The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras (17 page)

“The binding must have given away,” Christine was explaining. “I know because it happened to me once. Not so long ago. I was riding Thunder, too. I could have been badly hurt if I hadn’t been riding slowly when it happened.”

Was she telling the truth? I saw the open suspicion in Nicholas’s eyes as he gazed at her. Rubbing a hand across a slightly sore shoulder, I remembered Lydia’s warning. Could Christine have been in some way responsible for this “accident”?

She was watching me now with such a worried, almost tender expression that I instantly regretted my thoughts. “Do you think anything’s broken?” she asked anxiously. “Can you ride?”

I nodded shakily, feeling damp and stiff and miserable.

“You ride Sugar back,” Nicholas commanded, taking the giddy Arabian’s reins from her. “I’ll see Louise home on Thunder.”

Christine’s mouth formed into a rebellious little pout. She started to protest, then must have thought better of it, for she obediently mounted Sugar and soon disappeared through the trees.

I saw Nick’s gaze darken as he tied up the broken binding and adjusted the saddle. He turned back to me. “I don’t believe this was any accident, Louise.”

“What—what do you mean?” My lips trembled, but whether from fear or cold, I couldn’t say.

“I believe the binding’s been cut.” I thought first of Christine’s anger, then of Brule’s sharp knife. In my mind, I saw them whispering together. Had Christine somehow managed to sweet-talk Brule into loaning her his knife? Or had it been Brule himself who had cut the binding?

“Christine may not be the one responsible for this, Nicholas. I believe Brule is the one trying to harm me, or at least frighten me away. I think Edward might have hired him to track me down in New Orleans and steal the amethyst brooch that was in my purse.”

Black brows drew together above dark eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“When I arrived in New Orleans, I was wearing an amethyst brooch that belonged to my mother. Brule must have seen me take it off and slip it into my purse.” I took a deep breath. “Edward and some of the others think that my mother took the family treasures when she eloped with Jeff Moreland during the war. Someone may think I still have them. I have some old letters of my grandfather’s—” I tried to continue, to tell him about the mysterious jewelry box my grandfather had sent, the letter I knew was missing, but either the shock of the fall or the cold made me start to shiver violently.

“We’ll talk about this later. Right now, I want to get you home.” With a shake of his head, Nicholas mounted Thunder, drawing me up beside him. “Don’t be frightened,” he soothed. “Just cling to me”

I pressed my soaked body against Nick’s strong, muscular back. Though his shirt was damp, the black hair still wet and curling at the nape of his neck, I drew a measure of warmth from his nearness. On the trail I saw our shadows blending, merging as one as we rode Thunder back to Edward’s house.

We slowed near the entrance to Royal Oaks. Nicholas leaped from the horse, then helped me down. His hands lingered upon my wrists, detaining me. “Do you feel safe here in Edward’s house?”

“I’ll be fine.” I did not tell him about the intruder in my room, the nightmare, the face that I knew now was a Mardi Gras mask glaring down at me as I slept.

“I have to see you tonight, Louise. You must tell me everything that has happened since you set foot from that steamer in New Orleans.” His eyes scanned the gardens, as if searching for a meeting place. “I don’t want Edward and the others to know I’m here. Meet me in the gardens near the old fountain.”

Silently, I nodded.

“I’ll be there as soon as it is dark.”

Nicholas sat watching as, now limping only slightly, I climbed up the porch steps. Then he turned Thunder toward the stables, where Christine was waiting. The slight pain in my leg reminded me of my bedraggled condition. Running a hand through my damp, tangled hair, I hurried on inside.

Lydia was the only one in the parlor when I entered. She had been lounging on the chaise, a Harper’s propped up in front of her. She glanced up and watched open-mouthed as I unbuttoned my damp shoes and left them at the doorway.

“What happened?” she cried at last, her voice mingling horror and suspicion as I came past the chaise.

“Just a little accident,” I murmured. Again, I remembered her warnings. By her expression, I could tell that she was already blaming Christine.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but just at that moment Christine returned from the stables, chattering like a guilty magpie. “See what happened, Lydia?” she finished. “Louise has had a fall.”

“So I see.” Lydia’s eyes narrowed as she regarded her step-daughter. “Christine—what part did you play in all of this?”

“Why, none at all!” Hers was the voice of innocence as she took up a rather defiant stance.

“No doubt you were egging her on, encouraging her to ride too fast for a beginner?”

“No, she was doing fine. You should have seen her, Lydia. She’s a natural-born horsewoman. It never would have happened if Thunder—”

Lydia paled. “You let her ride Thunder?”

“She was handling him well enough!” Christine replied impatiently. “She never would have fallen if—”

Edward stepped into the parlor just in time to hear the last of her sentence. “What’s this about a fall?” he demanded. He came forward, staring speechlessly at my damp hair and soggy clothing. “Good Merciful Heavens, what’s happened to you?”

“As I was just telling Lydia,” Christine retorted, “Brule made her fall!”

I had been ready to slip away. Now I stood still by the stairway, mindless of my damp clothing, almost as shocked by Christine’s revelation as Lydia and Edward appeared to be. What was she saying? Remembering the gleaming knife, I wondered if maybe she was going to tell them that she had seen Brule tamper with Thunder’s saddle binding.

What she did say was even more incredible. “We stopped there to get our fortunes told,” she explained swiftly. “I wanted to get my palm read so that I could find out who is to take me to the Mardi Gras ...” She paused, then finished, her voice silken innocence. “It was Brule who made her fall. He must have used his magic to bewitch her horse.”

“Bewitched her horse, indeed!” Edward snorted. His mouth was set into a tight, angry line as he gave a firm order. “Christine, I don’t want you taking those horses out again without my permission. And as for Brule, you’re not to go near his place! Now, you may go to your room. And as to your worry concerning who will escort you to the Mardi Gras, let me set your mind at ease. You will be going with me, and you won’t leave my side all evening!”

“But that’s not fair—”

I could hear the two of them still arguing as I limped up the stairs to my room. No sooner had I entered than a knock sounded. The young, dark-haired girl introduced herself as Camille, another of Mrs. Lividais’s many daughters. She was younger than Odele and older than Marie Francine, she explained as she drew a much-welcomed bath for me.

After draping a thick towel over the chair and sprinkling a sweet-smelling solution of rose into the water, she slipped cheerfully out, promising to return for my torn clothing.

The damp leather of the riding habit had become tight and uncomfortable. I struggled gratefully from my drenched clothing and into the steaming tub. I had a long soak, finished dressing, and had just commenced to brush the tangles from my hair when timid knuckles once more rapped upon my door. “Come in,” I called, expecting Camille had returned for my ruined clothing.

Instead, Christine stood hesitantly in the doorway. “There’s something I have to tell you, Louise,” she said. I continued brushing my hair. She stepped further into the room until she was standing next to me. “Someone was out by the horses.”

“What?” I turned to face her, brush suspended in midair.

“At Brule’s cabin, when I went out to tether the horses, I saw someone slip back into the trees.”

“Who was it, Christine?”

“I don’t know. All I saw was a shadow. It could have been either a man or a woman. But I know someone was out there with our horses.”

“Why are you telling me this now, Christine?” I demanded. Was she telling the truth, or was this just a ruse on her part to draw suspicion away from herself? Was she capable of having planned all this, even to the changing of our horses?

“I don’t want you to blame me for your fall,” she replied simply. “I was mad at you this morning. But I still like you.” Her eyes were large, wide and innocent. The long hair, worn loose and wavy, made her look like some orphaned waif, a fairy child. “I wouldn’t ever want to see you hurt.”

“I believe you, Christine.”

“I’m glad,” she said. The corners of her mouth lifted in
a tiny smile. Some small light in her eyes had shifted and changed. The change was disturbing. I had seen that look earlier today, when she had become jealous of Nicholas’s attention. I shivered slightly. Something in those smoky gray eyes now reminded me of the portrait that hung in Edward’s study—the cruel-eyed portrait of her father, Racine.

Chapter Eleven

I wandered from the empty parlor into the kitchen where Mrs. Lividais was busy making preparations for the evening meal, even though it was so early in the afternoon that there had been barely enough time to digest the heavy noonday fare. “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

Mrs. Lividais looked up at me with genuine surprise. I doubted Edward’s guests often offered to help her peel potatoes. She shook her head, returning to her task, her large, thick hands amazingly deft at parting the skins.

“Perhaps you can teach me a new recipe,” I persisted. I was not accustomed to idle time. My fingers ached to do something, anything, productive. Your shrimp bisque was delicious.”

She shook her head impatiently. “It’s something nobody can tell you, how to cook fish and the like.” She shrugged her shoulders. “You’re just born knowing or not knowing. Take gumbo, yes? It’s all in the roux. You have to get it brown enough, but not too brown or you might as well throw the whole pot away. Now, my grandmother she taught me, and her mother before her, how to measure without any of those fancy spoons and cups—just a little pinch of this an’ a pinch of that.”

The bright black eyes watched me curiously, the heavy-cheeked face suddenly rounding into a smile. “Well, maybe there’s some things you can learn. But first you have to make yourself useful. Here, take a paring knife from the drawer.”

“What are we cooking?” I asked, rolling up my sleeves.

She laughed, making her short, plump body roll. Like many of the Cajun women, she had acquired, perhaps along with her grandmother’s instinctive cooking skills, a tendency to put on weight around the middle. These are just potatoes. Plain and simple. We make the fancy stuff later—the roast duck and
la methatrice.”

“La... ?”

“An oyster loaf filled with creamed oysters. Lydia’s nephew is coming, you know. The lazy, good-for nothing man!” She smiled a little, a dimple showing at each corner of her mouth. “But he appreciates good cooking all the same!”

“Where is everyone, anyway? I didn’t see a soul in the entire house.”

“Edward’s out in the fields. Lydia takes to her room every afternoon. Christine’s up in her room, too. She’s being punished for letting you ride Thunder.” She rolled her dark eyes. That horse! It’s a wonder you weren’t killed, taking a tumble like that! Be careful around that girl. Christine, she’s got the devil in her! She takes after her father, that one!”

“How did you know about my fall?”

“Oh, Christine tells me everything. She was down here chattering like a magpie before Edward caught her and sent her back upstairs.” Mrs. Lividais laughed. “Edward, he has more trouble with her than I have with my twelve all rolled together!”

“It’s a shame she lost both parents so young.”

“Poor orphaned girl! I try to help Edward with her when I can. That Lydia, she’s no use at all when it comes to raising children.”

“You say Christine takes after her father. What was Racine like?”

A wary look crept into the hired woman’s eyes. “He was wild and reckless, like Christine is at times. That’s what I meant about them being alike. But there is a big difference between them. Christine, she causes plenty of trouble but she doesn’t mean harm. Racine, he was cruel.”

“Did you know Christine’s mother?”

Mrs. Lividais shook her head. “Christine was born in New Orleans. No one here ever saw Racine’s wife except your grandfather, and she was in the coffin then. She died in childbirth, you know.”

“How sad”

“Old Raymond brought Christine back here as a newborn babe. The mother’s family had been ruined by the war. They were glad to be rid of an extra mouth to feed, and Edward was delighted to have Christine. You see, he’d just gotten the word of Racine’s disappearance. Racine never saw his child. He was either killed or taken captive shortly after she was born.”

“Edward seems so proud of him,” I said. “He must have been a brave man.”

An odd look crossed Mrs. Lividais’s face. She lifted one shoulder slightly, a characteristic gesture of hers. “Yes, maybe.”

I grinned. “Then I take it you don’t believe all of Edward’s war stories.”

“Every man wants to believe that their son is a hero,
non?
I see no harm in that.” The look in her eyes was dark, reflective. “But I find it hard to believe that Racine would risk his own life to save the lives of others.” She gave a little shake of her head. “It just wouldn’t have been in his nature.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nikki was always the brave one.” I saw the same look of fondness in her eyes that I had seen in Cassa’s as she spoke of him. “If there was a bullet to be had, Nicholas would have taken it himself. That’s why something about the story of Racine risking his own skin for Nick and Pierre just doesn’t seem believable.”

Mrs. Lividais sighed and tossed another potato into the pot. “Whatever really happened out there on that battlefield changed Nick. He came back from the war a different man. He used to laugh and smile. When he came back, he was sad and haunted. I don’t know how to explain—there was something in his eyes that had never been there before.”