one door to the other whenever the wind rattled the old house.
But the killer who moved so quietly under cover of night specialized in seeming accidents. A tumbling wall, a boat swept away, a broken well ladder. Now a falling urn that weighed, perhaps, a hundred pounds.
If she hadn’t moved unexpectedly, she would be dead.
She clasped her hands together so hard they ached. A monstrous thought ballooned in her mind, ugly as a malignant growth. Nothing had threatened her until she and Merrick had quarreled.
When she’d come to Devereaux Plantation and been taken into the family, everyone knew that, though Carrie Devereaux would be generous to her adopted niece and nephews, Devereaux Plantation would ultimately come to Leah. And the other plantations, too. Including Ashwood.
Leah moved like an old woman. She slipped into her nightgown and settled in the high bed. She lay in darkness, listening to the whine of the wind, and resolved to talk to Old Jason tomorrow. She would do that much more. Then she would tell Carrie that she had to be getting back to Texas; she would visit, of course, and write, but she wouldn’t live at Devereaux Plantation. She wasn’t going to stay in this house with its record of twisted lives and broken dreams.
Leah slept fitfully, awakening once to look about in terror, her heart racing, sure that someone had called out. But it was only the wind.
MIDNIGHT, SATURDAY, MAY 9,1863
Marthe knelt in the darkness, her fingers reaching beneath the bed for the valise. Where was it? It had to be there. Then she touched its petit-point cover and found the smooth leather handles. Feverishly, she unbuckled the clasp and shoved the family Bible in on top of her few pieces of clothing. She hadn’t intended to take the Bible, not until that last awful scene with Randolph, but now she would. And she had already inked in—indelibly for all time—her name and Timothy’s in the marriage column at the front, for they would be married as soon as possible. Timothy had sent word that he would arrange it. A momentary feeling of panic swept over her. Timothy seemed so far away, and she couldn’t quite see his face. Oh, her mother would have been so heartbroken if she had lived to see this day—Marthe driven from her own home, creeping through the night like a loose woman to meet a man and ride away with him under cover of dark.Marthe buckled the clasp, picked up the valise and tiptoed to the screen door. She edged it open, then slipped outside. The moonlight was bright, but just then a cloud slid across the moon. Welcoming the darkness, Marthe crept toward the stairs, on her way to the tower.
Chapter Fourteen
Carrie Devereaux sent for Leah shortly after breakfast.
Leah found her propped up in bed, three down pillows behind her, her face pale. She held a writing board in her lap and waved Leah to a seat beside her. As she started to talk, a faint flush brightened her cheeks, and her black eyes sparkled.
“We must introduce you to our friends and to other members of the family—cousins and second cousins. There is so much to be done. I’m trying to decide on a time.”
“Grandmother,” Leah cautioned, “you mustn’t talk so fast. You must rest.”
Carrie’s eyes glittered. “Now, don’t you start that nonsense with me. John Edward and Cissy have gloomed around, wringing their hands. I’ve had angina for forty years.” She laughed grimly. “I don’t suppose I’ll have it for forty more, but I don’t spend a half minute worrying about it, and you’re not going to, either.” She rattled her papers. “I’ve started some lists. The ballroom on the third floor must be repainted. And we’ll have a fine dinner. The servants must start preparing now. Everything must be polished and . . .”
The night before, Leah had resolved to leave after speaking to Jason. This morning, watching a pulse flutter in her grandmother’s throat, listening to her excited chatter about future plans, she made a new resolve. She wouldn’t be driven away from Devereaux Plantation. If she left, it would wound a heart that had already borne more than its share of suffering.
No matter what she learned from Jason, she wouldn’t let it drive her away. She still feared there was a link, a thread of tragedy, running from Marthe to Mary Ellen to herself, but whatever happened, she would manage. She would not become hysterical.
Merrick came in then. “Good morning, Aunt Carrie,” he said softly. He nodded stiffly at Leah. Crossing to the bed, he bent to bestow a light kiss on Carrie’s cheek. That simple gesture told Leah he loved her grandmother. When he straightened, he looked down at the old woman, his face somber, and both she and Leah realized something was wrong.
“What is it, Merrick?” Carrie asked sharply.
“Old Jason died last night.”
Carrie took a deep breath, turned her face away for an instant, then looked back at them. Leah ached for her. She was old and knew she was old, and any death presaged her own. But she spoke calmly. “Was anyone with him at the end? Did they call Henry?”
&nb
sp; Merrick shook his head. “No. Henry told me this morning that he went to see him last night and Jason was fine. He was looking forward to seeing Leah this morning. He died in his sleep.”
For the first time, Leah realized that Henry was Jason’s son. She thought again how interwoven and tangled were all the lives at Devereaux Plantation.
Carrie Devereaux looked past them, beyond them. “I came to Devereaux Plantation in 1938 as a bride. Old Jason was the butler. He must have been well past forty then. We depended upon him. He was part of us. It was Jason who roused us the night the fire broke out in the kitchen. That was in 1946. He and my husband, Samuel, fought the fire and saved Devereaux Plantation. And many years later it was Jason who brought us word that Samuel’s brother and his wife had died, so we invited Cissy, John Edward and Merrick to live with us. After Samuel died, Jason was always there, helping me with the children, keeping things going. It was Jason—” now she spoke so softly they had to strain to hear “—who found Mary Ellen’s charm bracelet on the path near the tower and brought it to me with tears in his eyes.”
She reached over to the table beside the bed and picked up a small teakwood box carved with dragons and swallows. Opening it, she lifted out a fine-linked silver bracelet. The tiny charms struck against one another, making a faint and ghostly melody.
Leah stared at the bracelet and felt the blood leave her face. Her mother’s bracelet. She wanted to shake her head. No, Jason hadn’t found it on the path. It hadn’t been that way at all. He had unclasped that bracelet from an unfeeling arm to give Carrie Devereaux the only thing he could give her of her daughter. If ever Leah had wanted proof that Old Jason knew more of what had happened to her mother and father, this silver bracelet was it.
Leah’s grandmother handed the bracelet to her. She touched each charm in turn—a horse, a deer, the initials M.E. worked together, a train car, a sailboat. Each one would have meant something special to Mary Ellen. To Leah, they represented the reality of her search and at the same time its futility—because Old Jason was dead. She couldn’t ask him what had happened that stormy night.
