The Devereaux Legacy Page 10

  Cissy didn’t touch it. Like Merrick, she said, “That doesn’t mean anything. The wind could have blown it there.” She stared down at her hands which she was twisting restlessly in her lap. “Someone always dies when Marthe walks in the garden. Someone always—”

  “Hush,” Leah interrupted almost angrily.

  Cissy gave her a wild, driven look. “You don’t believe it, do you? I tell you, we must all beware. Death is coming.” Abruptly, she pushed back her chair and rose, half stumbling, and fled down the veranda.

  Leah stared after her. Despite her certainty that some human agency had moved that ghostly white luminescence, she felt a rush of fear. Obviously, Cissy believed both in the ghost and that death was coming to Devereaux Plantation.

  Her fist closed around the little piece of silk. That was her proof, whether Merrick and Cissy could accept it or not. Marthe didn’t walk in the garden. A living, breathing someone, with a twisted spirit and an evil goal, was behind that glowing white appearance.

  In only one respect did Leah agree with Cissy. She understood only too well that the ghostly charade forecast death. Three times death had waited for Kent Ellis. Somehow she and Kent must figure out what was happening at Devereaux Plantation and why.

  She ate her breakfast without tasting a bite. It was a task to be done while she thought—and worried. Why did Merrick refuse to listen to her? That answer came too easily. He’d been there the night her mother and father had disappeared. He’d only been a boy, but he’d been there, and he must have known how his brother and sister had felt—and still felt—about their cousin. Every time Leah told Merrick some new fact that she’d learned, he downplayed it, tried to put a good face on it. And he always turned attention away from Devereaux Plantation. Even now he was talking to Kent and, she knew, seeking some reason to believe that Kent—and not anyone named Devereaux—was part of the ugliness.

  Wearily, she totted up what she knew. The ghost had reappeared after an absence of many years, and Louisa had begun that letter to Carrie. What link could there be between the ghost and her parents? And why would the ghost appear now and threaten Kent? There could not possibly be a link between her parents and the archaeologist.

  She shook her head wearily. None of that made sense. And she didn’t want to think of other things, either. Niggling at the back of her mind was the fear that she didn’t want to verbalize—that Old Jason had equated Marthe and Mary Ellen when everyone knew that Marthe had killed her lover.

  Leah closed her mind to that; she wouldn’t think it again. Not ever.

  Still, she couldn’t help wondering what the truth was about her mother. Had she been loving, kind and brave? Or angry and vengeful, a hellcat?

  Leah threw her napkin down and pushed her chair away from the breakfast table. She couldn’t ask anyone here at the house, but she could ask Mrs. LeClerc. Perhaps that would help her resolve the question in her own mind.

  She had to know about her mother. She had to know, because she and Mary Ellen and Marthe were linked, and that was what Mrs. LeClerc had meant when she told Leah that she had a fated face.

  “Miss Leah.”

  Absorbed in her thoughts, she hadn’t heard Henry approach. Startled, she looked up. “Yes, Henry?”

  “If you’ve finished your breakfast, Miss Carrie would like to see you.”

  She found her grandmother propped up in a huge bed that made her look even smaller and frailer. Leah bent down to kiss her cheek, and the old lady smiled.

  “Did you see the gardens this morning? Henry said you’d gone for a walk.”

  Leah smiled and nodded.

  “Aren’t they lovely in the early-morning light?”

  Leah hesitated, then plunged into her story, not only of the ghostly apparition the night before but of Kent Ellis and his dog and his accidents.

  Carrie Devereaux seemed to shrink against her pillows, but her great black eyes stared indomitably at Leah. “There is no ghost.”

  “I know, Grandmother. I don’t believe there is a ghost, either,” she agreed quietly. “But there is someone at Devereaux Plantation who wants all of us to believe in a ghost.”

  Carrie protested. “No,” she said sharply. “It’s all a coincidence. As for that young man, he wants to hear old stories, so when a superstitious maid says she’s seen Marthe, he believes it. As for his accidents, they sound like accidents to me.” She swept over Leah’s murmur of dissent. “That chimney’d been leaning a little more every year. And he probably didn’t tie his anchor securely.” Then she stared out her window at the double line of live oaks curving down to the river, her mouth set tightly.

  “Someone cut the rope ladder in the well,” Leah said firmly. “I saw it.”

  Her grandmother turned back to her and reached out to take her hand. “Dear God, Leah, what’s happening to us?”

  “I don’t know. But we have to face it. We have to try and find out.”

  Carrie’s hand tightened on Leah’s. “Be careful. Promise me.

  “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  And she intended to keep that promise. She intended to be very careful indeed. She had warned Kent to be cautious, and now she had warned her grandmother. The three of them would pursue their search for the truth, but they would all be wary.

  Forewarned is forearmed.

  Chapter Ten

  Leah ran lightly down the stairs. She had so much to do. First she would talk to Mrs. LeClerc—

  John Edward stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up.

  As she reached him, he said, “You’re in a very great hurry this morning.” His eyes looked at her searchingly.

  Tired of pretense, she lifted her chin. “I’m going to talk to Mrs. LeClerc. About my mother.”

  “I don’t think that’s very wise.”

  She knew then that her face didn’t evoke memories of a long-lost love. His eyes were cold, and the enmity he felt was clear. He did indeed hate the woman who had left him.

  “I’m going to find out.”

  “You may regret it.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me what she was really like?”

  The question throbbed between them.

  “Leave it alone.” His voice was hard and cold. “You keep on and on, and what’s the good of it? Mary Ellen and Tom are dead. Let them rest in peace.”

  That was easy for him to say. R.I.P., that was what they carved on gravestones years ago. But Mary Ellen and Tom had no gravestone, only the ghostly gray sailing sloop in stone, a memorial—and a lie. How could they rest in peace?

  “She came back here because of the ghost and Grandmother’s accidents,” Leah said harshly. “She came back because she thought someone was trying to kill Grandmother.”

  John Edward was shaking his head.

  Her eyes narrowed. “All right. Then you tell me why she came.”

  She waited, holding her breath. Would he answer? Would he finally reveal something more of that long-ago visit?

  “It isn’t that simple,” he said slowly.

  She waited for more.

  “You see, Mary Ellen was clever. And she loved Devereaux Plantation.”

  “What are you saying, John Edward?”

  “She was behind the ghost.”

  Leah’s breath came out in a sharp, irritated spurt. “That’s crazy. There’s no way she could’ve been the ghost. Why, everybody agrees she hadn’t been back to Mefford for a long time.”

  “She didn’t have to come back.”

  Leah raised an eyebrow. “So not only is she a ghost, but she manages it by long distance? Some kind of telekinesis, no doubt.”

  John Edward’s jaw hardened, but he spoke levelly enough. “No. It’s a lot simpler than that. I’d bet every penny I have that she managed it through Cornelia, her old maid.”

  “Who’s Cornelia?”

  “She took care of Mary Ellen from the time she was a little girl.”

  Leah frowned. “Is she here now? I haven’t heard of her.”

  Jo
hn Edward shook his head. “She died two years ago. But Cornelia would’ve done anything for Mary Ellen. Anything. I can see how Mary Ellen figured it. She talked Cornelia into waving something white down in the garden, and that got the talk started about the ghost. Aunt Carrie’s accidents—and that’s all they were, accidents—just added fuel to the fire. Mary Ellen knew Old Jason was spooky and that he’d write or call her if he got scared enough. He did. So that gave her an excuse to insist to Tom that they come.”

  “But why?” Leah demanded. “Why this silly charade?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t silly,” he retorted. “She never did anything silly. Don’t you understand? She wanted to have Tom, but she also wanted to have Devereaux Plantation—and she was going to do her damnedest to worm her way back into her mother’s good graces.” He paused, then shook his head. “But it didn’t work.”

  No, it didn’t. Instead, she and Tom had quarreled and . . .

  “There was no reason for my mother to . . . to shoot my father,” Leah said carefully.

  “Reason?” John Edward shrugged. “Mary Ellen was dramatic. Perhaps she took the dueling pistols and never intended to shoot anyone. Perhaps she aimed one of them at herself. She would do things like that, you know, and Tom might have reached out and grabbed for it. Perhaps they struggled. And if the pistol went off and killed him, she would’ve been maddened by grief. She was like that, you know.”

  Leah didn’t know. All she knew about her mother was what she’d been told.

  “Anyway,” John Edward said reasonably, “it doesn’t matter after all these years. Stop worrying about it, Leah. You’ve found your family, and everything’s going well for you. Enjoy it. Don’t let the past ruin everything.”

  Everything he said made sense. She thought of his words as she walked slowly out of the house and down into the gardens. So why didn’t she follow his advice? Because she didn’t like him and didn’t believe he had her best interests at heart, no matter how fine and kind his advice might sound. Maybe she was stiff-necked. They said that about Mary Ellen, too. But Leah wanted to know the truth even if everyone else insisted her quest was impossible. She wanted to be able to look at Mary Ellen’s young face in the pictures that remained of her today—and look at her own face in the mirror—and feel that she’d done her best to solve the mystery of her mother and father’s fate.

  The oyster shells crackled underfoot. The sweet, heavy scent of the roses swirled around her in the light breeze. It was already hot and humid in the garden. Leah looked down at the sloping land and suddenly wished she had a sketchbook in hand. Could she capture the lushness of the greenery and the bright, heavy blooms? Her eyes traveled slowly across the garden, then paused at the shabby gray tower. She frowned.

  The tower didn’t belong in the painting she saw in her mind. It added a disturbing note, a feeling of oppression and decay. Cissy was right, Leah thought suddenly. They should pull the tower down, no matter how old it was. The tower was dark and menacing. It didn’t belong.

  She walked slowly toward it. It loomed above her and drew her slowly up the path. She didn’t really want to go near it. She should turn toward the garage.

  This was where Marthe had waited for Timothy more than one hundred years ago. What had happened when they met? A quarrel? And then the sharp report of a pistol. How much later had the pistol sounded again? Blood must have stained the flooring, perhaps seeped through cracks to drip slowly into the earth.

  Leah stopped and stared at the chained door. She would talk to Grandmother about the tower and see if they couldn’t take it down. But would it help to do that? Stories would circulate as long as anyone knew about Marthe and Timothy. There would be those who said it was a sad tale, but the Devereaux had always been doomed—at least some of them.

  Old stories and new stories.

  Then Leah heard a sound and lifted her head to listen.

  Snip, snip, snip.

  She left the path and began to circle the tower.

  Snip, snip, snip.

  Leah stopped short, and her breath ached in her chest. She saw it all in one glance and understood. She didn’t know why it was so shocking, because she’d known the grave was there. Her grandmother had told her that Marthe was buried by the tower in unhallowed ground.

  Still, it shocked her to the core when she came around the side of the tower and saw Cissy kneeling beside the small earthen mound and carefully, slowly, clipping the grass that covered Marthe’s grave.

  Cissy leaned forward, one gloved hand resting on the ground, the other holding the clippers. She was intent upon her task, her face grave. But her brilliant red hair glistened like fire in the sunlight. She had changed into a pale lilac pantsuit and looked very much the lady of the manor, engaged in light gardening.

  But she gardened a grave.

  Cissy’s head swung around. She shaded her face with her hand and regarded Leah with cool green eyes. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

  “Sorry. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

  “No.” Cissy continued to look at her, waiting.

  “I don’t like the tower,” Leah said baldly.

  Cissy’s mouth moved a little and she glanced up at the tower. “It’s dangerous. I told you that. It should be torn down, but Carrie won’t hear of it.”

  “Perhaps I should talk to her about it, too.”

  Cissy’s face stiffened, and Leah realized she had made a mistake. Cissy would find it offensive to believe that Leah, the newcomer, could persuade Carrie Devereaux where she, Cissy, had failed.

  “Carrie’s very stubborn,” Cissy said shortly. A bright red flush stained her cheeks, indicating her anger.

  More to distract Cissy than anything else, Leah asked, “Is this Marthe’s grave?”

  “Yes,” she said briskly. She reached out and yanked a weed from the shell border. “The gardeners won’t touch it, so I have to do it.”

  “Why won’t they touch it?”

  Cissy snipped down a clump of grass near the headstone. “Oh, they’re so superstitious,” she said carelessly. “I suppose they think Marthe will jump out and say boo.” Her tone was contemptuous.

  Remembering Cissy’s stark fear at breakfast earlier, Leah was surprised. “So you really don’t believe Marthe walks?”

  Cissy’s shoulders drew in. When she looked up at Leah, her face was suddenly pinched and had paled. “The ghost . . .” She looked down at the grave. “I never think of Marthe as being here. I always picture her walking in the garden, by the willows.” She began to clip again, quickly. Then she paused and looked up at Leah again, her expression grim. “It isn’t superstitious to be frightened when the ghost walks in the gardens.”

  “She walked there because she missed Timothy,” Leah said quietly.

  “Before she died?” Cissy asked.

  “Yes. Of course.” Leah shook her head. “I can’t believe she’d do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Kill the man she loved,” Leah said huskily.

  “Oh, I can. From what they say of her.”

  “What do they say?”

  “She was like so many of the Devereaux.” Cissy rocked back on her heels and shaded her face with her hand. “You have to remember that it’s an old, old family. Perhaps too many cousins intermarried. I don’t know. But there’s a strain of wildness in the Devereaux.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s arrogance, pride gone bad. But they will have their way no matter what the cost. They say Marthe was lovely. She had a high-bridged nose, a delicate face, flowing black hair and deep violet eyes.” Cissy studied Leah. “Like you,” she said. “Like you and Mary Ellen. So she was beautiful. Usually, she’d smile and her words were sweet, but sometimes that dark strain would show. She’d pace on the veranda in the wind and the rain, her hair streaming behind her. They do say once she threatened to jump from the tower when she’d quarreled with Randolph.”

  “How awful.”

  Cissy shrugged and turned back to the grave and began to clip again. “It wa
s a long time ago.”

  Leah stared at the moss-covered stone. She could scarcely make out Marthe’s name. Yes, it was a long time ago, and it shouldn’t matter at all today. But it did. Marthe and her mother were dead and gone, but their lives and deaths still touched Leah.

  She knew that when Cissy spoke of the wildness in the Devereaux, she wasn’t talking of Marthe alone. She was talking about Mary Ellen, too.

  “John Edward thinks my mother was behind the appearances of the ghost that summer,” Leah said abruptly. “He thinks she did it so Jason would ask her to come home.”

  Cissy sat immobile, her face as still as the gravestone. Only the clippers moved. “Is that what John Edward told you?” she asked finally.

  “Yes.”

  There was a long silence. Then she shook her head. “I don’t think so. The ghost came and Aunt Carrie almost died. I know Mary Ellen was wild and crazy, but she wouldn’t have tried—”

  Leah interrupted hotly, “Of course she wouldn’t. Of course not. John Edward didn’t mean that at all. He meant that Mary Ellen wanted to come home. That’s all.” She stared down at Cissy, and anger flooded her. “What do you mean, Mary Ellen was wild and crazy? She was young and happy and in love, and she cared about her mother. That’s what she was like!”

  Leah turned and began to run, but not before she had one last glimpse of Cissy’s face. The woman’s mouth was twisted in disdain, and her cool green eyes were full of a dark and ugly knowledge.

  Leah ran as fast as she could.

  No matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t escape the frightful visions that swirled in her mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Leah drove the Vega into town on her way to see Mrs. LeClerc, she thought about her unpleasant encounters with Cissy and John Edward. Did Merrick know what his brother and sister thought? She felt a sense of estrangement. If he knew and hadn’t told her, what did that mean? And underlying the worry that throbbed in her mind was a clear and present sense of danger—danger for Kent Ellis, for her, and for her grandmother. But they already knew there was danger; they weren’t fools. They would be careful, and she would take special pains to protect her grandmother.