Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 18
September came to Hampshire, and with it, near-constant rain. The storms rumbled through in daily succession, turning the ditches to swollen rivers and drenching the ground until it was sucking soft. Fat droplets raced down the leaded glass panes of the library windows, casting tearful shadows over Eliza’s hands as she did her needlework. Even though a fire roared in the hearth, a chill had settled over her. Fall was her least favorite time of year—the changing leaves and colder weather only brought memories of fever, death, and wooden coffins carried through doorways. Everyone she’d ever loved had died at the waning of summer.
Seven years and two weeks after Albert’s drowning, a strong hurricane had ravaged the gulf coast of Louisiana, tearing shingles and clapboards from the Metairie farmhouse and sending the household into a blind panic. The day after the storm made landfall, the banks of Lake Pontchartrain began to overflow. Eliza watched the storm surge creep closer and closer to the farmhouse. Soon ugly brown waves were lapping at the raised decking of the front porch. Her father waded out to the stables to lead the horses to higher ground while Lydia and Eliza helped Mimi move their best furniture to the second floor. Maman only took to her bed, watching the endless rain and dosing herself into an alcoholic stupor.
After the rains ceased, the paddocks and pastures remained flooded for nearly a month. Mosquitoes swarmed in thick clouds below the trees. No matter how hard Mimi Lisette scrubbed, she couldn’t remove the dark line showing that the foul-smelling floodwater had risen halfway up the downstairs walls of the farmhouse. The scent of mildew emanated from every room.
And then one evening, Eliza and Lydia were rolling Maman’s fine Aubusson carpets over the warped wooden floorboards when her father came in from his chores. He mopped his sweat-slicked face with a handkerchief, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. Suddenly, he rocked back and forth on his heels and promptly fainted at Eliza’s feet. It took three farmhands to move Nicholas Sullivan to the rear of the house, where Mimi set about arranging a sickroom. He shook so uncontrollably and vomited so much Eliza was certain he would die within the same night. As the late hours wore on, she busied herself mopping the floors with vinegar and boiling water. She scrubbed her hands with lye soap until her knuckles bled and traded vigils with Mimi until she nearly collapsed from exhaustion.
Just as suddenly as Papa had taken ill, he rallied. Though pale and weak, his good humor returned within days, and Eliza was soon pushing him out to the rear veranda in a wheeled chair to take the air. They made plans for sowing rice in February and selling the foals at market.
It was only a brief reprieve.
The next day, Papa fell shivering into another fever, then into a deep sleep he never woke from.
As Papa’s skin yellowed and every breath became a fight, Maman fell sick on a miserably hot Sunday, her delirium so profound it was terrifying to be in the sickroom with her. Helene shrieked at unseen demons and clawed at Eliza’s arms when she offered her water. She died a few days later, crying crimson tears and vomiting black blood. Papa followed peacefully the next morning, silently drifting from his coma to meet Maman in the afterlife.
The undertaker was too overtaxed with the epidemic in the city to come collect the bodies. Four days passed. By that time, the stench in the farmhouse had become unbearable. After the hearses finally came to take away the fetid, swollen corpses, Mimi Lisette—who had never grown sick with the yellow jack in her lifetime—took ill, shaking so hard with rigors that the bed frame she lay upon broke under the weight of her body.
After Mimi died, Lydia and Eliza emptied out every room of the farmhouse and towed as much as they could carry to the far pasture. The bonfire they created rose so high into the night it seemed to lick the stars. They held tight to one another as it burned and made promises they were unsure they’d be able to keep.
If I get sick, Lyddie, promise that you’ll shoot me. I don’t want to die like that.
And if I die before you, will you find my maman and tell her, Liza?
A killing frost came after the funeral and plunged New Orleans into winter, putting an end to autumn’s fevers. The epidemic of 1893 had ended as quickly as it started. And by some strange mercy, she and Lydia had survived.
Just then, the bell clattered at the front entry, startling Eliza from her memories. Turner strode down the creaking hallway and spoke a few terse words to whomever was at the door, then went past her to Malcolm’s study. Eliza put aside her needlepoint and crept to the paneled door. She put her ear to it, listening.
“Lord Eastleigh’s footman is here, sir. He’s requesting an immediate response.”
There was the crisp sound of paper being unfolded.
“Christ,” Malcolm swore. “Tonight?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Eliza’s mind swam. Eastleigh. What could he possibly want now? Their debts had been settled weeks ago.
“Tell him we’ll be there.”
“Right, m’lord.”
Turner’s footsteps shuffled toward the door, and Eliza ducked around the corner, taking her seat again. Malcolm came out a few seconds later, running a hand over his hair. His brows were knotted together, his face creased with worry.
Eliza stood and went to him. “What is it, husband?”
He gave a weary sigh. “It seems we’ve been invited to dinner tonight with Lord Eastleigh and his wife, and I’ve accepted.”
“His wife?” Eliza asked, incredulous. “I’d no idea he’d married.”
Malcolm laughed sharply. “Yes, well, funny enough, it seems he’s married Una Moseley.”
“Una! How queer.”
“I’ve a notion he’s married her out of some ulterior motivation. At any rate, we’re still negotiating the terms of the London townhouse. It seems as if there’s some question about the terms of repayment in the original mortgage.”
“If it’s a matter of inflation, we’ll pay him whatever it takes to be off his chain. And perhaps it’s only dinner, after all.”
“With Eastleigh, it won’t only be dinner, darling. I think you know that.”
The wind tore at the carriage like a wild beast as Malcolm and Eliza made their way to Clairborne Hall, the ancestral home of the Lancashire family. Despite the muddy roads and overflowing ditches, they were soon splashing up the drive to the gaudy, overblown baroque mansion that resembled a layer cake made of limestone brick. Electric lights shone aggressively through every window, blazing in starbursts through the streaming rain.
“I’ll go in first,” Malcolm said, his hand on the butt of the pistol he’d holstered beneath his waistcoat. “I’m not expecting anything untoward, but with Eastleigh, we can’t be sure.”
She’d tried to prevent him from bringing a gun to the dinner table, but he was insistent. Eliza’s stomach lurched as she envisioned the possibilities Malcolm was anticipating.
Turner pulled up to the porte cochere at the side of the lumbering manse and hopped down from his perch to open their door. His derby was rimmed with water, only his heavy-lidded eyes visible above the scarf he’d gathered about his face.
“I’ll wait here, m’lord. If there’s any trouble . . .”
“There won’t be, Turner,” Malcolm said confidently. “But if you do hear anything, remove her ladyship to Havenwood, posthaste.”
Malcolm handed Eliza down from the carriage and she followed behind him, lingering at the edge of the rain-puddled terrace. A purple silhouette appeared in the doorway. Una stood in the double-hung doors of the threshold, looking as regal as a queen. Her eyes skimmed over Malcolm, then came to rest on Eliza, her lips forming a foxlike smile.
“Do come in, Lord and Lady Havenwood. We’ve been ever so anxious for your company.”
Eliza’s head spun as Una took Malcolm’s arm, smiling up at him in a way that turned Eliza’s thoughts momentarily to violence. She imagined them in the days of their betrothal, Malcolm hovering over Una and kissing her in the places where she now enjoyed his attention. Malcolm has such sweet kisses . . .
They made their way into a sumptuous drawing room hung with French green silk. Eastleigh’s butler took Eliza’s cape from her shoulders, revealing her blue velvet gown and the generous amount of décolleté it afforded.
“Lovely dress.” Una’s voice was hollow as she gave the compliment.
“You’re looking well yourself, Lady Eastleigh. Marriage agrees with you,” Eliza answered, bobbing a quick curtsy. It was true. Una’s cool, dignified hauteur suited her new station as countess.
“My husband will be down shortly, but we’ll go through without him.”
Una led them into the dining room, her hips swaying beneath her snug gown. Eliza wove her arm through Malcolm’s, jealousy at Una’s beauty seizing her heart in an unbecoming vise.
The varnished mahogany table was laden with sparkling crystal and silver chargers, each place setting pristine with its matching gold-rimmed china. Gardenias spilled over the sides of gilded chinoiserie vases, their fragrance smothering. Eastleigh had spared no expense. Eliza could only imagine how much of Malcolm’s extorted money had gone into the impressive display of wealth surrounding her.
“Strange amount of rain we’re having,” Malcolm said, filling the uncomfortable silence as they waited for their host. “I hope it won’t interfere with the winter wheat.”
“I rather like a good storm, Havenwood. It suits my mood.” Eastleigh’s sibilant baritone floated toward them as he strode into the searing brightness of the room, dressed in immaculate white tie. He paused to greet Eliza, taking her fingertips as his eyes walked all over her. “Lady Havenwood. Delighted to have you at Clairborne Hall at last. It’s the finest house in the county, you know. Made even finer by your company.”
“It’s an honor to be invited, my lord.” Eliza’s mouth went dry as he kissed her gloved hand, his lips lingering uncomfortably long.
Her husband’s eyes could have cut glass.
They sat, and liveried footmen approached, offering oysters on the half shell and caviar. Eliza was thankful for food as a distraction from Una’s dark scrutiny. The weight in the room was unbearable—like a heavy, silent sword of Damocles poised overhead.
After their dessert had been finished—a decadent charlotte russe—Charles stood. “Darling, please take Lady Havenwood into the parlor for a digestive. Lord Havenwood and I have private matters to discuss.”
Eliza looked to Malcolm, her heartbeat quickening. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone with Una. And what if Eastleigh became violent?
Malcolm gave her a tight smile. “Go on, my love. It’s all right.”
Una swayed down the hallway, leading Eliza into a high-ceilinged drawing room lined with portraits. Eastleigh’s ancestors glared down with hawkish faces, every bit as unfriendly as her present company. Una tugged the bellpull near the mantel and a frantic maid came scurrying in with a decanter of brandy and a tray of ginger wafers.
Una poured a glass and handed it to Eliza. “Have you been presented to the queen? If not, I’d be willing to sponsor you. I was brought before Her Majesty several years ago. Your mother-in-law did the honors.” Una winked.
“I’d rather not pretend at civility, Lady Eastleigh. I already know you don’t care for me.” Eliza sniffed her brandy suspiciously, then took a tiny sip.
Una put her hand to her chest. “My. I’ll give it to you Americans—you’re certainly forthright.”
“My candor is one of the many things my husband finds charming about me.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Your kind of charm will wear thin after a time. Malcolm is traditional and prefers modesty in a woman.”
“Does he?” Eliza smirked and took a braver sip of her brandy. It was so sweet it made her cheeks ache. “I had no idea you and Lord Eastleigh were courting. News of your wedding was quite the surprise to Malcolm and me.”
“Charles is moneyed, powerful, and handsome. A good catch. I’ve admired him for years. We’ve many common interests. What kind of fool would turn him down?”
“I’m quite happy things played out the way they did.”
“Are you?” Una waggled her finger at Eliza. “It doesn’t look like you’re sleeping well, if I’m to be honest. But how could you, in a house with such a dreadful past? Have you found out about the others?”
“What do you mean by the others? If you’re implying Malcolm has lovers . . .”
Una laughed. “Oh, it’s much worse than that.”
The tops of Eliza’s ears caught fire beneath the upswept waves of her hair. She wanted to throttle the smug look from Una’s face so badly her hands shook. “Come out with it, Una. Ever since that day on the path, you’ve wanted to say something foul and unforgettable to me.”
“But it’ll be so much more fun to watch you find out the hard way!” Una narrowed her eyes. “I’ll just give you one teensy-tiny little clue.”
“I’m enthralled,” Eliza spat.
“You should look around the south wing of your new home. Your husband hasn’t let you back there yet, has he? It’s all locked up, I’d reckon.” Una took a sip of her brandy and held the glass up to the light. The crystal etching threw prismatic sparks over the walls. “I’d imagine he has some story about it being dangerous.”
Eliza remembered how often Malcolm had admonished her about the dangers of the south wing, beginning on the very first night of their courtship. She thought of the heavy key ring he always kept beneath his waistcoat—how he’d not yet given her a copy of the house keys. His strange rules. Were there secrets within the hidden wing she wasn’t meant to uncover? Secrets about Malcolm that might reveal motive enough for him to murder his family?
“I can see you thinking about it now,” Una said. “It’s delightful to see your face twist up and get all red. Do you know how you look when you get nervous? Don’t ever play cards. You’ll be as wretched at it as your father-in-law was.”
“I’m quite finished with your insults. If we were in America, I’d have you down on the floor, pulling your bloody hair out of your head.”
“Wouldn’t that be the scandal?” Una leaned forward. “You’re already an odd duck here, but you should go to London with your husband when the Season opens. You’ll see what everyone else thinks of you. You may look the part of a lady in your jewels and expensive gowns, but you and I both know you’re nothing but a cheap Yankee trollop.”
Eliza stood, clenching her fists. “I am not a goddamned Yankee.”
Malcolm strode into the room. “We’re leaving,” he said, firmly taking Eliza by the elbow. “Lady Eastleigh, please never speak to my wife with anything less than civility again.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lord Havenwood,” Una said, her eyes widening in mock alarm.
“It’s not in my nature to be cruel, but you should know I’ve loved Eliza more than I could have ever loved you in ten lifetimes.”
Una sighed. “Oh, Malcolm, you and I both know who and what it is you really love.”
Malcolm turned on his heel, pulling Eliza along with him. He snatched his hat and cane from Eastleigh’s butler as Eliza swept her cape over her shoulders. They marched out to the landau, where Turner waited with the door flung wide. As they pulled away, Eliza sensed the fury seething beneath Malcolm’s demeanor. They rode in silence all the way to Cheltenbridge, until she could no longer resist the question that had been on her tongue.
“What did Lord Eastleigh say to you, my love?”
“I don’t wish to talk about it, Eliza.” His eyes met hers and narrowed. “I want you to go to your room when we get to Havenwood. I want you to take off your dress and make yourself ready for me.”