Chapter Twenty-Seven

twenty-seven

"I'M SORRY ABOUT YOUR brOTHER, Emmaline," Magdalene said when Jemma entered the cabin. Her friend stood in the corner, cradling an earthenware mug between her hands.

Inès sat at the table, her face blank.

"She still ain't cried," Dennis whispered.

"Mama." Jemma knelt on the floor next to her mother, putting her head in Inès's lap. "I'm sorry. Please don't blame yourself. But I can't go with you. The curse…something's still wrong."

Inès didn't react in any way at first, but after several moments, she placed a hand on Jemma's head, reaching through the thick hair to her scalp. She caressed her daughter's skin for a brief moment before gently moving Jemma aside. Inès stood up and pulled Jemma to her feet, embracing her tightly. Jemma cried and shook, but her mother remained still in their hold. At last, Inès stepped back, touching Jemma's face one more time before signaling to Dennis.

He grabbed two satchels from the floor.

"You don't have any idea where you're going?" Jemma asked, the scene blurred before her. She wiped her face, but the tears wouldn't stop.

"She wants to go west."

Dennis and Magdalene shared a tense farewell before he hugged Jemma and moved to the door. Inès pulled an envelope out of her pocket, handing it to Jemma and gesturing to Dennis.

"She knew you were going to stay," he said.

Inès gave her daughter a kiss on the lips and then she and Dennis were gone.

Jemma didn't know how long she sat at the table, staring at her mother's neat cursive on the front of the envelope before ripping it open.

"Emmaline, I'm going to step outside for a spell," Magdalene said, sensing Jemma's desire for privacy. Candlelight glinted off the gun tucked in her belt before she disappeared out the door.

Her mother's slanted, cramped handwriting filled five full pages of onionskin paper.

Dear Emmaline, my only daughter, my last living child,

I am sorry for everything I did that has put you in danger. Losing Laurence showed me how much my actions have cost you and me.

Maybe this will help you understand me a little more, even if you can't forgive right now.

Your father's name was Ismael Richards. You and Laurence had different fathers, and his was married, which was one reason we couldn't be together. Also, he was dark-skinned, and as you know, our family would never have accepted him. My being in trouble was a big scandal. My parents were so embarrassed that they tried to keep me home, not wanting anyone to see my condition. I snuck away when I could to see him, but once his wife found out, he cut things off between us. When Laurence was born, the only reason I was allowed to keep him was because he was born with blue eyes. His skin only darkened a little, but those were days when I held my breath, afraid that he'd turn dark overnight and I'd be forced to give him up.

Then I met Ismael. I knew the family wouldn't accept him, either, because of his color, but I loved him and he loved me. He wanted to marry me even though I already had a child. I wouldn't ever let him come to the house because the family would have been awful to him. But he was so persistent. When I got pregnant with you, he said he was going to marry me no matter what my parents said.

He told me he was coming to talk to my father, your grandfather, Raymond. I was too afraid to tell my parents beforehand. All that morning, I worried myself sick, and I think that's why you came early.

Magdalene came to midwife. I didn't know that while you were being born my father was murdering your father downstairs. Maman told me they'd sent Ismael away, that he wasn't ever coming back for me.

Then Maman was looking at you, not even two minutes old, still connected to me, and saying that you were too dark, that you took after your father, that you were a curse. A curse, she said!

She told Magdalene to take you away before they killed you. And when I looked into Magdalene's eyes, I knew she wanted to take you with her, to raise you as her own, to replace the baby she'd lost. But I made her promise to send you far away from this place so that I'd know you were safe.

I thought I was losing my mind. I cursed our family, not thinking about the consequences. I was so angry that I never thought about what could happen to Laurence or me. And so I thought you were safe, until you showed up on our doorstep, looking so much like your father that I wanted to grab you and hug you to me, but I couldn't let you know who I was.

Of course, you figured some of it out, but I'll have to tell you the rest.

From the time I was a little girl, I could see the spirits that cling to this house. They are many. Maman once told me I could see them because I was born during a big storm, in the fall of 1915.

Some of the ghosts around the house died from illnesses people had back then, the type of sickness that won't kill us today. Others died bad. Those are the ones that used to scare me. I tried to avoid them, but once they knew I saw them and heard them, they wouldn't leave me alone.

And it was the spirits of the slaves that were the most insistent.

Finally, one day I was too tired of fighting, and I listened. They were trapped in the house and they wanted to be free. They came to me for help, but I didn't know what to do. After a while, I got sick of hearing free, free, free. That's all they could say. I tried to stop listening and I pretended I couldn't see them anymore. They went quiet after that.

But when you were born, as I lay there half-crazed with pain and grief, thinking of what I could possibly do to take revenge on our family, one of those spirits visited me. I opened myself to it, although I didn't know what it wanted. It was only afterward I realized that in exchange for me being able to trap our family here, the spirit had used me as a portal to act on a curse it had wanted to settle on us for decades.

The power to kill.

Our curses intertwined and went up together, and then settled over all of us in the house. That's why one of us dies every seven years.

When you came, I could see the ghosts again. I could hear them whispering. And I knew that you being here had something to do with them and maybe with me. I tried not to think about it because I was afraid of what it might mean. I hoped that things would just go back to how they had been. Because I didn't want to see them.

When you found the room beside my little room, I'd made myself forget it even existed. I'd only seen the window once, when I first began sleeping in that space, back when the family told everyone I was dead and began calling me Agnes. When they made Laurence believe Simone was his mother instead of me. I shut the spirits out again, but I felt their presence in that room. That burning smell never leaves. Every night I slept in that bed, I went to sleep with the scent of smoke in my nostrils, but I made myself ignore it. I made myself not see and hear so many things.

Something bad happened there, and I think whatever it is, it's why that spirit wants us to die.

Maybe I should have written this letter a long time ago. If so, it's another mistake I made. And while I've made many mistakes in my life, having Laurence and you were not mistakes. Your skin, your hair, your nose are not mistakes. You were created in love, Emmaline. You will always be my beautiful child.

Please forgive me for what I did and what I cannot undo. Forgive me for my cowardice and anger, for cursing without considering the consequences. Maybe if I leave, if I'm gone from that house, you'll be able to soothe the spirits. You'll be able to help them where I failed. For your sake, if not for anyone else's.

Your mother,

Inès

—

WHEN MAGDALENE ENTERED THE CABIN hours later, a rabbit carcass dangling from one hand, she found Jemma rereading her mother's letter for the seventh time, tears streaming down her face. The older woman dropped the rabbit on the floor and hugged Jemma where she sat, the younger woman's face pressed against Magdalene's belly. Neither of them spoke until Jemma's sobs eased.

"I should have gone with them. Now I don't know where they are. I might not even be able to break the curse. Why did I stay here? Why didn't she wait?"

Jemma felt Magdalene's warm hand on her shoulder as the woman knelt beside her chair and grasped the hand in her lap. "Child, think about this. Your mama lost a son yesterday. I know you lost a brother, but trust me—there's no pain worse in this world than losing a child. I know how she feels. Even if the family accepted her back, could she live in that house where he spent his whole life? Could she stand to walk past his room, see his pictures around the place? That boy's smell is still lingering in his bed, in places he sat. No, she couldn't bear it. On top of everything else she went through, yes, even the things she caused, that had to be too much. And I don't know anything about curses or breaking curses or even how Inès's curse worked. I don't even know if you can break it. All I know is, the guilt she carries is too much for her to bear. Her family hates her just as much as she hates them. She was stuck in that house for almost twenty-eight years with the people who murdered your father and cut out her tongue, who told everyone that she was dead. The same people who sent you away because you were too dark for them. The people who made her wait on them hand and foot. But she wanted you to go with her. You hear me? She wanted you."

Jemma knew the woman was talking sense, and yet she couldn't push aside the feeling that she was alone again.

—

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, JEMMA AND Magdalene watched as the Duchons put Laurence to rest in the family vault. Father Louis led the somber procession. Neither of them recognized the six pallbearers, however, or the other mourners. Judging by the number of people who attended, it seemed that in the short time the Duchons had been free to mingle with their neighbors and old friends and acquaintances, the family—and probably Laurence most of all—had made quite the impression.

The two women watched from the trees. Even from a distance, Fosette was unmistakable, her bent form shaking throughout, a heavy veil draped all the way to her chest. Jemma scanned the crowd, sure that Inès had to be there. What better time to come back around, when a hat and veil could disguise her? And yet Jemma didn't spot her mother anywhere. She would have recognized the way the woman walked, and seeing no one with that particular gait, she knew Inès was gone for good.

Magdalene and Jemma walked over after midnight, glad for the dark of the new moon. They laid a bouquet of flowers at the door of the vault, Jemma pressing her hands against it and whispering a short prayer and an apology.

The next morning, she realized it was March fourth. In a little over a week, she'd turn twenty-eight. And because the curse on the Duchons wasn't broken, the one the spirit had intertwined with Inès's own, someone in the family would die.

She pulled her mother's letter out of the pocket of her dress, the same dress she'd been wearing for days.

I felt their presence in that room. That burning smell never leaves. Every night I slept in that bed, I went to sleep with the scent of smoke in my nostrils.

Something bad happened there, and I think whatever it is, it's why that spirit wants us to die.

If Jemma was going to help the spirits and save someone in the family from dying—possibly herself—she'd have to go back to the house. She'd have to revisit that dark and haunted space.

She'd have to face the ghosts again.

—

THE MISSING LEDGER PAGE CONSUMED much of Jemma's thoughts. She welcomed the distraction, because thinking about her mother and her brother only kept the wounds open. Laurence must have found something if he wanted to discuss the ledger with her the day before he died. The translation work he had done could still be in the house. She wanted it (perhaps only to have something of his), which was another reason she'd have to risk going back there.

If the family caught her, they might kill her. Maybe not Fosette, who was probably holding on to her remaining sanity by a shred, but Simone could very well try to finish what she'd started the day Laurence died.

But now that the family was free to come and go as they pleased, they'd be out for Mass on Sunday, two days from now. She didn't know how they might get there, since they didn't have a car anymore. But she knew they'd go.

Early on Sunday morning, Jemma took a wide path around to the front of the property and across the road, down about fifty yards. From her place in a thick wooded grove, she watched as a town car arrived outside the gates and the remaining Duchons—Fosette, Simone, Honorine and Russell—filed inside. As the car moved past her, Jemma sank back behind a tree, although she knew she was already well hidden.

She moved swiftly through the gates and to the back of the house, to the kitchen door, which was always unlocked. Once inside, she listened closely for any sounds, although she couldn't imagine who would be in the house if the four family members were now gone. She passed by her mother's small sleeping room, exactly how it had been the last time she'd seen it, the little pillow at one end and the patchwork quilt spread across neat and flat. Jemma ran her hand over the textured surface before hurrying upstairs.

Entering Laurence's bedroom brought about a sharp ache. His musky cologne hung in the air as if he'd just walked out. She fully expected to turn around and see him leaning casually against the doorjamb, a small smirk on his face.

No, Jemma. He's gone.

She rummaged through drawers and his armoire, finding nothing out of the ordinary, including the translation notes he'd taken. Jemma swiped one of his handkerchiefs, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply before stuffing it into her front pocket.

Entering the bedroom where she'd slept for several months, she found it completely devoid of any hint of her. Of course Simone had made sure of that, tossing all of Jemma's belongings outside. Jemma poked around, sure that her aunt had missed something. But it appeared she hadn't. The chifforobe was empty; the desk drawers were clean. Even the bed was stripped.

She left the room and looked down the hallway, at the doors leading to other bedrooms. Maybe someone had found the notes and kept them somewhere. Jemma entered Simone's room and headed straight for the white wooden desk in the corner. She rummaged through its drawers, finding pictures of a little girl who could have been Fosette or perhaps Lucie. There were also pictures of a younger Simone and a man who must have been her late husband. There was a stack of letters tied with a pink ribbon that Jemma didn't have time to look through.

Jemma riffled through Simone's armoire and nightstand and looked under the bed. Nothing.

She went through Russell's and Honorine's rooms next, checking her watch. Mass would be about half over and she hadn't found what she came for. But there was plenty of time, considering that they had to drive from Orleans Parish. Doubting she'd find anything in Fosette's room but determined not to leave until she either found the notes or was certain that they were gone, Jemma entered her cousin's bedroom, done in sickening sweet tones of pale pink and cream, French baroque to the extreme.

Just as she had in the other rooms, she started with the desk before moving to the armoire. It was packed full with new dresses, the smell of unworn fabrics mixing with her cousin's favorite floral perfume. She rummaged through the nightstand. Nothing. A locked trunk sat at the foot of the bed.

"Dammit," Jemma breathed.

On her way out the door, intending to visit the library next, she looked back. She'd found something interesting in her grandmother's dresser drawers months ago. Surely Fosette had something worth hiding if she'd locked the trunk. Jemma swiped a hairpin off the nightstand and stuck one end into the lock, jiggling it back and forth until it clicked.

As soon as Jemma opened the lid, an old, musty scent with a hint of something dark under it wafted out. Right on top was a white crocheted blanket. It wasn't folded neatly, but seemed to have been hastily folded and laid flat. Jemma lifted it carefully, wanting to leave it exactly as it had been when she replaced it, but what she saw beneath the blanket caused her to fall back, dropping the blanket in an untidy heap.

At first, she thought it was a doll—although she couldn't imagine who would have paid for such a hideous toy.

As it dawned on Jemma that she was actually looking at a mummified infant, she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from fainting. She couldn't pass out here, for the family to find her.

The child's papery eyelids weren't fully closed. Jemma had a vision of the narrow slits of blackness suddenly opening to reveal bottomless holes.

She remembered all the times she'd heard Fosette humming a lullaby behind closed doors. How puzzled she'd been—but she'd never imagined this. This had to be Fosette's baby, Fosette and Laurence's. A child who had maybe lived a few hours, but more likely was stillborn. A baby in a dress with an ornate lacy collar and cuffs, the hem tucked in under tiny feet. It had probably been white at one time, but the years and the environment had tarnished it, its sallowness hinting at its age. Her cousin had kept this body here all this time instead of burying it and putting it to rest.

No wonder this house was so haunted.

Simone's words from months ago rose in Jemma's mind: She was fixed but good, you know.

The family must have made sure Fosette would have no more children.

Jemma fumbled to put the blanket right. She averted her gaze as she placed it back on top of the mummified child, then slammed the lid shut and lurched out of the room. Before heading downstairs, she worked to steady herself. The last thing she needed was to tumble down the steps and break her neck.

How she managed to make it to the library with the presence of mind to look for notes escaped her. She steadied herself with one hand on a shelf.

Thunk.

The gray ledger.

Jemma snatched it up and fled.