The Secrets Amongst the Cypress, page 7
“A pure bloodline,” Brigitte agreed, nodding. “So you see. No, you don’t see, not as I do, but you understand. Your papa, despite his gifts, did not see. Did not understand. He believed our family to be cursed. How could gifts such as ours ever be a curse?” She curled her nose. “He has never believed.”
“But why…” Ophélie chose her words extra carefully. “Why did bringing the family to Louisiana change everything?”
Brigitte’s expression resembled her brother Jean’s had before he would spit on the ground in disgust. “We are stronger together. Much stronger. We have gone against nature by leaving our homeland. Your papa and I were the heirs of our dynasty. And we have paid with our gifts. You look at me, child, as if I am mad when I speak of divining futures, but you were not there! I could foretell the exact moment of your death, should you desire to know it, if we were in France. But here… here we are nothing. Reduced to the ash of our future destroyed.”
Ophélie mulled her mother’s words over. She had no reason not to believe what she was saying. Her mother, while cruel and inattentive, was not in the habit of lying to her. She could sniff out deception with an accuracy Ophélie had never been able to explain. And when she thought back, over the years, there had been times her mother had recognized situations, events… nothing remarkable, except in the coincidence of always knowing them before others… and the ability had always stuck with Ophélie.
And her father… she once saw him struggle to save the life of a slave after an accident in the field. He then blamed himself when the poor man died. Her papa had not even been there when the man hurt himself, so she never understood how he could shoulder such guilt. Had he been thinking of what he used to be back in France?
But Ophélie did not believe her parents were cursed. More than once in her life, she had thought their home was a peculiar one. Even the air was different in Ophélie than it was in the other plantations she’d visited. It was as if she’d stepped into another world anytime she crossed the threshold.
If the house… or the property… were holding her parents back, perhaps there was an explanation. A reason maybe for the best, too. Her mother, unchecked, was a prospect Ophélie did not even want to consider.
She kept this knowledge to herself, for it did not take any great skill with divination to know the idea would not go over well.
“And we are the only Deschanels in Louisiana?” Ophélie asked to keep the conversation alive. As long as her mother was talking about something else, she would not pick apart her work or any other manner of things about Ophélie that happened to displease her.
“Deschanels, yes, there are no others but us,” Brigitte answered, her needling increasing in speed. “I doubt other Deschanels would be as foolish as your papa. You know the de Blancheforts are distant cousins, I assume?”
Ophélie nodded.
“A relation of my grandmère, though we did not acquaint of them in France, but in passing.”
Ophélie thought of pale-faced Victor with the knowing gaze. “If they share our blood, do they also share our gifts?”
Brigitte scoffed. “If they did, they have long been diluted with the blood of those far less worthy.”
Thinking again of Victor—how he chose his words with the deliberateness of one who knows the answer before he asks the question, how he had eyes that could see beyond the surface, all the way to the soul—Ophélie was not so certain.
And what of her own experiences? Ophélie’s visions no longer formulated themselves in the way dreams were expected to. Messages, they were, she was sure of it, but no ordinary girl would be able to receive a communication in this way, surely. And as this knowledge was revealed, she also began to witness a life that was not her own but was startlingly familiar.
What was she to make of the information?
That she would die within the year.
That she would know great cruelty.
And yet… somehow… these would turn out to be gifts in their own way. She knew, but did not know it yet, as the full story was yet to be revealed.
Had her maman and papa stayed in France, would her understanding have been clearer? She would already know all the answers, she thought. Certainly.
“Ophélie, mind your needlework,” her maman snapped. The spell was broken. France had been pushed to the recesses of her memory bank, and now they were only mother and daughter again, often at ends. All duty. No love.
“Yes, Maman,” Ophélie replied, pushing back the tide of sadness at having had so few moments to see her mother for the woman she could have been.
“And stay away from Lady Donnelly,” Brigitte added, without missing a stitch. “She is not who she claims.”
8- Jacob
Jacob tried not to consider what Charles had in mind for their tête-à-tête, or to imagine the disaster that might ensue from his stumbling through a half-baked explanation. Amelia’s distance, while understandable, had made it challenging to even attempt a cohesive story. It wouldn’t take much to crack the veneer of their thin cover.
Charles again leaned back in his chair, a walnut open-armed piece with roaring lions cresting in the design a full foot above his head. Jacob wondered how many men had been intimidated by the chair alone. “A nice surprise to have cousins here. Later, you must help me with the pedigree so I can place you precisely. I knew we had an English line, but how fortunate to count lords among us…”
Jacob swallowed hard. “Lady Donnelly and I would like to thank you for your hospitality.”
Charles waved him away. “A Deschanel is always home, wherever there are Deschanels.”
“Yes. Of course.” Jacob was almost certain his mother-in-law, Colleen, had said this exact same thing before. “Thank you, nonetheless.”
Charles caught Jacob gazing at a series of three wildlife paintings with a very distinct, completely familiar style. “John James Audubon. Are you familiar with his work?”
Jacob swallowed. Original Audubons… they would be worth a fortune in the present day, though this was the first time he’d seen the Deschanels with any on display. “Yes. I’ve heard of him.”
“The man who sold us this land gifted them to us. I think they are rather simple, if not plain, but it’s good luck to display your gifts.”
Jacob made a mental note to ask Amelia if her uncle had also lost these gems to a gambling debt.
His host’s eyes cast down, toward a mess of thick, fibrous paper. Charles ran his hands over the stack, pushing the documents across the surface of the desk without any real purpose. “Tell me, are marriage contracts complex on your side of the ocean?”
Jacob paused, considering his options in light of having no clear concept of what Charles was actually asking. In the end, he decided the master of Ophélie was not looking so much for a correct answer as for consolation. “Everything is more complex when love is involved,” he answered truthfully, thinking of his own wife who was physically upstairs but emotionally a world away.
“Love? Whatever does love have to do with marriage?” Charles regarded him as if he might have gone insane. He struck a match against a tinderbox and lit a cigar while offering one to Jacob, who shook his head.
“Nothing, obviously,” Jacob said with a short laugh, remembering the time and place in which he was having this discussion. “But the youth like to believe so, right?”
Charles returned his laugh. “To a fault! Ophélie knows nothing about Lestan, and she is already planning the colors for their linens.” He shook his head. “Lestan will make her a fine match, of that I have no doubt. A young man, her own age, and no physical deformities. She may even be happy. Love? Who can say? I only know she could do much worse. No, will do so much worse if the de Blancheforts are not true to their word.”
“Why wouldn’t they be? Marius said you had other business, aside from negotiating marriage contracts. He must value that partnership.”
“Yes, we do. I’m fortunate to have an alliance with the most powerful family on the river, next to the Aimes.”
“But you don’t trust he’ll deliver?”
As he watched Jacob, Charles seemed to choose his words carefully. “It is less that I do not trust in de Blanchefort and more that I bear the greater risk if he changes his mind.” He screwed his lips together and mumbled, almost as an afterthought, “It is difficult to trust a man who cannot seem to age.”
Jacob nearly put his foot in his mouth as he considered the war ahead, and the role that would play in throwing a wrench into any plans made. “You have as much to offer him as he does you. Don’t let him lead you around on only his terms.” Jacob stopped. He was biased, clearly, against Marius for being the father of the elusive and charming Victor. “I’m sorry. I overstepped.”
Charles regarded him for several long moments and laughed. “I appreciate honesty. So few are willing to give it without a steep price.” He rose, and Jacob took that as his signal to do the same. “And since you were so generous with your words, I have one further favor to ask.”
Jacob nodded.
“Please do not mention this to Madame Deschanel,” Charles answered, with a tight smile. The wrinkles around his mouth gathered into a small chorus. “This is a sensitive topic in the household. One best left for me to resolve.”
“Of course,” Jacob said. “Your other business with de Blanchefort, if you don’t mind me asking, is what?”
Charles gestured toward a stack of documents to the left of the marriage contract. “Another complicated matter. One I would count myself blessed for the guidance of a landed lord if you have the time.”
Jacob, a scientist not a businessman, smiled. “Sure, I’m happy to.”
“Monsieur de Blanchefort and I have embarked on two risky ventures, indigo and coffee. They have, after a slow commencement, begun to pay off. But I fear for the longevity of either crop. Sugar is king,” Charles said, with a sidelong glance out the window, toward the miles and miles of cane.
“Yes,” Jacob said. “It is. Though coffee is also an important export for the region.” He couldn’t say that in the present day Louisiana would eventually be the number one exporter of coffee in the US. In the meantime, he found careful agreement to what Charles already knew to be true in his present.
Charles slowly nodded. “You know the region,” he declared with a sidelong glance. “Perhaps you will have some useful guidance, after all. It is not my indigo and coffee crops I am concerned with, at present, but a prospective crop I am not convinced has any use whatsoever in this region.”
“And that is?”
“Tobacco.”
“Tobacco, huh?” Jacob pretended to weigh the risks, when instead he was trying to remember if tobacco was even relevant in today’s market in Louisiana.
“Tobacco indeed,” Charles said with a sigh. “Though it is less the crop that worries me and more the method to de Blanchefort’s scheme. He believes war is imminent.” At this, Charles affected a bitter, practiced laugh, and Jacob imagined he saved this one in particular for any mention of war. “And that our money will be of no use. The real currency, he says, will be in land. He is not wrong on the value of land, but if he had half the Confederate Bonds I had stored away, he might sing from a different hymnal.”
Well, now, isn’t Marius just a regular Nostradamus?
Jacob found it harder and harder to maintain neutrality on topics he understood better than his host. “And you believe the land isn’t a good investment?”
“To the contrary, I have already purchased the land,” Charles answered. “Two properties along River Road, and another in Donaldsonville.”
“I’m not sure I follow the problem.”
“He wants more.” Charles’ eyes widened. “Marius has ten properties he is looking at, for us to consider. Yes, that’s right, ten. The man is set on owning everything along the river from Natchez to New Orleans if no one stops him.” He paused, then laughed, as if needing to show his comment was in good nature when, in fact, it was not. “Marius, no doubt, has a keen mind for business. But the South will not secede. Not for anything.”
Jacob realized how the South had been caught so far off guard with the power the North brought upon them if other Southern men shared his laissez-faire denial of current affairs. “I can’t see the future,” Jacob lied, “but if we look back over the past, land has always been the most valuable asset in any man’s arsenal. It not only holds value but nearly always increases. I see no harm, if you still want my advice, in purchasing land as an investment.”
There. He’d told the truth without giving anything away. His mentors would be so proud.
“A fair point, Lord Donnelly,” Charles said, eyes to the ceiling as he contemplated Jacob’s words. “And land, to a lord, is everything.”
Jacob nodded in agreement.
“Thank you for your perspective on the matter,” Charles said, rising, his eyes on the clock with an increase of panic. “I apologize, Lord Donnelly. I am late for another engagement on the plantation, though we haven’t yet discussed your own business here. How inconsiderate of me. I truly do beg your apology and promise to remedy this oversight in short refrain.”
“Things happen.” Jacob shrugged. Sure, things happen. Way to sound like a damn lord.
“After dinner? We can continue on to the parlor after the ladies finish and discuss further, then?”
“That sounds fine to me, Monsieur Deschanel.”
* * *
Jacob meandered into the central hall just as Victor and Amelia re-entered through the front door. Between Amelia’s head-to-toe fluster, and Victor’s secret smile, Jacob went numb with disbelief.
They hadn’t seen him. He decided now was not the moment to explore this matter. His own frustrations were far less important than Amelia’s greater ones, and he was afraid his famous temper would make an appearance and not retreat.
He ducked into the first room he saw. In modern days, this room had been converted to a guest suite for visitors, but today the space was a lady’s parlor, evidenced by the needlework on the center table. Overhead, an ornate fresco of the Garden of Eden served as a constant reminder of Original Sin as they practiced their sewing.
Once upon a time, in the future, Jacob had kissed Amelia beneath the crystal chandelier in this room and asked her to marry him. Not the first time he’d asked, but he’d wanted to do it right, with a ring, falling to his knee with all the makings of a memory she deserved. She’d been the first to propose, and he was old-fashioned enough to want to correct that.
The recollection lingered upon him like an old scent. He closed his eyes, wondering if there was ever a point to wishing a return to a time when life was simpler.
Amelia and Victor’s steps rang heavy in the hall, startling him. Their voices were low, hushed. He made out only a few of their parting words.
“Please. Stay away from me.” Amelia’s voice shook.
Victor’s steps boomed as he seemed to draw closer to Amelia. “We are here until my father’s business with your… cousin is concluded. Perhaps weeks.”
“You’re joking.”
“I assure you, I am much wittier than that when prompted.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“It seems I am left without a choice in the matter, as my father is determined to complete his business affairs before returning to St. Charles Parish.”
“Then… just… stay far away from me,” she hissed, and her footfalls echoed across the soft boards as she ran up the stairs.
Jacob’s hands turned to fists at his side. The night before, he had known Victor was not to be trusted, and now his intuition was clearly proving to be right.
Cianán, his mother’s voice rang, from nowhere, loudly, clearly. Fists win battles, not wars. You are not interested in battles. You are above such a skirmish. You are a warrior, not a fighter. Everything you have fought for, you have earned, not taken. There is a difference.
“Aye, and some weapon words were spoken when that monster raped my wife,” Jacob railed to the invisible figure dropping wisdom from beyond.
But his words had the desired effect, as taking the moment to stop and assess cooled Jacob’s blood. Since when had he been jealous of other men? Men pursuing his wife was nothing new, and, in fact, had become an ongoing joke between them. Creeper. Five o’clock, he might say. Ah, yes, she would answer. The lonely banker with no ring but a clear indentation on his fourth finger, and the sweat of regret shading his bloodshot eyes. I can already see my walk of shame in the morning.
And this wasn’t the same, not at all. Jacob hadn’t overheard anything from his wife that should lead him to believe she was doing anything wrong. If anything, she seemed to be averse to Victor, seeking to put distance between them.
But why?
He would deal with the man later, but if he must choose between protecting Amelia and harming Victor, he would always choose his wife.
Once Victor’s own steps faded away, Jacob moved to exit and followed his wife. Instead, yelling from Charles’ office stopped him where he stood.
While the house had been built from strong oak and cypress, it did not have the modern soundproofing of new homes. Jacob could hear every word traveling from behind the closed door.
“What you are doing is criminal! It cannot be borne!” Jacob instantly recognized the pitched, animalistic intonations of Brigitte.
“I am head of this household, whether you choose to accept and respect it or not,” Charles boomed in return. Something hard dropped onto his desk, shaking the floors. “I have allowed your treasonous beliefs too long, and our children will not suffer for your wickedness!”
“Suffer? You want to discuss suffering? What of our blood, our gift, our most sacred of blessings? You would throw it away for money!”
“I would save this family from ruin. Ophélie, Jean, Fitz… they will all forge their own destinies and not be bound to the evil at the backbone of ours.”
Brigitte’s anger was so potent Jacob could feel it where he stood. “You know nothing.”
