The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras (5 page)

“The bayou people speak Cajun, a rough kind of French ,” Nick explained. “I’m teaching Cassa English, but she still knows very little. She bids you welcome.”

“Who—who is
he?”
My eyes strayed back to the dark part of the room, where the voodoo man had disappeared. I could see him now, in the far corner. I could barely make out the flash of his hand as it moved up and down, and I saw that he was busy whittling some small figure out of a piece of wood. What was it? A likeness of me to stick pins in? I shivered a little at the thought.

“Brule’s a friend of Cassa’s. Cassa is a healer,” Nick said. “Brule supplies her with many of the special herbs she needs to make her teas and medicines,”

So I had been right! She was a witch! And yet the old lady had been nothing but kind to me. Hadn’t I read somewhere that there was such a thing as a “good” or “white” witch?

“Brule can also heal. But he is better known for his charms, love potions, and the like.”

“Is he a voodoo man?”

Nick shrugged. “Voodoo man, witch doctor. He doesn’t like to be called any of those things.”

I slipped a cautious look at Brule, fearful of displeasing him, but he did not even glance up from his wood carving. When I turned back around I saw Cassa ladling up a generous portion of the bubbling concoction which was simmering upon the hearth.

She handed the bowl to me, urging me to eat. Helplessly, I glanced up at Nick. “Go ahead. It’ll warm up your insides.”

“What—what is it?” I glanced down at the thick mixture that still put me suspiciously in mind of a witches’ brew.

“Gumbo. Nice and spicy, if I know Cassa’s cooking.” Making himself at home, Nick filled a bowl for himself and began to eat.

Cassa, the perfect hostess, watched with a hawk’s eye as I dipped my spoon into the bowl. I knew instinctively that she would be insulted if I did not eat. The wooden spoon touched my lips and I forced myself to swallow a hot, tangy spoonful. Spicy tomato and hot pepper burned my tongue. I took another bite, tasting shrimp and rice. It was either delicious or I was very, very hungry.

“Good” I said, and our hostess, satisfied, grinned a toothy smile.

The warmth of the fire and the hot gumbo made a comfortable feeling deep inside me. I shook my head sharply to clear away a sense of drowsiness. Why, I could almost fall asleep here, I thought with amazement. Here, in this tiny cabin filled with sinister strangers. I glanced up at Nick’s sturdy form. His feet, boots caked with swamp mud, were planted firmly near the hearth. It was his presence that brought me my sense of security.

But how could that be? I studied the impressive man with his thick, tar-black hair, finely chiseled nose and mouth, aid high, lean cheekbones. His eyes met mine, and my gaze unconsciously searched for the dark fleck. There could be no mistake. He fit too closely the description of the man who had been tried for the murder of his wife. I knew that I should fear him.

Once more, I struggled against my exhaustion. I had to stay alert. But the cabin itself seemed to lull me into a false sense of well-being. Inside, it was a cozy place. A poor shack, and yet the grimy walls were hung with bright quilts. Wildflowers and lush green plants filled every imaginable space. A pleasant smell scented the air—the mingled fragrance of exotic herbs and woodsmoke.

“Do you really believe Cassa can cure people?” I asked skeptically.

To my surprise, Nick replied with solemnity, “I owe my life to Cassa. Once, when I was very ill, she nursed me back to health with her teas and potions.”

Cassa gave a crooked smile at the sound of her name, cocking her head to one side as if trying to understand our conversation. I could sense a feeling of closeness between the wizened old woman and the strong, handsome man, an almost visible bond. Under what circumstances had this uncanny friendship taken root?

As if reading my thoughts, Nick said, “We’re outcasts—she and I. So we’ve grown to depend on each other. She nursed me when I was ill. Now that I’m well she cooks my dinner. In turn, I look in on her—bring her firewood, see that she is safe.” His dark eyes were filled with compassion, as if he spoke from experience as he added softly, “People are not always tolerant of those different from themselves. There are those who would harm her.”

The rustle of purplish robes warned me that Brule had left his dark corner. A stirring of caution made my muscles tense as he approached the hearth. I saw that he held something in his hand—the finished wood carving. With a sense of ceremony, he pressed the tiny object into my hand. I glanced down at it, amazed to find the perfect replica of a small bird.

A blast of cool air filled the cabin as Brule opened the door and disappeared into the night.

“Keep it with you” Nicholas advised. “Birds are considered by many to be a symbol of good luck.”

I thought about the rose Ian Winters had given me in New Orleans, with the promise that it, too, would bring me luck. Birds and roses. People here must be strong believers in omens—or I was desperately in need of good fortune.

“Where did he go?”

Nick threw back his head and laughed. His hair was thick and shaggy where it had begun to dry. “Storms don’t bother Brule. He’s probably gone back to his lean-to down by the bayou’s edge.”

“He frightens me,” I confessed, turning the tiny, long-winged bird figure in my hands. Was it meant to be a seagull, the bearer of good news? Or one of the many birds that symbolized evil? I didn’t know. The carved bird in my hand was like no bird I had ever seen, and yet it seemed to capture the very essence of every winged creature.

Nicholas shrugged his broad shoulders. “There’s nothing to fear from Brule.”

“I first saw him this afternoon in New Orleans. Then again on the boat. When he got off at the same place I did, I was afraid that he might be following me. That’s why I hailed you down.”

Nick frowned, leaning closer. His nearness had a dizzying effect upon me. “Brule was following you?”

I shivered, remembering my first sight of him in the crowd, the way his eyes had fixed upon me with that intense, frightening stare. My voice was barely a whisper. “I believe so.”

Firelight glinted off Nicholas’s rugged features as he stared into the fire, lost in thought. “If Brule was following you, he must have had good reason.”

“What do you mean?”

“Brule is gifted with a sixth sense. He—knows things.” I remembered the voodoo man’s disturbing words to me on the boat—something about evil spirits, a storm passing. “Whether you were aware of it or not, at some time this afternoon you were in danger!”

“You mean, instead of trying to harm me, Brule was trying to protect me?”

“Exactly!”

I did not know whether or not to believe Nicholas. Was the voodoo man a friend or enemy? Like the carving he had made, Brule was becoming more and more elusive.

Nick’s penetrating eyes searched my face. “Louise, did anything happen on your journey here—anything out of the ordinary?”

“My—my purse was stolen.”

“Your purse? Where?”

“In New Orleans. There was a large crowd near the waterfront, a kind of carnival. I discovered it missing from my shoulder, when I stopped to buy some pralines from a vendor. I’m still not certain whether it was stolen or I accidentally set it down somewhere. But, surely, it’s of no importance—”

I could tell by the spark of interest in Nick’s eyes that he was not of the same opinion. “Was anything in the purse?”

The same question had been asked by Ian Winters. I had not told him about the brooch, and I would not tell Nicholas. But I was beginning to wonder if the small stone that had belonged to my mother might be of some significance.

Nick fell silent. I thought about Ian Winters. Should I mention the man who had come to my aid, purchased my boat ticket? I recalled the whisper of suspicion in my mind, the fleeting sensation that the attractive mustached man in New Orleans might not be all he had seemed to be.

But Nicholas, too, was a stranger. And, if I could believe the story of two gossipy ladies, a man who had been accused, even if not found guilty, of murder.

“Louise Moreland.” The dark eyes searched mine. “Why have you come here? What is the purpose of your visit?”

“I have come to see my uncle Edward and his family.”

The same dark look I had noticed in the carriage filled his eyes. He cleared his throat, as if what he was about to say would not be pleasant. “Your uncle Edward is not a very well-liked man about these parts.”

“But why?”

“Many wealthy landowners were impoverished by the war. Edward’s Royal Oaks has thrived, while the burden of debt has caused many neighbors to sell or abandon their plantation homes. Edward—Edward has been buying up the land that those less fortunate have been forced to sell.”

There’s nothing illegal in that,” I replied defensively.

“No, but it’s not endeared him to the others. More than once, I’ve heard him called ‘Carpetbagger Edward’.”

“I don’t care if he’s the most unpopular man in town. I’m here for more than a social call. I plan to make Iberville my home.”

“You will be staying with Edward then, at Royal Oaks?”

“For a while.” Again, the warming effect of the fire lulled me to a sense of comfort. With the voodoo man gone, I felt even more relaxed and weary. The old woman bustled about, humming a little as she swept at the floor with a coarse broom. The poor cabin that she had fixed up so lovingly was home to her. It reminded me of the plans I had to make a home for myself. “Until I can fix up the
old place.”

Through half-closed eyes, I studied him, my rescuer, my haven in the storm. A melancholy air hung about him that I hadn’t noticed before. The haunted look in his eyes as he stared into the licking flames made me think of exiled kings and princes. Perhaps it was that neglected air, the fact that his hair needed a good trimming and that there was a gaping tear in his worn shirtsleeve, that made him seem so strong yet at the same time strangely vulnerable.

He was a man who had been accused of murder. And yet I felt no instinctive distrust of him, as I had of Ian Winters. How could he be a cold-blooded killer, I asked myself, when he hadn’t harmed a hair on my head? I reminded myself that Madeline had insisted that he was innocent.

I was aware that he was watching me, and something in his quiet manner had changed. “The old place?”

“Evangeline.” I replied sleepily.

“Evangeline.” The horrified echo made me widen my eyes and look at him. His features jumped and blurred as he turned away from the fireplace. I hoped it was only the flickering light that made him appear suddenly pale and shaken.

“Then you know of the place?”

His expression was shuttered now, like it had been on the carriage ride. The black eyes revealed no secrets. I could almost have imagined that start of recognition in his eyes, that look of horror and alarm.

Gathering up his cloak, he moved away from the warm fire.

“Nick—where are you going?”

“It is growing late. I will stay with Brule tonight. You must remain here with Cassa. In the morning, I’ll come for you.”

“But—”

A shadow flickered across his handsome face, with its jutting cheekbones and taut mouth like a whisper of sorrow. “You are tired. You must rest.” He stepped out into the night. Before he closed the door behind him, I thought I heard him whisper softly, “Keep your strength, little cousin. You will have need of it tomorrow.”

“Why do you call me that?” I demanded of the darkness. There was no reply. Nicholas was gone, leaving me to wonder if I had only imagined that he had called me cousin.

* * * *

I woke to the unfamiliar sound of bullfrogs croaking in the bayou outside the drafty cabin. The fire had turned to ashes during the night. Shivering, I rose and stirred up the embers, adding a few pieces of wood until the blaze started up again.

The hatbox which contained my valuables was still near my feet, under the chair where I had placed it. I opened it up and peered anxiously inside. The treasure I had been guarding, a small amount of paper money and the rest of my mother’s jewelry, had made the trip undisturbed.

Inside the tiny ebony box were a few small trinkets that my grandfather had sent. I had received the box several days after the letter that had been addressed to my mother. No note of explanation had come with it. The box was filled with inexpensive jewelry that I assumed had belonged to my mother when she had lived at Evangeline. Grandfather must have kept it for her all these years.

Again, I thought about the lost brooch. Mother had worn the amethyst pin for as long as I could remember. It, too, must have come from Evangeline. I remembered how the stone had caught the light, gleaming with the richness of a real jewel. There was nothing like it here in this box. The odd assortment of necklaces, rings, and hairpins were only costume jewelry. I would have to ask Edward if he knew anything about the origin of the lost amethyst brooch.

A new noise, long and eerie like the moaning of a restless ghost, made me close the lid guiltily upon the hatbox. But it was only the old woman, Cassa, snoring in her sleep.

For a while I sat staring into the blazing fire. I thought about the enigmatic stranger who had come to my rescue in the rainstorm. Who was the compelling, mysterious man who had called me “cousin?” I was curious to find out more about him—to see how much of the story I had heard from the two old ladies on the boat was true. Somehow, I could not imagine how a man who brought protection and firewood to a feeble old woman could be capable of taking a life. Like Madeline, I was convinced of his innocence.

My hair and clothing were warm and dry now. Once again, I curled up in my chair and slept.

I woke to the smell of strong coffee bubbling upon the iron stove. I opened my eyes to find Nicholas and Cassa sitting at the wooden table in the corner, whispering in solemn, hushed tones. Though I could not understand a word of that strange, garbled French, I had the feeling that they were talking about me. Somewhere deep within me a flutter of apprehension stirred.

“So you’re awake” Nick raised the mug of coffee in his hand. “Have some coffee. Cassa makes it Cajun-style. Strong enough to make the hair stand on end.” Though he smiled, there was that same odd look of melancholy in his heavily lashed eyes that I had noticed the night before.