“Madeline!” I cried, and started after her, my heart full of fear for my friend. I hurried along the corridor, but my heavy skirts hampered me, and Mathieu was faster. He chased after her, disappearing into the east wing.
I swung around the edge of the door, only to find that Madeline was not alone there. The flashing glow of lightning revealed her standing between the stack of crates, Mathieu reaching out to take her hand as she backed away, frantically shaking her head.
“Madeline...” I called. I took a step toward her—and my arm was seized in an iron grip, twisting and painful. I swung around to face my captor, Monsieur Harcourt. His eyes were wide and red, almost glowing, his expression frighteningly desperate.
“Give it to me now,” he shouted, shaking me hard. “I must have it or we shall all die!”
Chapter Thirteen
I broke away from Harcourt, and ran as fast as I could toward the sound of Madeline's screams, my heart pounding. The tight waist of my evening dress wouldn't let me breathe, and I feared at any moment I would fall and be caught. But there was no time to panic, not if I was to save Madeline, and myself.
The east wing was freezing cold as I stumbled over a loose floorboard with Harcourt shouting behind me. I looked around frantically for Madeline. I couldn't see her or Mathieu amid the maze of packing crates, but I quickly saw the windows were thrown open, letting in the icy wind and driving sheets of rain. The needle-like drops caught at my bare arms as I ran deeper into the room, and my hair was torn free from its anchoring pins, but still I kept running.
The smell of tropical flowers was strong, wrapping around me as if to urge me onward. I ducked behind a tottering pile of boxes and found myself at a dead end, the crumbling old fireplace ahead of me. Above the whine of the wind, I heard Madeline's shrieks, Harcourt's furious shouts, but I couldn't tell where they were, what direction they came from.
The flower scent grew overpowering, seeming to wrap around me and pull me onward. I spun around and ran back the way I had come. At last I found Madeline, cowering on the floor near the windows, her back to the crates. Her hair streamed around her like sodden gold ribbons, her pale nightgown streaked with dust and raindrops. In her hands she clutched a small, carved figure with outstretched arms. A deep purple stone glowed in its wooden headdress.
All the light in the storm-darkened room seemed to gather on that stone, flashes of gold and silver, and it blinded me with its radiance. Madeline sobbed as she held it so tightly her fingers bled. When she saw me, she cried out and tried to stagger to her feet.
“Sandrine,” she called. “Help me, please. It won't let me go.”
I took a step toward her, my hand held out to her. “I'm here now, Madeline, you can give it to me.” Though I was not sure whether I wanted it or not, it frightened me so.
She shook her head frantically. “My husband wrote to me I must not let it out of my sight, that I must always protect it. But I have felt so ill ever since it arrived here, it plagues my dreams, gives me such fevers. I have begged him to release me, but he will not do so!”
“Begged—him?”
“My husband. He comes to me in my dreams, asks me to forgive him, to help him.”
I stared at the figure in her hands, the figure it seemed had been the cause of her illness. It was mesmerizing, the purple stone glowing, pulsating, drawing me closer. I could not look away from it.
As I reached toward it, Madeline's arm was suddenly seized as mine had been, and she was pulled violently to her feet. I stumbled back, blinking as if suddenly untethered from the bonds of a nightmare. Harcourt held her tight, dragging her up against him as a blade flashed in his hand, pressing to her bare throat. She gasped and went silent—yet she did not let go of the statue. It seemed bonded to her.
He glared at me over her head, his eyes glazed in a strange, star-like light. Any vestige of the handsome, carefree, cosmopolitan gentleman he had seemed when he first arrived at Pierpont was vanished. He looked murderously desperate.
“Do not come any closer,” he hissed. “Or she will die, just as you will if you stand in my way.”
The rain hit me from the open window, freezing and blinding. I held up my hands, trying to focus on him, to not be afraid. Madeline sobbed loudly. “No one need be hurt today at all, Monsieur Harcourt.”
“I only want the statue,” he said, almost pleading. “I must have it! It is the only way I can get the money to repay my debts. The statue, and the stone on your bracelet. He said they must come together now.”
“The statue and my bracelet?” I was baffled. What on earth had they to do with each other? Harcourt's eyes had gone wide and frantic now, and I knew I had to distract him, that time grew short. Surely Mathieu had to be nearby, would discover us soon.
“Tell me why,” I urged him.
He shook his head. “I went to a gaming club in Rouen, I was told the stakes there were easy, that I could soon make enough money to cover my debts. And at first I did. Then he approached me.”
“He?”
“He said he had bought up the last of my notes, and would call them in unless I could find this statue that Madeline's husband sent back from the islands. He said he knew people, dangerous people, who wanted to send it back where it came from. He said if I did not get it...” His words choked off.
“But who are these people? What did they want with it?”
“I do not know!” he cried. He glanced around desperately, as if he sought any escape. He fell back a step, bumping into some of the crates. His arm fumbled, and the blade cut into Madeline's skin. She cried out, and suddenly whirled around, bringing the statue down on his head. He shouted, drawing his arm back with the blade as if he would drive it into her heart.
I screamed at him to stop, and a jolt of sizzling-silver lightning lit the whole room. Its glow fell on the statue, and I gasped to see the carved features seem to move and shift.
Harcourt saw it, too, for he gave a shrill cry and dropped Madeline's arm. He drove the knife toward the statue. Madeline stumbled free, falling toward the floor and dropping the statue with a clatter. I reached out for her, but I was too late. There was a sudden shout, and Mathieu was there, pulling her out of harm's way.
I took her arm and drew her close to me. She shivered as if she was caught in a freezing snowstorm, sobbing bitterly. Harcourt snatched up the statue. Its carved face now looked as dark and still as before, the stone a dull, flat purple.
Mathieu held out his hand. “Give it to me, Harcourt. It does not belong to you. You have always known that.”
“But it is my last hope,” Harcourt whispered. He held out the figure, as if he might give it to Mathieu, but then he snatched it back. “I have no choice at all!” he shouted. “It is mine now!”
Madeline's whole body shook with her sobs, and I feared she would put herself into danger again to save the statue and her brother. The scent of tropical flowers was heavy around us.
Instinctively, I lunged toward Harcourt and reached for the statue. He seized my arm and pulled me closer, just as his feet slipped on the rain-wet wood of the floor. He fell against the windowsill, and I cried out as I caught a swirling glimpse of the dark courtyard far below us. The statue tumbled free out into the night.
“Let her go!” Mathieu shouted. Madeline screamed.
The floor fell away under my shoes, and I knew I would fall to my death. The moment slowed to a hazy crawl, and I knew something more intensely than I had ever known anything before. I wanted to live. I loved Mathieu, and wanted to stay with him.
Then time sped forward again. The smell of flowers grew stronger, and the cold rain pelted at my skin. Harcourt suddenly released me, and struck out at something behind me, something I could not see. Mathieu caught me around the waist and bore me back to the safety of the room. I spun around to watch what happened next.
Harcourt flailed on the precipice of the window. His expression was startled yet strangely resigned in the lightning. The silver flash alighted for an instant
on his terrified eyes—and on the figure who stood before him, holding out a hand as if offering to draw him back. It was a tall, slender woman, wrapped in a bright sarong, her hair a beautiful, waving fall down to her knees. Her eyes were infinitely kind.
She gave us a glance, so full of sadness I almost sobbed, and then she was gone. Harcourt had refused to take her ghostly hand. The scent of flowers vanished. The night closed in, endlessly dark.
Harcourt fell back heavily, almost as if pushed, and his feet slipped under him. He fell backward, over the windowsill, and he vanished. A chilling scream echoed through the room—and then all was horribly silent.
Epilogue
I have learned that many things in life can never be fully explained, no matter how many times we lie awake pondering them in our sleepless nights. And that is as it should be.
For a long time, I dreamed about Pierpont at night, smelled the exotic flowers and felt the fear that lurked in its old corridors, even after the collections of Monsieur Monsard were sent away and the house lay empty. Then the nightmares faded away, dimmed by everyday life, and now it all seems most unreal.
Mathieu's office found the man who was blackmailing Monsieur Harcourt, and found a ring of villains who supplied stolen religious items to people wishing to misuse them for their own evil purposes. They were arrested, and their purloined treasures returned to their rightful owners. I fear Monsieur Monsard and his Ailana could not hope for such a happy ending, though, as they had both died of mysterious fevers on their island. Perhaps in some way they are together now in their forbidden love.
Madeline recovered her health after surrendering the statue that had such a cursed hold on her. She left for a long tour of spa towns, taking the healing waters, and there she met a German baron who fell madly in love with her and whisked her away to his castle. Baroness Madeline writes to me often, and I revel in the happy glow of her words.
I, too, have found a measure of great contentment in a new home. Mathieu and I married soon after we left Pierpont, and now we live in Paris with our little twin daughters. Mathieu enjoys his work here, and we have made many friends to share dinners, dances, and the theater. The lights on the river, the graceful old bridges and beautiful palace gardens of our new city give us so much joy. It is as far from the lonely secrets of Pierpont as one could go, yet it was that place that gifted us with our new life.
As I look down at my girls, slumbering in their little white cots, I think of how swiftly life can change. Unhappiness, greed, misery, they are relentless forces out there in the winter's chill. In here, time passes in love and peace, new joyful memories made every day.
I pray Monsieur Monsard and his island love have indeed found peace. I pray Mathieu and my girls will always know the strength of my love for them. And I pray Pierpont will stay silent at last.
Author's Note
When I was asked to participate in “The World of Gothic” project I was so excited! I spent my early romance-reading years devouring Victoria Holt and Mary Stewart titles from my grandmother's shelves, and scouring bookstores for any books featuring covers with girls in Victorian nightgowns fleeing along stormy cliffs. I love Gothic! And I hope you enjoy reading Sandrine's adventures in a creepy old French chateau as much as I've had fun writing them.
Besides getting to revisit my favorite place in the world in this story, France, I enjoyed researching more about the history of French Polynesia, as well. My grandfather served in the Seabees in World War II in the South Pacific (at the same time as James Michener, whose Tales of the South Pacific my grandfather loved!). He never talked about the fighting or the deprivations of war, but I could sometimes get him to tell me about the beauties of the islands, so warm and exotic to a young man from the Midwest. This story, then, is for my granddad.
If you'd like to read more about the history, I found some wonderful sources:
The Explorations of Captain Cook in the Pacific
Dr. Robert C. Suggs, The Hidden Worlds of Polynesia and The Island Civilizations of Polynesia
Bengt Danielsson (a Danish anthropologist who has many other fascinating writings, and took part in the Kon Tiki experiment), Gaugin in the South Seas
Alan Moorhead, Fatal Impact: The Invasion of the South Pacific, 1767-1840
Robert Langdon, Tahiti: The Island of Love
David Howarth, Tahiti: A Paradise Lost
Caroline Alexander, The Bounty: The True Story of the Mutiny on the Bounty
And if you like fiction set in the islands, I always love Somerset Maugham's The Moon and Sixpence
Happy reading! For more behind the book info, be sure and visit me at http://ammandamccabe.com
About the Author
Amanda McCabe (aka Amanda Carmack, when writing the Elizbethan Mystery Series) wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen--a vast historical epic starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class (and her parents wondered why math was not her strongest subject...)
She's never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA Award, the Romantic Times BOOKReviews Reviewers' Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award, and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Santa Fe with her hero os a husband, a very bossy miniature Poodle, and a laid-back cat, along with far too many books.
When not writing or reading, she loves taking dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs, and watching the Food Network--even though she doesn't cook. She's also a Pinterest fiend, and you can find her there almost every evening.
Other Books
Other Books by Amanda McCabe
Running From Scandal
The Runaway Countess
Betrayed By His Kiss
A Loving Spirit
Queen’s Christmas Summons
Martini Club 4
Rebellious – The 1920s
The Girl in the Beaded Mask (Lulu Hatton's story)
Perilous – The 1940s (February 2017)
Other Books by Amanda Carmack
Murder at Hatfield House
Murder at Westminster Abbey
Murder in the Queen's Garden
Read ahead for excerpts of other A World of Gothic stories
Excerpt:
Blood Stained Memories
A World of Gothic: United States
Kathy L Wheeler
One
January 2015
Winds howled against the windows of the sleek Amtrak train—the windows of my soul. I hardly registered the lush green terrain rushing by. Memories of that day were thrusting me headlong into my destiny.
The shrill whistle of the train startled me from my over dramatic thoughts. I reached for the red spinel stoned locket that hung around my neck before remembering I’d packed it away in the event someone recognized it. Instead, I hugged the tote that held all my valuables in the world to my chest. My locket, my lucky Spanish coin, and the letter I’d clung to that horrific day so long ago. A letter I’d completely forgotten until the angels had descended and claimed poor Aunt Lydia’s aging body, found in a box of forgotten personal effects. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes at the loss of Papa’s only aunt, and my last remaining family member. I was alone now, and the quest to learn the truth behind my father’s death could finally begin. Perhaps absolving me of the nightmares I’d never outgrown.
The passing landscape slowed to a crawl until the wheels of the train screeched to their final halt. “Fort Pickens,” the porter called out. “All bound for Fort Pickens. Prepare to depart.”
With mixed emotions, I gathered my single bag and made my way through the passenger coach. The porter assisted me to a desolate platform. I tugged at the stiff collar of my white cotton blouse having forgotten how thick the air on the Gulf was, even in early January at a balmy 61 degrees. A stark contrast from my home in Alexandra, Virginia where the snow was knee-deep and likely to remain that way another four months. The dark clouds on the horizon I’d seen gathering through t
he modern train’s small windows since Atlanta, let loose their tears in a grand torrent of angry energy, bringing a sudden and welcome coolness.
A moment later the whistle blew the train’s signal to depart and the wheels churned into motion. The porter’s sad smile lingered until the caboose took the curve of the tracks and disappeared from sight.
I feared the last leg of my journey would prove as inefficient as my correspondence with Dr. Adam Creighton. I blew out a held breath. The man’s brusque manner had come across about as accommodating as a wet blanket in a raging downpour. Much like the one currently bearing down. My wry thoughts came as a welcome surprise. At least my wit had not abandoned me. That was a relief as all but one memory surrounding my life around the time of Papa’s death certainly had.
I scanned the deserted platform, a shudder snaking up my spine, and with nothing to do but wait, my mind veered straight to that only recollection that still haunted me after eighteen years. The sharp sting of Aunt Lydia’s palm against my cheek, and the stark harsh reality of the sticky knife I still gripped in one hand, the blood-stained letter in the other…
A hot breeze stirred my hair from the window. The windows were never opened in the summer. It was too hot. My thoughts were strange considering the burn now searing my cheek.
“Helena Abigail.” She shook me so roughly, I feared my neck would snap. “Never let me hear you utter a word regarding this God-awful day,” she barked. “Ever. Do you hear—No! Don’t look—” Her words came too late as my eyes met the gaze of my father’s blank stare.
Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Page 9
