Garden of the Moon (5 page)

For a long moment, Clarice stared at Sara, her open-mouthed expression that of someone who’d seen a ghost. Then, before Sara could inquire if something was wrong, the woman rearranged her features into a frown. “How long have you been at
that place
?” Though blunt, her strong, brisk voice belied her delicate appearance.

Sara bristled slightly at Mrs. Degas’ snide emphases on
that place
. “I just moved into Harrogate. Are you Mrs. Degas?”

The white head bowed slightly in affirmation. “You may address me as Clarice,” she said in a crisp, no-nonsense tone. She looked past Sara and Raina at her maid. “Cherry, please bring us some refreshments and some of Bertha’s rice cakes.” After Cherry left the room, followed by Raina, Clarice swung her gaze back to Sara. “Please.” She waved her blue-veined hand at a gold-gilded chair across from her.

The movement stirred to life the scent of flowers. Not fresh flowers. Rather more like flowers that had been dried between the pages of an old book.

Unsure if her welcome would be one of short-lived duration or not, Sara poised herself stiffly on the edge of the chair and waited for Clarice to speak.

***

“What brings you to Candlewick?” Clarice raised a wizen, wrinkled hand and stopped any reply Sara would have made before it passed her lips. A large, ruby ring that matched the stones in the necklace at her throat caught the sunlight and sparkled like fresh blood. “Please don’t patronize me by telling me it was to pay a social call on a shriveled-up, old woman that you had no desire to meet.”

Well, the old lady was frank. Sara would give her that. But what had made Clarice so bitter? Sara swallowed hard, wove her fingers tightly together, and made up her mind to be as frank as her hostess. “I…I want to know about Harrogate.”

Long ago, her grandmother had told her the house was built by Jonathan Bradford, and completed just before he was to marry Katherine Grayson in 1805. Ezra Wade, Sara’s grandfather, had purchased Harrogate Plantation from the Grayson family in 1828, the same year the lone occupant died and Sara was born. Beyond that, she had been told nothing about the house or the people who had lived there. In fact, when she’d asked, her grandmother had often sidestepped Sara’s questions, her reaction to the question much like what she’d exhibited when Sara had asked about the portrait of the woman.

Clarice raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. After studying Sara for several moments, as if deciding if she’d tell her anything, she said, “I lived here when Jonathan built it.” She offered nothing more.

“Then you must have known Katherine Grayson and Jonathan Bradford.”

Clarice straightened her slim shoulders. The bombazine made a
crinkling
sound, like old, dried paper. “I knew them, but I stopped socializing with my neighbors after—” She broke off abruptly and shifted her gaze to somewhere beyond the windows. A shadow of sadness filled the old woman’s eyes. Clarice blinked then brought her gaze back to Sara. “Until Alice Wade lived there, I never stepped foot in the place after…Even when Alice and Ezra owned it, I only went there a few times out of courtesy when she invited me to one of her parties.” After taking a long drink of her lemonade, Mrs. Degas replaced the glass on the table, and then studied Sara. “What is it you want to know?”

***

Why was Mrs. Degas so bitter about the house and the engaged couple who’d built it? Best not to pry further on that subject. “I’m afraid I know nothing, but I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about them.”

Mrs. Degas had started to take another drink, but slowly lowered her glass. Her expression became wary. “Why is it you’re so interested in all this, and why come to me to learn about it?”

What was Sara to say? Because there’s evil living in my house, and my grandmother’s ghost told me to ask you about it? All too aware of the reaction she’d get if she mentioned a ghost, she settled for something innocuous. “If I’m going to live there, I thought it would be good if I knew some of the history of the house.”

Again, Clarice studied Sara closely before answering. “Like what?” she asked, her tone less severe.

“Why did Jonathan Bradford sell Harrogate?”

“He didn’t sell it.”

Getting information out of Clarice was akin to getting Patricia Wade to give up the notion of marrying her daughter off to the first pair of trousers who offered. “I don’t understand.”

A suffocating silence fell over the room. Sara could hear only the accelerated beat of her own heart and the tick of the tall, rosewood grandfather clock in the hall.

“Then you don’t know about the…scandal,” Clarice said in a whisper so low that Sara had to wonder whether the old woman was talking to herself.

Scandal
?
At Harrogate
?
Gran had never mentioned a scandal
. Sara shook her head and leaned toward Clarice, eager to hear more.

Clarice stiffened her back, removed the white linen napkin from her lap, placed it on the table and positioned her glass just so beside it. The woman’s already pallid complexion had gone ever whiter. Her bloodless lips pursed in a tight line. Finally, she spoke.

“A young man from a neighboring plantation killed Jonathan in a jealous rage on the eve of Katherine and Jonathan’s wedding.”

Rather than shock at hearing a murder had taken place at her home and at such a terrible time, an inexplicable, all-enveloping sadness descended on Sara. The sensation became so overwhelming that she had to fight the sudden urge to sob her heart out. Quickly, before Mrs. Degas noticed, Sara regained her composure, but the sadness remained hanging over her like a large, black cloud.

Seemingly unaware of Sara’s reaction, Mrs. Degas went on with her story, spewing it forth so quickly that it was as though she had to get it out in its entirety, or she wouldn’t be able to.

“The story goes that this young man had been in love with Katherine for years and had hoped that she’d give Jonathan up to her younger sister, Madeline. Maddy we all called her. When Katherine didn’t, the young man decided that if he couldn’t have Katherine, neither could Jonathan. So he killed him. Katherine moved away right after the trial and…sentencing. Some say Katherine moved to New Orleans, but no one seems to know for sure what happened to her.” She lowered her voice. “Now, her twin sister–”

“Maddy was Katherine’s twin?”

“Yes. Her fraternal twin. She was a beauty and looked nothing like Katherine. She wasn’t unattractive, just not the striking beauty her sister was.” Clarice stared openly at Sara, and then went on. “Maddy was…exceptional. A beauty not only on the surface, but one whose beauty shone from within as well. Every young man in the parish was in love with her.” Unlike the sharp edge it held when she said Katherine’s name, Clarice’s voice had softened when she spoke of Maddy. “Everyone loved Maddy, including Jonathan, and we all knew she adored him. If he and Katherine hadn’t been betrothed at birth, Jonathan would have asked for Maddy’s hand.”

***

“Did Maddy ever live at Harrogate?”

“Yes. Unbeknownst to Katherine, Jonathan had it written into his will that if he died, Maddy was to inherit the plantation. The poor dear lived out the remainder of her life there. Never had visitors. Never wanted visitors. Died a lonely old woman in 1828.”

Sara started. The year she was born. Coincidence no doubt, but very odd.

“Everyone said that over the years, Maddy wasted away from a broken heart. What she felt for Jonathan was one of those everlasting kinds of loves.” For the first time a wisp of a smile tugged at Clarice’s mouth. “The kind that a body just never gets past. It just lives on forever.”

Forever. My Love Forever
. The words in the locket.

Something Mrs. Degas had said earlier suddenly entered Sara’s thoughts. If she’d attended parties at Harrogate, perhaps the locket Sara had found in the harpsichord belonged to Mrs. Degas. Digging into her reticule where she’d put it before leaving Harrogate with the intention of asking Clarice if it belonged to her or anyone she knew, Sara extracted the gold locket.

Holding it up by the chain, Sara extended it to Mrs. Degas. “Could you have lost this at one of my grandmother’s parties? I found it in the harpsichord while we were opening the house.”

Mrs. Degas’ smile vanished. Her face went sheet white. She recoiled and looked at the locket as though Sara were offering her the hand of Satan.

“No. No. That’s not mine.”

“Hmm. Then do you know whose it could be? I’d like to return it to her.”

“I’m afraid that would be quite impossible. That’s the locket Jonathan gave Maddy for her birthday.”

“Maddy? Katherine’s twin?”

Mrs. Degas nodded stiffly.

***

“I know Jonathan loved Maddy, but why would he give Maddy such an expensive gift? Especially one that says
My Love Forever
inside. Didn’t Maddy’s husband object to such familiarity?”

“Didn’t I mention that Maddy never married? And she never took that locket off.” Clarice’s voice caught. “It…it was buried with her.” Her complexion had turned absolutely ghostly. “Kather–”

The sound of shattering glass stopped Mrs. Degas mid sentence. Both women jumped and looked toward the window just as a large, black crow hurtled toward them and landed motionless at their feet. Another shattering of glass followed. Cherry had dropped the pitcher of lemonade she’d just carried into the room.

Mrs. Degas’ maid stared in abject horror at the dead bird. “That’s a bad omen, a sign from the devil, Miss Clarice.” She backed away, oblivious to the broken glass and lemonade puddled at her feet. Her gaze never left the dead bird.

Raina dashed into the room. When she spotted the bird, she stopped dead. Her eyes widened. She stared down at it just as Cherry continued to do.

The feathers had turned dark crimson with the blood that seeped from its lacerated body. Beneath it, a stain grew ever wider on the Aubusson carpet.

“Call Josiah and ask him to get this cleaned up.” Clarice shuddered, noticeably shaken by the event. She placed her linen napkin over the bird. Almost instantly, crimson seeped through the snow white linen.

“Don’t think Josiah’ll be touchin’ dat bird, Miss Clarice. No, suh.” Raina backed up. “It’s a powerful bad omen. Crows means somebody gonna die.”

Clarice looked from Raina to Sara with something close to hatred flashing from her rheumy eyes. As she hoisted her frail body from the chair, it shook so violently she nearly toppled over. When Sara reached to steady her, she recoiled and glared at her, her gaze filled with pure venom.

“You brought this here, you and your questions, and your talk of things that should be left alone. Let the past be. You’re prying into something that’s none of your business.” Clarice pointed a boney finger toward the door. “Now, get out of my house, and don’t ever come here again.”

Chapter 4

When Sara got back to Harrogate, Clarice Degas’ stinging words still rang in her ears. The crow seemed to have sparked something in the old woman that made her…furious? No, not furious.
Terrified
. But not the same kind of terror the two black women had exhibited. Clarice’s terror hadn’t just shown in her expression. It had gone much deeper. Perhaps even to her soul. And somehow, she had connected Sara to that fear.

Despite the sun beating through her bedroom window where she sat sipping tea and watching the gardeners make order of the grounds, Sara shivered. Did Clarice’s reaction have anything to do with the evil Gran had warned her about? No. Gran had said the evil was at Harrogate, not Candlewick.

Sara shook away the many questions that buffeted her from all sides. She had enough worries right here. No need to add Clarice Degas’ to the mix. Still, Sara couldn’t erase the incident entirely from her mind. What had taken place at Candlewick had some connection to Harrogate and her; otherwise her grandmother wouldn’t have sent her there. But what was it and, if Clarice refused to share everything she knew, how was Sara supposed to find out?

Inexplicably, Sara’s gaze was drawn to the portrait of the woman hanging over the mantel. A sinister smile curved her lips and a strange light filled her eyes. That had to be stopped, now. Her imagination or not, the portrait gave Sara the creeps. It had to go. She set down her tea cup and saucer, and gave the embroidered bell roped beside the bed a yank.

Moments later, Raina stepped into the room. “Yes, Missus?”

Sara pointed at the portrait. “Take that down and come with me.”

Raina frown, but did as she’d been told. Painting in hand, she followed Sara down the hall. At the end of the hall, Sara hoisted the hem of her gown in one hand, threw open the attic door with the other, and then climbed the stairs.

The attic was dirty, hot and lit dimly by a shaft of light coming through the one, tiny, dusty window. Stacked everywhere were discarded or forgotten possessions ranging from furniture to clothing and filling every available bit of floor space. Travel scarred trunks, shattered lamps, broken furniture and more, all of which had occupied a place in the rooms below at one time, but now lay forgotten and forlorn in the dark recesses of the attic.

Cobwebs hanging in wispy veils from the rafters tangled in Sara’s hair like phantom fingers trying to prevent her from doing what she’d come here to do.

Sara glanced over her shoulder at her maid. Raina was obviously not at all comfortable about being here. The maid’s large brown eyes shifted frantically in their sockets, attempting to take in all corners of the attic at once. Sara didn’t blame her. Truth be told, her skin had begun to crawl the moment she stepped on the first attic step.

“Put that portrait anywhere, and then help me look for a painting to replace it.”

“Yes, Missus.” Raina propped the woman’s portrait against the closest trunk, making certain that the painting faced away from them, then scanned the semi-dark room. “I don’t see no more pich’urs, Miss Sara.” Raina remained at the top of the stairs, no more than a foot from making a quick getaway should something pop out of the darkness.