Tempter (11 page)

The beveled glass that decorates the front door was thick with grime, but I could still see the grandly curving staircase that leads from the foyer to the second floor—the very same staircase Narcisse Legendre died upon, long decades ago. My knocks echoed through the house, but no one answered.

I made my way towards the servant’s entrance at the back of the house. The garden that once provided the family with fresh vegetables now smells of things rotting on the vine. The kitchen door squealed as I opened it, its jamb warped just enough to keep it from shutting properly. I called out Donatien’s name, but there was no answer. As I entered the kitchen, I could not help but notice the thick layer of dust that covered the cabinets and counter tops. There was a butcher knife with a rusty blade lying in the sink, but nothing else in sight, not even a chipped tea cup.

I have visited Seraphine on a hundred different occasions, but this was the first time I ever felt like an intruder. Stripped of its familiar furnishings, it seemed as alien and forbidding to me as the surface of the moon. I moved down the narrow serving passage that connected the kitchen to the dining hall, doing my best not to choke on the dust. The room where once I dined on fine china with Placide and his family was now barren, but there was still enough light leaking in through the shutters for me to see the pentagram scrawled in chalk on the bare boards, its points anchored by black candles. I turned and fled back in the direction of the kitchen. Once there, I paused to catch my breath. It was only then that I became aware of the smell emanating from the pantry...and the steady drone of flies.

As I reached for the pantry door’s white enamel knob, the sound of the flies grew so loud it made my head ache. I am afraid my courage failed me at that point and I fled that horrible place as fast I as could. On the way home I found myself thinking about how Alcide Rigaud’s boy, Theo, had disappeared without a trace last week. I do not know why such thoughts should haunt me so.

My boy Puck is long since gone, and I have no one to share the house with now. It wasn’t until I arrived home that I realized I had left the papers I had meant to deliver sitting on the counter in the kitchen at Seraphine, a next to what I had assumed was a rusty knife. I shuttered the windows, both upstairs and down, and spent the rest of the night locked in my study, saying my rosary and drinking my cellar dry. I dared not sleep, and kept my pistol loaded and within reach.

Shortly after the grandfather clock in the hallway tolled midnight, I heard something scratching at the shutters. I was so frightened I thought my heart would stop beating. After a few seconds the scratching stopped, only to resume again at another, secured window. At one point I thought I heard footsteps on the roof and there was a tiny spill of displaced soot in the fireplace before me. Luckily, the chimney of my home is so narrow it can barely accommodate a sweeper’s broom, much less a grown man. The horrid scraping, scrambling, scratching and rattling went on until the very break of day, when it finally halted altogether.

Mustering my courage, I unlocked my front door and stepped out onto my front porch, gun in hand. The sight of the deep gouges in the wood of the shutters, as well as my front and back doors, was enough to make me swoon. It was then I decided what I must do.

I have yet to sleep, and do not plan to do so until I am safely away from Redeemer Parish. I admit that the thought of death is frightening to me. I do not doubt that he will try to visit me again tonight, but I shall be gone come the dusk, and by the next morning I hope to be even further away. When I make my final destination, I will send a letter to the authorities detailing what I saw. No doubt they will think me a coward or a senile fool. Perhaps the Good Lord, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, will be able to forgive the madness that drove my godson to such evil. And I pray that He will forgive me as well.

Chapter Fifteen

Jerry set aside the last volume in Lucien Napier’s journals and massaged his temples. The only thing left in the file box was a diary bound in watermarked silk the color of smoke, its pages tinged yellow with age and as fragile as moth wings. The entries were made in a distinctly feminine hand. Relying on the same system he had used with the lawyer’s journals, he let the diary fall open where it would.

***

March 7, 1839:

Papa has returned from visiting Mr. Legendre and is in high spirits. I am glad to see it. He has been worried so about finances of late.

***

March 9, 1839:

Papa has just made the most astonishing announcement over dinner. He says I am to be married to Mr. Legendre’s son. At first I was most upset, as Donatien (for that is his name) is considerably younger than myself. I was outraged that Papa would undertake something so important without consulting me, as if I was one of his prize brood mares. When I told him I refused, Papa became quite angry and started shouting that I should be lucky to make such a catch, especially at my age. He said he could not afford to keep a spinster daughter no more than he could a lame filly.

***

April 19, 1839:

Papa took me to Seraphine over the weekend to meet my future father-in-law, Mr. Placide. He impressed me as a true gentleman, and nothing at all like that dreadful father of his. Mr. Placide introduced me to his wife, Miz Janelle, a refined and charming lady. She reminds me so very much of my dear, departed Mama. I did my
best to make a good impression. Before we left, Mr. Legendre took me aside and told me in strictest confidence that I’m the kind of influence that he and his wife want in their son’s life. Miz Janelle gave me a small cameo portrait of Donatien. I cannot believe this is the face of my husband to be! If this likeness is only half-true, then my betrothed is handsome beyond my wildest dreams. He has dark hair, eyes as blue as a robin’s egg, and a passionate, expressive mouth. Why, he’s the very image of Lord Byron!

***

November 6, 1839:

Today my groom arrives in New Orleans. I can barely keep from shaking as I pen these words. At last, I am to meet my Donatien face to face! Mr. Placide sent his boy, Auguste, to greet the ship. Papa and I are to attend a private dinner in Donatien’s honor this evening. I can hardly wait! I keep Donatien’s picture with me at all times, and hardly an hour goes by that I do not look at it.

(Later) Papa told me the party has been postponed. It seems that there was some sort of mix-up. Auguste couldn’t find Donatien. When I pressed Papa for details he conveniently remembered he’d forgotten to make sure the stable boy saw to Sulky’s saddle rash. I hope Donatien isn’t sick. I’m sure the Good Lord is looking after him. I guess I’ll have to put my new dress back up in the cedar closet. I was so looking forward to wearing it tonight! But I mustn’t become gloomy. Donatien will be home soon.

***

November 18, 1839:

Papa tells me Donatien arrived at Seraphine last night in the company of his godfather, a Mr. Lucien Napier. We are to pay a visit tomorrow evening. At last! I’ll finally be able to see my beloved in the flesh!

For although I have yet to meet him, or hear his voice, I have fallen in love with this darkly handsome young man. Strange, I never thought I would ever write those words, but I am amazed at how easily they flow from my quill!

***

November 19, 1839:

First I will tell the good news: Donatien is every bit as handsome as the portrait makes him out to be. And despite his tender years, he is, indeed, a man. Now for the bad news: Donatien is not pleased that his father brought him back from Paris in order to marry. He made it quite clear that he does not find me to his liking by saying so at the top of his voice, so that none in the room could ignore what he said. The reason it took him so long to return to Seraphine was that he was hiding in New Orleans’ low quarters. Papa is now in mortal fear that the marriage will be called off. Although Donatien’s unkind words and manner wound me greatly, I understand his sense of betrayal. I, too, was angry with my father for tampering with my life. And if Donatien was a pot-bellied old storekeeper instead of a young, handsome aristocrat, I doubt I would be surrendering to my fate so easily. I know I am not beautiful, but perhaps, once he gets to know me, Donatien will be able to see beyond the physical and come to treasure my heart.

***

November 23, 1839:

Mr. Placide has just left. He told me, in strictest confidence, the reason he wished me to marry his son was out of fear for Donatien’s moral character. It seems my beloved fell in with a very wild crowd while away in Europe. These ne’er do wells introduced him to the pleasures of the gaming tables and wine shops of Paris, leading him to neglect his schoolwork in favor of the casinos. It was decided the best thing for Donatien would be marriage and a stable home life. Taking his headstrong nature into account, Mr. Placide surmised a mature, level-headed woman might cure his excesses far better than one his own age. He admits that his son is caprious, but begged me to him son a second chance. I told him that I would forgive Donatien any trespass, as I am hopelessly in love with him. This seemed to please Mr. Placide, who is truly a kind and gentle man. I am certain that with his example to guide him, Donatien will soon regain his head.

***

September 20, 1840:

If I do not confide this horrible secret, if only to blind paper, then I will most surely go mad. My life with Donatien is far from the romantic idyll I so foolishly dreamed of. When I look back at my earlier entries, I cringe at their childishness. Oh, the folly of mistaking a handsome face for a good heart!

Our marriage has been a cruel joke! On our wedding night Donatien informed me he had no intention of sullying the Legendre line by siring a child with me. At first I was afraid I would be left an unravished bride. Ah! If only that was true! Donatien has visited my bed nearly every night since our wedding day, yet I am still as God made me. My shame and disgust is so great I cannot bring myself to describe any more, suffice to say that he treats me like a catamite instead of a wife.

I have stopped resisting him, since all that does is anger him. Besides, he will do as he will, no matter how I protest. When he comes to me stinking of liquor, that is when I fear him most, for he is quick to use his fists when he is drunk.

Yet, as awful as Donatien is to me, Papa Placide and Mama Janelle have shown nothing but kindness to me. I love then dearly, yet they can offer me little in the way of help. Indeed, they seem to fear their son as much as I do.

Donatien and I currently live in a small house in town, which Papa Placide gave to us as a honeymooner’s cottage, so that we might grow together as a couple and start a family. We never visit anyone, nor do we entertain. My only diversion is the weekly trip to Seraphine to have Sunday dinner with Donatien’s parents.

As for my husband, when he is not forcing his attentions on me, he ignores me altogether. He spends most of his time in New Orleans, carousing amongst the sporting houses and gambling dens. My poor Papa is fearful that if I do not produce an heir relatively soon, the Legendres will demand an annulment. I resent his acting as if this must be laid completely at my feet, but there is no way I can tell him of the outrages my husband commits against me. If my father knew the truth, he would challenge Donatien to a duel, or simply shoot him on the spot. And where would we be then?

My greatest shame, by far, is that despite all he has done to me, I still love Donatien. Whenever he walks into the room I feel my breath catch and my heart race. As miserable as my life is with him, I cannot imagine living without him. God save my soul.

***

May 3, 1843:

For the first time Donatien has lain with me as befits man and wife. Perhaps there is hope for us, after all!

***

June 12, 1843:

I have the most wonderful news! I am with child! I am so happy; yet I am also sad. Mama Janelle contracted scarlet fever while visiting relatives in New Orleans last week. I wish I could go to Seraphine and help Papa Placide with her, but Dr. Drummond has forbidden it, for fear of endangering our unborn child. Perhaps now that we have made a new life between us, Donatien’s heart will warm to me. My one regret is that my own dear Papa is no longer with us to share in our joy.

***

July 1, 1843:

Sorrowful news. Mama Janelle passed away today. Donatien grew very quiet and walked out of the house. I have not seen him since. I assume he has gone out to Seraphine to be with his father. I wish someone would tell me what is going on. I feel so helpless.

***

July 5, 1843:

Everything is all topsy-turvy. Papa Placide has sent for me. All my wardrobe and personal things are being moved from our little house to Seraphine. Now that Mama Janelle is gone, Papa Placide is at loose ends. I remember how it was with my own father when my mother died: it was as if a part of him had joined her in the grave. The only time Papa Placide cheers up is when he contemplates his grandchild. Donatien, however, spends most of his day drunk. Although he tried not to show it, my husband loved his mother most dearly. I keep forgetting how young Donatien actually is. This is the first time anyone he has cared about has died on him. Poor Donatien!

***

August 2, 1843:

As if there was not enough grief and sorrow in this house! Papa Placide has fallen ill. I sent one of the houseboys to New Orleans to fetch Donatien. Luckily, Mr. Lucien, Papa Placide’s oldest friend and Donatien’s godfather, has placed himself at my service during this trying time.

***

August 9, 1843:

Donatien is home, although I wonder if his presence does not aggravate his father’s condition. My husband has sequestered himself in the study that once belonged to his notorious grandfather and rarely sets foot outside its doors. Dr. Drummond has banished me from Papa Placide’s bedside, so I have no recourse but to pump poor old Auguste for information. I am afraid things are not good for my
beau-pere
.

***

August 11, 1843:

Mr. Lucien came back today at Papa Placide’s request and spent a great deal of time in the sick room. When I questioned him as to the nature of his visit, he attempted to change the subject. Why do men feel it necessary to treat women as if they were made of porcelain? Here I am, carrying the very mystery of life in my belly, yet they hesitate to mention death in my presence, as if I would shatter like a china doll dropped upon the floor. I’m sure Mr. Lucien means well, but he forgets that I am far from a child.

***

August 13, 1843:

Papa Placide passed away today. Father Jean-Luc was on hand to administer last rites. Dr. Drummond was forced to send for Mr. Lucien to witness the death certificate, as Donatien refused to sign it. Poor Papa Placide, he wished so much to see his first grandchild!

***

Within a space of a few entries Eugenie’s writing deteriorated rapidly. It was obvious that not only did she have trouble holding the pen, but her eyesight and depth perception were seriously impaired. Her handwriting resembled the shaky, rambling scrawl of a septuagenarian.

***

March 22, 1844:

Today is the first day since my accident that I have felt well enough to put pen to paper. As it is, I am terribly weak and must rest every few minutes. The pain is very much with me, but as long as I have my laudanum bottle close at hand I need not suffer unduly.

There is still so much of the past three months that is blurry and uncertain in my mind. I know I fell down the stairs and that I lost the baby. I also know I can never have children again. But there are other things I cannot make sense of. At one point, I could have sworn I saw Donatien’s grandfather, Narcisse Legendre, standing at the foot of my bed. But he’s been dead thirty years. I also thought there was a nigger man sitting on my bed. He was the strangest-looking darkie, with his face painted white to look like a skull, and he told me how Narcisse had worked his people to death to build Seraphine, so the slaves cursed the Legendre family. ‘What a hundred built for Legendre, one Legendre shall tear down.’

Funny what you remember of dreams.

***

April 27, 1844:

It has been some time since I last saw Donatien. Mr. Lucien, bless his heart, comes to see me most every day. What I can’t figure out is where Auguste has gone off to? The last thing I clearly remember is him running to help me after I fell. But I have not seen him since. Every time I ask the little house girl or the footboy, they pretend they don’t know what I’m talking about. Even Mr. Lucien avoids the question. I wish I could remember things better. I know I had words with Donatien just before the accident, but I cannot remember what we were arguing about. Perhaps Auguste knows. After all, there is nothing that goes on in Seraphine that escapes his notice. But no one will tell me where he is. I am getting confused again. I think I need more laudanum.

***

December 24, 1844:

How kind of Mr. Lucien to think of me this time of the year! He has made me the present of a most precious dog. He says it is to keep me company when he is unable to visit. I will call him Mignon, for he is a darling little thing.

June 13, 1845:

The beast! The horrid beast! Donatien lost a great deal of money at the gaming tables the other night and was in a foul temper. He came into my room, unannounced, swearing and stinking of brandy. Mignon was napping beside the hearth when he entered. Hearing Donatien’s voice raised in anger, he instantly leapt to his feet and began to bark. Mignon has always disliked Donatien, who began raving about how dare my dog bark at the master of the house! Before I could say or do anything to stop him, he struck my poor Mignon with his walking stick, killing him instantly!

I went mad with rage and grief and began calling Donatien all kinds of names! The next thing I knew he was looming over me, his face as dark as a thunderhead. The last time I saw such rage in his eyes was just before I “fell” down the stairs.