Lydia pushed her fingers against her forehead. “Blood. Fire. Rage. I didn’t want to go any further. The person who wrote this was deeply distressed.”
“Everyone I’ve met but Sarah says the same—that she was mad.”
A humorless smile twisted Lydia’s lips. “That’s not the worst of it. I’ve tried to warn you. You need to be careful. Protect yourself with charms and pray the Rosary every day without fail.”
A shiver ran through Eliza. “Are you talking about ghosts?”
“It could be more. Perhaps it’s only the spirits of the deceased, but it might be something worse.” Lydia reached out and grasped Eliza’s wrist tightly, pressing in with her fingertips, and then let go. The impressions left by her fingers remained on Eliza’s wrist, glowing whiter than the skin around them. “When something traumatic happens, it leaves a mark. That energy—that blackness and anger—remains in a place the same way a bruise lingers long after an injury. Whatever happened in that house, the evil created by it may still be there, Liza.”
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.”
