Mimosa Grove (11 page)

“I remember.”

“Did my grandmother see things like that?”

Marie’s eyes widened. “See? You mean, did she see apparitions?”

“I guess…yes…did she actually ‘see’ ghosts, or did she just feel them?”

Marie grabbed Laurel’s hand.

“What’s been goin’ on with you here? Are you tellin’ me that you seein’ things?”

From the look in Marie LeFleur’s eyes, Laurel had a feeling she should have kept the news to herself. Still, it was too late to take back the words, and she’d been taught that the truth would set her free.

“Yes.”

Marie quickly crossed herself as she stared at Laurel in disbelief.

“Then you got some real mojo, baby girl. To my knowledge, your grandmama never saw spirits…only things that had happened, or were going to happen.” Then something else occurred to her. “Are they talkin’ to you, too?”

Laurel shrugged. “I don’t hear actual words, but I get what feels like emotions. Like she’s wanting me to find something, but I can’t understand what.”

“She? She? You seein’ Chantelle, the first mistress of Mimosa Grove?”

“I don’t know who she is,” Laurel said.

“It’s her…. I know it’s her! Lord have mercy,” Marie said, then winked. “Your grandmama would be jealous. Proud, but jealous.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Now eat that biscuit before it gets cold. Just ’cause you seein’ spirits and all, don’t mean you can waste my food.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Laurel said, putting the subject of ghosts on the back burner. She toasted Marie with the biscuit, then took a big bite.

Marie was drinking the last of her coffee when someone began knocking at the door. She frowned at Laurel, then pointed her finger at her.

“That should be Tula’s nieces. I’m tellin’ you now, if they don’t do right, I’ll be sendin’ them home.”

Laurel held up her hands. “Don’t yell at me. You’re in charge, and you know it. I’ll just be outside talking to Claude. Call if you need me.”

“Humph.”

Marie’s grunt was just shy of a snort. Laurel carried their dishes to the sink, rinsed them, then loaded them in the dishwasher before going out the back door. Despite all her fussing, Laurel knew Marie was secretly glad to have the help. Within a short time, she and Claude had made friends, as well as plans as to what to clean up first. But when she started wielding an oversize trimming saw toward some low-hanging branches, he balked.

“Miss Laurel, you need to go on back in the house now and let me do what you’re paying me to do.”

“Absolutely not,” Laurel said. “I’m perfectly capable of doing—”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you are. But I’m a proud man, and you wouldn’t want to put me to shame by showing me up, now, would you?”

Laurel sighed. She hated to admit it, but she was already exhausted. Plus there was the party tonight. And Justin. Marie thought it was something that she was seeing ghosts. She could only imagine what the old woman would think if she knew what had been happening between them. She eyed the determined jut to Claude’s jaw and knew the gentle smile on his face was just for show.

“All right,” she said. “If you have questions, just let me know.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “You go take yourself a rest. Can’t be dancing all night if you’re too tired.”

“How did you know I’m going to a party?” she asked.

Claude smiled. “Shoot, Miss Laurel, everyone knows everyone’s business here in Bayou Jean.”

She grinned. “Well, I hope not
all
of it.”

“Enough to cause trouble,” he said, then wandered off toward the toolshed to get a wheelbarrow. Laurel gave up and went back into the house.

The scent of lemon oil mingled with that of dust as she crossed the hall to the library.

“I’ve been fired,” she announced as she walked into the room.

“Don’t come in here,” Marie said, waving a feather duster in Laurel’s face. “Go boss someone else around and leave the business end of this to us.”

“Claude ran me off of the landscape clean-up, and you won’t let me in the library. I think the term ‘boss’ is highly overstated around here. We both know who the boss is, and she’s a whole lot shorter than me.”

The two women standing on ladders chuckled.

Marie frowned as she pointed. “The funny one with dirt on her nose is Wanda Jo. The scrawny one is her sister, Frances.”

“Thank you so much for coming to help out,” Laurel said.

“Yes, ma’am,” they echoed.

“Not ma’am…Laurel, please.”

The one named Frances immediately picked up on the offer.

“Laurel…can we ask you something?”

“Sure,” Laurel said.

“Are you like Miz Marcella? Do you have the sight?”

Laurel hesitated, then answered. “Yes.”

“You gonna stay here at Mimosa Grove?” Wanda Jo asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Again Laurel was overwhelmed by the instant acceptance, when it had been just the opposite where she’d grown up.

Marie nodded approvingly, then waved Laurel out of the room.

“Take a rest…read a book…write some letters. Or better yet, make yourself pretty for that Justin Bouvier. You never know what will come of new friendships.”

Even though Laurel wanted to say more, she held her tongue. This was going to be their first date, but she and Justin had definitely moved beyond the boundaries of friendship.

“Okay for now, but call me if you need me.”

“Oh! Well, my goodness!” Frances suddenly cried. “What’s this, I wonder?”

Laurel turned quickly, curious as to what the other woman had found.

“What is it?” she asked as the skinny little woman quickly climbed down the ladder. As soon as both feet were on the floor, she ran to Laurel.

“Look at this. It looks real old. It was on that top shelf behind a stack of books.”

“What you got there?” Marie asked, and took the small package away from Frances. She frowned as she turned it over in her hands. “Some kind of book, I think…wrapped in a piece of old leather.” She handed it to Laurel.

The moment Laurel touched it, she knew what it was, and who it had belonged to.

“It’s Chantelle LeDeux’s diary,” she said.

Both Frances and Wanda Jo turned pale.

“How you know something like that without looking?” Wanda Jo asked.

“You getting goofy in your old age?” Marie asked. “She done told you she’s got the sight like Miz Marcella, and touchin’ stuff is how she ‘sees.”’

Wanda Jo looked decidedly uncomfortable. Apparently it was one thing to know someone was psychic, but it was another to witness it firsthand.

Laurel laid the pack carefully on the desk, then unwrapped the leather from around a small book. When she opened it, a small picture fell out. Upon closer examination, she realized it was a painting, rather than a photo, then remembered that when this woman lived, photography had yet to be invented.

She stared at the small oval face framed with dark hair pulled severely away from her features. Her neck and shoulders were bare, with only a hint of lace and some kind of dark scarf at her bosom. There was a very distinctive cameo hanging from a bit of ribbon around her neck and nestling securely in the valley between her breasts. She was an attractive woman, but her expression seemed sad. Then it dawned on Laurel that this was the first ancestor to whom the psychic abilities of the family could be traced.

“Let me see,” Marie begged, and when Laurel handed her the painting, she cradled it in the palms of her hands, as if afraid she would damage it. “Oh, my…would you look at that.” Then she eyed the small book from which it had come. “What you reckon she got to say in there?”

Laurel already knew that, whatever it was, it was sad. She’d felt that from the beginning. As she picked up the diary, she realized that this might be what her ghost had been trying to show her.

“Okay…okay,” she said softly. “Let’s see what you’ve been trying to say.”

Marie frowned. “You talkin’ to me?”

“No,” Laurel said, then took the picture from Marie, wrapped the book back in the leather and left the room.

Wanda Jo and Frances looked at each other, then rolled their eyes.

“I saw that,” Marie said. “Ain’t nothin’ happened here except you found an old book, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they echoed.

“So get back to work. I want to be done in here by the end of the day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said again, and climbed back up their ladders with clean dust rags in their hands as Laurel climbed the stairs to her room.

She closed the door behind her as she entered the room, kicked off her shoes and crawled up in the middle of the bed with the packet. It was only a bit after nine o’clock. She had plenty of time to read before she needed to begin getting ready for the party. Again she unwrapped the diary, then set the picture of Chantelle aside and opened the book to the first page.

Laurel’s arms went limp, letting the diary rest between her legs as she sprawled on her bed. Even though the writing was old, Chantelle’s spirit was so strong on the pages that she could see what had happened as clearly as if it was on film.

February, 1814

It was nearing sundown and people were beginning to arrive for the party. Jean Charles LeDeux had invited all the surrounding plantation owners and their wives to his home to meet his new French bride. Her beauty was the talk of Bayou Jean, and the wealth of her dowry had gone a long way toward helping fill the lean coffers of his bank accounts. Although this year’s crop looked good, the last two years’ cotton harvests had been poor. After losing four of his best field hands during the past eleven months—three to malaria, one to a snake bite—he considered his marriage a fresh beginning to Mimosa Grove. The fact that he was eighteen years older than she was hardly mattered. Her youth was a plus, assuring him a wife with plenty of childbearing years ahead of her.

The party was in full swing, and Jean Charles was gloating over his friends’ envious glances at Chantelle. Even the married men were charmed by her beauty and innocence. Then he noticed her standing by the doorway, and it occurred to him that she’d been there for some time. He nodded cordially to the woman at his elbow and excused himself before making his way toward his wife. It was obvious she needed a gentle reminder that since she was the hostess, she must mingle with her guests.

He cupped her elbow.

“Chantelle…”

She moaned. Almost immediately, he feared she’d taken ill. He turned her toward him, then laid the back of his hand against her cheek. Despite the warmth of the room, her skin was cold and clammy. She was looking at him, but he could have sworn she could not see. Her gaze was empty, but somehow frantic. He could see her eyes moving from side to side, as if she was watching players on a stage.

“Chantelle…talk to me.”

She took a deep breath, then wailed. The sound that came up from her throat and out of her mouth was like the wind blowing through a partially opened window—like a high-pitched moan.

Suddenly everyone in the room became silent as all eyes turned to Jean Charles’s new bride.

Joshua, one of the house servants, quickly moved toward the master, sensing a need for assistance.

“Massuh?”

Jean Charles wondered if he looked as panicked as he felt. This couldn’t be happening to him. Surely to God his child bride had not already succumbed to this damnable country with its agues and fevers.

“Get Mary,” he said shortly.

The large black man set the tray he was carrying on a table and bolted out of the room, heading for the kitchens.

Jean Charles put his hand beneath Chantelle’s elbow, intent on leading her toward a chair, when she pulled away from his grasp and pointed toward the window.

“The child…the child…somebody save the child.”

Jean Charles ran to the window, thinking that she’d seen something horrific that they’d ignored, but there was nothing in sight but fireflies and the hanging lanterns that Joshua had hung on the veranda. He turned back to Chantelle and, in his panic, shook her harshly.

“
Mon Dieu… Chère,
talk to me…talk to me. What’s wrong with you? There’s no child.”

“In the quarters…she’s in the quarters. The second cabin on the left. Snake in her bed. Hurry, before it’s too late.”

Then she dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Jean Charles hardly knew what to think as he picked his bride up from the floor and carried her to a chaise near the fireplace. At the same time, he realized that both Mary and Joshua were standing in the doorway. The look of horror on the old woman’s face was nothing to the terror on Joshua’s. It was then that he realized that the cabin Chantelle had spoken of was where Joshua’s family lived.

“Massuh…please.”

Jean Charles realized Joshua was asking permission to go to the quarters.

He hesitated, wondering how it would appear to his guests if he gave in to a Nigra’s request, then stifled the thought. This was his home. He was master here. He could do and say what he chose.

“I’m sure all is well, but you may go. However, I expect you back here in five minutes…. Hear?”