Dead With The Wind

CHAPTER 6

Dickce glanced around the twelve-foot-long Louis XV walnut dining table and did a quick count. Nine people. Isn’t that supposed to be unlucky, an odd number at the table? she wondered. No, it was thirteen at dinner, like in the Agatha Christie book, that was unlucky. She had a sip of her sweet iced tea and glanced at Benjy, seated to her left. He seemed a bit overwhelmed by the assembled company, and she didn’t blame him. With the exception of Mireille and Jacqueline, no one had made much of an effort to speak to him or make him feel welcome. The atmosphere in the room felt oppressive, and Dickce had little urge to talk herself.

From across the table, Lance kept gazing vacantly at Benjy and not paying much attention to Sondra on his right. Sondra, directly across from Dickce, appeared not to notice the older woman’s presence. Instead, Sondra, too, gazed at Benjy, but not vacantly. Predatorily, Dickce decided, and then wondered if that was an actual word. Poor Benjy.

At the head of the table, as befit her position as mistress of Willowbank, Mireille looked splendid in lilac silk. Dickce had always admired the pearl necklace and earrings Mireille wore. They had belonged to Mireille’s great-great-grandmother and were worth a fortune. Dickce didn’t think it was her imagination that Horace Mims, seated on Mireille’s right, kept gazing hungrily at the jewels. They would someday belong to Jacqueline, his wife, but Dickce had the oddest feeling Horace would like to have them in his fat, clammy hands right now.

To Mireille’s left sat Richmond Thurston, an old friend of Terence Delevan’s and a prominent attorney in St. Ignatiusville. He had been best man at Terence and Jacqueline’s wedding, and he was also Sondra’s godfather. Dickce thought him a fine figure of a man—tall, stately, with an imposing presence. His dark hair sprinkled liberally with gray, he had a beak of a nose that gave his face character. Unlike poor Horace, Dickce thought, who looked more like the Michelin Man or the Pillsbury Doughboy. What Jacqueline saw in him—other than his money—Dickce hadn’t a clue. Where Richmond Thurston was urbane and sophisticated, Horace Mims was provincial and crass. Dickce and An’gel had often wondered why Jacqueline hadn’t married Thurston. He wasn’t as rich as Horace, but he was far more attractive.

No accounting for taste, Dickce thought. She tuned back into the conversation—more like a monologue, she realized, as Horace appeared to be winding down a tedious story about some deal he had made and how he’d made mincemeat out of the other man.

“Guy was ready to lick my boots and thank me for the privilege by the time I got through with him,” Horace said with a nasty grin.

“You’re a hard man, Horace.” Thurston smiled. “Can’t tell you how happy I am we’re not in the same business.”

“Horace is such a hard worker,” Jacqueline said. “He’s always working on some new deal or other.”

Dickce thought she detected a note of complaint in Jacqueline’s voice. Perhaps Horace spent more time on his business than he did on his marriage. Dickce wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

“That sure is the truth, darling.” Horace beamed across the table at his wife. “Takes every bit of money I earn selling cars to make sure you got everything you need. When you got a beautiful wife, you want to make sure and show her off to everybody.”

Jacqueline blushed and reached with a not quite steady hand for her wineglass. “Thank you, Horace. You’ve very sweet to say such things. But we should be talking about Sondra and what a beautiful bride she will be.”

“About time,” Sondra muttered.

Dickce glanced at the girl sharply, then at Jacqueline. She didn’t think Jacqueline had heard her daughter’s rude remark.

Lance continued to appear oblivious to the scene around him as he gazed across the table at Benjy. Benjy seemed fascinated with his food and was not paying attention to Lance. Dickce gave his arm a surreptitious pat, and he flashed her a grateful smile.

“Yes, Sondra will be the most beautiful bride St. Ignatiusville has ever seen—at least since her mother walked down the aisle with Terence Delevan twenty-three years ago.” Thurston bent forward slightly to look down the table at Sondra.

“The wedding will be lovely,” Mireille said. “I’m so pleased that Sondra has agreed to wear her great-great-grandmother’s dress and pearls for the ceremony. It has been a tradition for several generations of Champlain women, and it means so much to me that my lovely granddaughter will be a part of it on her wedding day.”

Dickce leaned forward slightly to see An’gel’s expression. Her sister was as surprised as she was over Sondra’s capitulation. Dickce wondered how on earth Mireille had prevailed in this, because Sondra had seemed determined not to wear the antique gown. She was surprised that An’gel didn’t ask right then and there.

Estelle bustled in at the end of Mireille’s remarks, with Jackson the butler trailing behind, both carrying trays. They started removing the first course, a delicious French onion soup, and worked swiftly and competently.

“As long as you’re happy, Grand-mère, that’s all that matters,” Sondra said, her expression mulish.

“There’s bad weather coming,” Estelle announced suddenly. “It’s going to be storming the night before the wedding, and that’s a bad omen.” She removed An’gel’s soup service and set it on the tray. “It’s bad luck for brides in St. Ignatiusville, and I am going to be praying that nothing terrible happens.”

“Estelle, I’d rather you didn’t talk about such superstitious nonsense.” Mireille sounded outraged, and Dickce was a bit surprised. She had never heard her cousin speak in that tone to the housekeeper.

“Ain’t superstition,” Estelle said as she set the tray on the table and glared at her employer. “You know as well as I do what happened to Melusine Devereux on the night before her wedding. Sondra never should have picked the same date as Melusine did. I told y’all it was courting disaster.” She shook her head. “And now there’s a storm coming, just like when Melusine was fixing to get married.”

“Estelle, that’s enough.” Mireille stood, her face contorted with anger. “If you utter one more word about that old wives’ tale, I swear I will throw you out of this house myself.”

Dickce didn’t like the thick air of tension that suddenly seemed to fill the room. She thought Estelle was not only rude, but stupid to talk like this in front of her employer’s family and guests. If Estelle had worked for her and An’gel, she would have been out the door years ago. Dickce and An’gel never could understand why Mireille had put up with the woman for so long.

Estelle seemed taken aback by Mireille’s threat. She picked up the tray with trembling hands and scurried out of the dining room, leaving Jackson to clear the rest of the table. The elderly butler shook his head and continued his work.

Mireille dropped abruptly into her chair. “You must all forgive me, and Estelle, too. I don’t know what brought that on. Please, pay no attention to that absurd idea of hers.”

Thurston reached over and clasped one of his hostess’s hands in his. “It’s a silly old story, and there’s probably no truth to it. Don’t let it upset you, my dear.” He laughed. “Everybody in St. Ignatiusville has probably heard that story, but no one believes it really happened.”

“Course not.” Horace Mims shook his head. “I been telling you for the past three years, Mama Mireille, you ought to get rid of that old witch. She’s a misery, and that’s the plain truth. I’ll tell her to get out of the house if you want me to.”

Mireille smiled faintly as she pulled her hand free from Thurston’s grasp. “Thank you both, but I will deal with Estelle in my own way. Now, let’s forget about all that nonsense. The next course will be here shortly.”

Dickce had never heard the story of Melusine Devereux, at least not that she could recall, and now she burned with curiosity to know what had happened. Something tragic, obviously.

“Grand-mère, you have got to promise me you’ll get rid of that woman.” Sondra pushed back her chair and dropped her linen napkin on the table. “I hate her, she’s always saying mean things to me when no one else is around, and I don’t want her anywhere near me. If you want me to wear that old moldy dead woman’s dress, then you’d better get Estelle out of this house.” She stalked out of the room, and no one made a move to go after her.

The remaining eight at table sat in silence for a long moment until Jackson coughed discreetly. “Miss Mireille, I’ll be back with the main course momentarily. I’ll ask Miz Winwood to stay in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Jackson,” Mireille said. “Please tell her I will talk with her later.”

The butler nodded and walked out with a heavily laden tray. Mireille offered her guests a shaky smile. “Everyone’s nerves are a bit on edge, I’m afraid. There is still so much to do with the wedding so close now.”

“Of course, my dear,” Thurston said. “We all know what Estelle’s like, think nothing of it. Now, tell me, who is going to sing at the wedding? At one point, I think you told me you were hoping that girl Sondra went to high school with would be able to do it.”

Conversation turned to this and other details of the wedding, and Dickce was thankful they made it through to the dessert course without any further emotional outbursts. Sondra had not returned, and Dickce was a bit puzzled that no one appeared to be concerned about her absence. Perhaps it happened so frequently it wasn’t remarkable.

Lance ate bits of his food and smiled vaguely at Benjy, who remained silent along with Dickce. An’gel joined in the conversation enough for both sisters, and Dickce was content to leave her to it.

She kept hoping someone would bring up the subject of Melusine Devereux before they finished dessert. Her curiosity was getting the better of her, however, and she finally decided she might as well do it herself. An’gel would probably have a fit with her later, but so what.

There was a sudden lull in the flow of conversation while the diners addressed themselves to the delicious white chocolate mousse Jackson served them.

Dickce leaned forward to gaze down the table in her cousin’s direction. “Mireille, I know this is truly bad of me, but won’t you tell us about this tragic bride? At least I’m assuming it’s tragic, the way Estelle was talking.”

Mireille set down her dessert spoon and stared at Dickce.

“Would you like me to tell the story?” Thurston asked when Mireille did not respond right away.

Their hostess nodded, her expression one of resignation. “If we must hear it, I’d rather you told it.”

Thurston gave a genial smile in Dickce’s direction. “Miss Ducote, it’s an old story that has been handed down in St. Ignatiusville for well over a century. Nobody knows if it’s true, though I suppose we could find out if we really wanted to.” He laughed. “But it’s probably just an old wives’ tale, as I believe someone already said.

“If it happened,” Thurston continued, “it was most likely in the decade or two after the War.”

Dickce, along with the rest of the company, knew that the War meant the Civil War.

“Melusine Devereux was the beautiful daughter and only child of an old plantation family. Their place was abandoned around 1900 or so, and another planter bought the land and had the house torn down. Some say Melusine’s ghost still lingers there in the woods.”

Dickce shivered, although Thurston laughed at his own words.

“Melusine was betrothed to a handsome young man from New Orleans, and everyone was happy. Until the night before the wedding, that is.”

Thurston paused and glanced around the table, perhaps to be sure that everyone was listening. Even Lance, Dickce noticed, had fixed his gaze on the attorney, away from Benjy.

“All day a storm had been brewing, so the story goes, and everyone was jittery. That evening, not long before the storm broke, Melusine went up to her bedroom on the third floor. The Devereux place was spacious and imposing, so everyone says, and Melusine had a large room with a balcony and French doors that overlooked the front of the house.”

Dickce closed her eyes for a moment, and she conjured a mental picture of the scene as Thurston continued the story.

“Melusine decided to try on her wedding dress, evidently claiming that it still needed a few adjustments. The servant who was the best seamstress was with her in her room, along with Melusine’s mama. While they worked, the wind began to howl as the storm moved closer. The French doors to the balcony blew open, and a gust of wind sucked up Melusine’s veil. She ran toward the balcony to try to save the veil, and another mighty gust sucked her off the balcony and threw her to the ground.”

Dickce’s eyes popped open. She no longer wanted to envision the scene of such a tragic event.

“Mrs. Devereux roused the household, and Mr. Devereux and one of the servants rushed out into the storm, praying that Melusine was somehow unhurt.” Thurston’s voice dropped to a husky note. “But it was not to be. Melusine, dressed in her bridal clothes, lay broken and dead on the flagstones below.”