Authors: Jennifer St Giles
"Juliet!"
C
HAPTER
S
IX
"That's Mignon," I cried, turning toward the river, from where the sound had come.
"Stay here," Mr. Trevelyan said, pushing me back and rushing toward the yawning black water ahead.
"No." I ran after him. To the right, in the dark shadows beneath the trees, I heard weeping and the wild thrashing of foliage.
"Mignon!" Ginette also ran toward the river. Ahead of us, she didn't see Mr. Trevelyan and me until I called to her.
"Juliet!
Mon Dieu
." Ginette stumbled and sank to her knees.
"What happened?" I said, turning to her. Mr. Trevelyan kept going.
She pointed to where Mr. Trevelyan was headed. "Mignon and Mr. Davis were standing just there, and this man came out and attacked them. He knocked Mr. Davis down and pulled Mignon toward the river."
I helped her up. "Where's Mr. Davis?"
"He got up and raced after the man, threatening to kill him if he didn't release Mignon."
"I've got her!" Mr. Davis shouted, running up from the river with Mignon cradled in his arms. Her cream dress was wet, muddied, and torn on one shoulder. Her hair hung unbound and was tangled with twigs.
Leaving Ginette, I rushed to meet the two. Mignon wept against his shoulder. "Is she hurt?"
"I don't think so. Just shaken and wet. The bastard tried to put her into a canoe and take her. God, I'm so sorry. He took me by surprise."
I touched Mignon's shoulder and she turned to me. "She's safe now and that's all that matters. Let me hold her," I said, sitting on the ground. After a moment, Mr. Davis lowered her next to me. I wrapped my arms around her. Ginette joined us, putting her arm around us both.
"Nonnie, please. You must tell me if you're hurt," I said.
She calmed herself, taking deep breaths. "My . . . my... face. He hit me... when ... I fought him."
I shuddered. "Thank God Mr. Davis stopped him."
The distant howl of a man in pain cut through the night.
"Where's Monsieur Trevelyan?" My heart hammered as I jerked my head around, desperately hoping to see him appear.
"He went into the woods?" Sounding worried, Mr. Davis spun around, looking too. "You three go back to the square where you'll be safe. I'll go look for him."
"Andre!" I remembered, urging Mignon to her feet with Ginette's help. "I left him with the clowns. We must hurry." With so much noise at the carnival, no one had realized what had happened. If Mr. Trevelyan hadn't pulled me closer to the river to dance, I wouldn't have heard Mignon scream.
Glancing back to Mr. Davis, I whispered a prayer that Mr. Trevelyan wasn't hurt.
We found Andre, still laughing with the crowd and cheering the clowns' juggling feats. By the time we pulled him to the side and found Mignon a crate to sit on, Mr. Davis and Mr. Trevelyan returned. Both men wore grim expressions. Mr. Trevelyan was muddy and wet.
I went to him. "
Dieu
, what happened?"
"I wrestled a man out of a boat and got an interesting confession before he escaped."
"What?"
"The scoundrel was hired to kidnap Mignon."
"How did he even know she would be here tonight?"
Mr. Davis cursed. "He either followed her or was told where to find her."
"He was told," Mr. Trevelyan said. "The man was hired less than thirty minutes ago, here at the carnival. He escaped before I could find out who hired him."
I grabbed his arm, locking my knees into place, determined to stand. I didn't know what evil was trying to harm my family, but I knew that I damn sure wasn't going to let it.
I wrote a letter to Mr. Goodson after I had everyone settled in bed. I demanded an explanation to his telegram and told him what had been happening in my home. I didn't know whom to trust. Everyone, Mr. Fitz, Mr. Gallier, Mrs. Gallier, and Miss Vengle, had been at the carnival. Mr. Trevelyan had been away from my side long enough to have hired a man to harm Mignon, and that bothered me. I didn't like questions and doubt, yet my life was filled with them. Even Mr. Davis could have had cause. How desperately did he want Mignon? What I didn't know was why. I didn't think the incident related to Mr. Latour's threat, but I couldn't rule that out completely. As I sealed the envelope, I heard the faint tones of music coming from outside.
Going to the French doors, I opened them wider, and the soft melody went from a whisper to the hush of a lullaby. Curious, I stepped onto the gallery, keeping to the shadows cast by the moon. The coolness of the night air rustling through the palmetto ferns and the sweet acacia brushed the tendrils fringing my face. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, but my pulse already thrummed to what I knew I would see.
Across the courtyard, Mr. Trevelyan sat upon the brick wall that overlooked the oak-strewn park. As usual, he turned my way, uncannily sensing my presence, strengthening the connection between us. I didn't think I would be able to sleep, as troubled as I was, and thought he might be suffering from the same. The doubts I'd had moments ago wavered as I relived the memory of dancing with him in the moonlight.
I wanted to go down the galley stairs and dance again. But to do so would be to succumb to the passions he awakened inside me with a single look, his brushing touch, or his softly spoken words. I had to go inside—yet I couldn't make my feet move. My need to gaze upon him burned stronger than any tenuous threads propriety still had on me tonight.
He was made for the shadows of the night. His dark hair gleamed in the moonlight, and his movements held a predatory grace akin to the black panther we'd watched at the carnival. I had the urge to reach out and stroke the sleek power I sensed in him as he slid off the wall and walked toward the house, looking up to where I stood in the shadows.
I could hear his silent plea, to join him, to finish that almost kiss. He stopped at the fountain where the statue of Saint Catherine of Siena beseeched the heavens for mercy with folded hands. I knew the words engraved in the stone at her feet: "Everything comes from love, all is ordained for the salvation of man, God does nothing without this goal in mind." Though I believed Saint Catherine meant well, life had taught me differently. Not all things came from love. The war hadn't. Betrayal didn't. What almost happened to Mignon tonight didn't.
I didn't know this man, and I couldn't go to him. I whirled about, ducking into my room, locking the French doors firmly behind me. For a long time I stood there, pressed against the cool doors until I heard the sound of him climbing the gallery stairs. I waited, straining to hear if he would be so scandalous as to climb the stairs to my room and knock upon my doors. I didn't draw an easy breath until his footsteps ended on the floor below.
Climbing into my bed, I stared into the darkness for a long time, trying to sort though the turmoil surrounding my family as well as the storm inside of me. I felt as if I had just drifted off when I awoke shivering, chilled to the bone. Thunder announced an approaching storm, and an icy chill filled my room. It was as cold as the cutting gust at Blindman's Curve, and the heavy sensation that had pressed on me then pressed forcefully upon me now, urging me from the bed. There seemed to be a shadow, blacker than the night there, fighting me. I wrenched back, striking blindly at it in the darkness around me. My fist hit nothing but air and tangled in the mosquito netting. I panicked, fought desperately to free myself, and jumped from the bed.
I heard no other sound but that of my harsh breathing and approaching thunder. Lighting a lamp, I found myself alone, and knew I'd just wrestled with a ghost. There was no other practical explanation, for I knew I hadn't dreamed it. The lace curtains by my French doors rustled and my scalp tingled. I grabbed the poker from the fireplace, marching to the French doors, determined not to be afraid in my own home.
With the light behind me, I saw nothing but my reflection in the glass made black by the dark of the night. Just as I was about to turn away, a streak of lightning splintered the sky, silhouetting the shape of man staring at me from my balcony outside. He wore a western-style hat pulled low, obscuring his face completely, and he raised a wicked curved knife at me. I screamed, backing away and holding the poker like a weapon ready to strike.
The man disappeared just as the household erupted. I heard Mignon calling my name and a thunderous pounding of steps. Mr. Trevelyan burst into my room, followed by Mignon, then Ginette and Andre.
"What is it?" Mr. Trevelyan asked harshly.
"A man. Outside my French doors. He was staring at me. He had a knife."
Mr. Trevelyan ran to the door.
"
Mon Dieu
" Mignon cried. Ginette crossed the room and wrapped her arms around me, shaking. I kept a firm hold on the poker with one hand and put my other around her, welcoming the comfort.
Swiftly unlocking the doors, Mr. Trevelyan stepped cautiously outside. He looked in both directions and then moved to the railing. "I don't see anyone. What did he look like?"
"I don't know. I didn't see his face. Just his shape."
"Then tell me that."
"He was tall, like you."
Mr. Trevelyan sent me a pointed look.
"I didn't say it
was
you. You're taller and broader across the shoulders than he was, but he was bulkier around the middle. He wore a hat, too."
"Good. We have bulky, not broad, and wearing a hat. Anything else? Did he try to open your door?"
"Bon Dieu. Isn't it enough that he was there and raised a knife at me!"
Mr. Trevelyan drew a deep breath. "Yes. Stay here and I'll take a look around the grounds."
"Don't go by yourself. Take Papa John."
Mr. Trevelyan shook his head. "He works hard enough as it is. I'll wake Mr. Fitz. Odd that neither he nor Mr. Gallier heard your scream—it was loud enough to wake the dead."
The search, which ended at daybreak, revealed nothing other than that Mignon had a bruised cheek, reminding everyone of last night's horror. I sent her and Ginette upstairs to press cool cloths to Mignon's face while Mama Louisa and I fixed breakfast. I also gave strict orders to Andre that he was to remain at home until I discovered who was terrorizing us. My son wasn't happy.
"We is doomed, Miz Julie," Mama Louisa said, pulling down a pot for gravy. "There's got to be a bad voodoo curse hanging over our head."
"Black magic has no power other than what your mind gives it," I told her firmly as I picked up an apron and tied it on. I refused to believe the cold dark shadow had anything to do with voodoo. Given the haunting ghost stories that flavored life in New Orleans, even my practical mind had accepted that there was a ghost in
La Belle
. But no ghost had shaken a knife at me, that had been a man.
I slammed a cast iron pot onto the woodstove, liking the heavy feel of the pan in my hand. It was a great deal more substantial than a poker, as if, I thought, I were David and could easily slay Goliath. I wished I could have hit the man last night with the pan. It angered me that he'd frightened me so.
Turning for the lard, I found Mama Louisa standing still, glaring at the pot before her, tears in her eyes. I'd been too curt. My nerves were frayed.
I went and hugged her. "Mama Louisa, I'll not believe in voodoo curses and the like. Now, let's set our minds to what has to be done and feed our boarders breakfast. It is a wonder they haven't left
La Belle
."
Sighing, Mama Louisa gathered the bowl of eggs. "Don't matter much if you believe or not, Miz Julie. There's a grim reaper hiding in the attic, and ain't nobody can keep him out."
"Nonsense," I said, even as a shiver ran down my spine.
At breakfast, there was more interest in discussing the attack on Mignon than on eating. The boarders all seem shocked about it and about the man with the knife, but then, they were actors. I kept wondering the same question Mr. Trevelyan had raised. Why hadn't Mr. Gallier and Mr. Fitz come running when I'd screamed? The more I thought about it, both Mr. Fitz and Mr. Gallier were built like the man I'd seen, and I wondered if either of them owned a wide-brimmed western hat. I decided to investigate after breakfast.
I focused back on the discussion, and my agitation with Mr. Fitz grew with every word he spoke.
"There is nothing that Mignon could have done to prevent what happened last night and might still happen, if that is to be her fate. We're all puppets with no choice or control over our future." Mr. Fitz leaned back as if he'd just delivered God's word.
Mignon blanched as fear darkened her eyes.
"
Non
," I blurted out, unable to accept that. "We choose."
"We don't choose tragedy. It chooses us," he said.
"You twist my words, Monsieur Fitz. We might not have control over what others do or over the forces of nature, but we can change the outcome of those things, by what we do before and after certain events. Our reactions determine our fate. It doesn't determine us."
"I agree with Mrs. Boucheron," Mr. Trevelyan added.
"I also, Mr. Fitz," Miss Vengle said. "By choosing to join the acting troupe, I escaped the untimely end the ravages of the war would have imposed on me."
"If I understand you correctly, dear," Mrs. Gallier said, "to change the course of one's life, all a person would have to do is to change their reactions to the people and the world around them, correct?"
"Correct," I said.
Mr. Fitz stood and tossed his napkin to the table, surprising me with his volatility. "You're all fools. Who among us would have chosen the ravages the war wrought? We have no individual choice, and it is folly to believe otherwise." His impassioned words echoed in the room as he left.
"I have to agree with Mr. Fitz," Ginette said quietly, speaking for the first time. "Our destinies are sealed and no matter how we will them to be different, we are all doomed to the lot life hands us, and not even love can save us."
"Ginette, surely you cannot believe in so tragic a future—" I gasped.