Chapter Seven

Distant gales rode the crest of misfortune, raising the hairs on Lewis Brinsley's forearms. His razor-sharp axe had been at the stack of trunks outside his secluded cabin for the better part of the morning. Fall had come and gone. Woodpeckers still ground their beaks on the trunks of the Aspens, but he hadn't received a letter from his son, Devon. And what about Raine?

Nightmarish images invaded his slumber, a distressing premonition tidings would arrive on the wings of tragedy. He knew disaster had befallen his family but lay beyond his ability to help.

Masked with despair and indecision, Raine's face rose before him. What did it mean? He hated the gift at times. An affliction seemed more appropriate. Subliminal messages, an oppressive deliverance of snippets and images, arrived in pieces. One at a time they arrived, and he must complete the puzzle. Soon he would have all the pieces and the effigy would unfold, but not before the last piece found a home. He disliked this phase of the gift when it involved his loved ones.

He needed to clear his mind from the distractions, allow the jagged remnants to filter into his brain. Whatever wrack and ruin had found them, he would face. He thought about traveling to Norfolk, but the idea seemed ludicrous. At eighty years of age, the long journey would kill him. No, he would stay put. He might be missing the central portion of the puzzle, but the fragments on the periphery told him Raine was alive.

Lewis carried the stack of wood into the house. He would have a bite to eat—pan-seared fish, beans, and fresh peaches—before trekking to Brisen's eternal resting place. Rain, sun, sleet or snow, he'd bare his soul to his late wife. She had been his perfect counterpart, had known him well enough to finish his sentences and analyze his thoughts.

The woman held the ability to see the world and all its problems with acute clarity. She offered reasonable solutions. He had to talk to her. Nothing had changed since the day she left the earth, except he missed her more each day. Their love transcended death.

He still heard her calm voice, relied on it. Not a soul heard her but him, but nonetheless her words were clear. It came as no surprise they communicated in this manner now. Brisen espoused spiritual communication and metaphysical phenomena.

He stood before her granite marker, his words disjointed; his heart heavy. "The wind is biting today, lass, cold and fierce, like me troubled heart."

Aye, Lewis, I feel your misery.

He removed his hat and felt his bones creak when he knelt beside her grave. "I dreamed of ye again last night. What I wouldn't give to return to those days."

I walked beside ye in your dreams, saw everything.

"Did ye now? Then ye remember the day I asked for your hand?"

Like yesterday.

"We took a walk along the moors." He smiled down on her and willed the tears away. "Ye tried to calm me before I spoke with ye're father."

Within the year, our son entered the world.

Her eyes flooded his vision--greener than the coast of Scotland and shining brighter than emeralds. "Aye, Devon, 'twas a sight to behold."

Such a happy, carefree child.

Lewis wiped a tear from his cheek. "'Tis about another I come to speak with ye today."

Aye, I've been expecting you.

"I fear-I fear our wee lass is in peril."

She's no longer a wee lass Lewis, but a woman full grown, a most extraordinary woman. Do ye think we should call her by her Christian name now? Rainetta is such a lovely name, after me own dear mother.

Lewis dragged his fingers across her granite marker. "She left Sadora's womb face up ye remember, greeted by God and his angels--"

Yes, yes, dear, I remember. She entered the world after a rain storm.

"And a rainbow. I dinna think I can call her by any other name." He shook his head, his heart heavier than lead. "No disrespect to your dear, departed mother, mind ye."

None taken.

He imagined her eyes closed during her last words, her voice softer than velvet.

Now, ye asked me about the peril. I tell ye, Lewis, look to the biblical parallels and the earthly possessions left by the spirit for the answers.

His head snapped up. "I knew a poltergeist fretted. I felt it."

There is that love, and I'm afraid the ghost will not be quieted in the coming days. She means to pursue our lass until the evil is unmasked.

A groan left his lips. "So Raine is alive, but in danger?" Compelled to ask the question, despite Brisen's answer, he held his breath. She would be looking at him now, her slender neck arched just so, her eyes brimming with love.

Our granddaughter lives, dear, but ye'll need strength and wisdom to save her.

Alarmed, his voice rose. "Tell me wife, what should I do?"

Ye'll know in good time. I have every confidence ye'll do right by our lass when called upon.

A sigh of relief left his lips. "It's not too late?"

No, heart-of-my-heart, it's not too late, but time is the essence now.

"What about Devon and Sadora, are they—"

Blissfully happy. As if calling down from a mountaintop Brisen's voice faded. They wait for the day we'll be together again...together again.

"Wait, don't leave," he said, rising to his feet. "What must I do?"

Together again...together again.

Lewis wiped the tears from his face with the back of his sleeve. "I love ye, me darlin', Brisen. I'll be coming to you soon."

He took his time walking back to the house, his mind a labyrinth of tangled thoughts.

Too many questions and not enough answers. He walked to the bed he had shared with Brisen for fifty years and stretched out. Perhaps in his dreams the pieces of the puzzle would come.

He needed God's help to face a poltergeist. And the man above could toss in some angels too.

* * *

Lyman Stafford stepped from his phaeton and trudged up the steps to the blue-shuttered Victorian residence--a white house with blue shutters. Six blocks off Main Street, he knew the locale well. He had spent the last few hours mulling over his life, including his trysts with Madame Dulcette LaMotte. Frothing at the mouth with anticipation, he adjusted his breeches, the ache in his loin unbearable.

The woman wasn't handsome, but then beauty or lack thereof, had no bearing on the subject. Her pale blue eyes, a shade above anemic, sat deep in her skull, and her brassy orange hair had never appealed to him. Garishly painted lips—blood red—were sparse, lacking the erotic fullness men desired in a woman. No matter, Dulcette could use those lips to deliver pleasure beyond a man's wildest imagination! The woman admitted a French courtesan had mentored her at a very young age. If Lyman happened to meet the experienced mademoiselle, he would fall on his knees and thank her.

Located near the harbor, Dulcette's brothel welcomed immigrants, merchants and sailors. Her business was brisk, her bank account in the black. The whore could thank the first-rate dandies of Norfolk for her success. He recalled one time her doors remained locked—during The Death Storm of fifty-five. An epidemic of yellow fever had wiped out two-thousand Norfolk inhabitants, putting the booming metropolis at a virtual standstill for months.

Madame LaMotte had buried ten of her recruits after the scourge ravished the harbor, and rumors abounded the Madame lay at death's door for weeks. She didn't pass on into Glory. In fact, Lyman was living proof the elite of the painted ladies had rebounded to service the male populace of Norfolk. Dulcette made bundles plying her trade in the seedy bowels of the city.

Disparity abounded between Dulcette and his wife Zilpha in the area of carnal liaisons.

The Snow Maiden, a secret name Lyman had bestowed upon his wife, fit her to a tee. A frigid woman, she made it clear she submitted to his lustful desires for one sole purpose―to produce a male heir. His brother's arranged marriage to Lucinda and his connubial state had been marshaled by their father. "Oh, the irony!" Lyman snickered and said to the door. Much to his father's dismay, after ten years of conjugal obedience, Zilpha had produced three whiny, self-centered females who bore a remarkable resemblance to their mother.

He would be hard-pressed to find suitable matches for his ungainly daughters at their emancipations. Thus, the reason he would require substantial monetary means to secure eligible suitors for he sourpuss trio, gents with fat bank accounts and titles to large estates.

He had thought about his childhood and adult years this morning, particularly his relationship with his only sibling, Derek. Three years older than Derek, he should have been the favored son, but their father's blatant partiality toward his younger brother existed from the day Derek squealed his way into the world. The favoritism continued through early adolescence and even in their adult years.

His brother had inherited the handsome features of their mother's side of the family while he favored the Stafford line. Derek had garnered one thing from their father, a shrewd sense of business. The man had uncanny good fortune, whether breeding horses, producing quality tobacco and cotton, or exporting goods throughout the States and the West Indies.

Derek had a knack for not only selecting but keeping a plethora of skilled seaman for the ships he'd purchased before his twentieth birthday. Somehow, Derek always emerged on top, and Lyman spent years trying to reconcile how he always managed to succeed.

When Civil War broke out, Derek took up arms against the newly formed Union, served under the infamous General George Pickett. Wounded at Gettysburg, the adored son returned from war with body parts intact, albeit with a limp. The unabashed pride on their father's face made Lyman sick to his stomach. Even today, their father held his refusal to enlist against him. He had seen the look of disgust in his father's eyes whenever the subject arose.

But what did his sire want of him? He had sent his faithful manservant, Moses, in his stead and had paid a healthy stipend in the process. Why would his father take issue with the exchange? True, Ole Moses didn't return from the war, but the circumstances of the black man's death lay beyond his control.

"You squandered the life of a fine and loyal servant, one who has served our family well for decades." His father's face had flamed like a beet at the time. "Moses was too old for battle, and you should have picked up the gauntlet for the cause."

"Like my brother?" Lyman had snorted.

"Yes!" At the time, his father had banged his fist on the table. "Derek risked everything for the Confederacy."

The subject of war wasn't discussed again, but whenever talk of battle or serving Virginia surfaced, his father's cold blue eyes would look at him with disdain.

No matter. Derek would be penniless, reduced to his proper station in life, and at his mercy, the day the title to Stafford House passed to him.

Neither willing nor capable of satisfying his lust, Zilpha forced him to frequent Dulcette's establishment. The Madame would be happy to relieve him of her usual ten-ollar stipend and feign enjoyment in doing so. Lyman knocked at the door, his cock harder than a hickory staff.

Dulcette stood before him, her pale fingers clutching the gold, filmy wrapper, Lyman's heart raced when he spied the blood-red undergarments beneath.

"Lyman Stafford, what brings you to my door on such a rainy afternoon?" She swept past him and licked her ruby lips.

He threw his greatcoat on a nearby chair in the entry before wiping the perspiration from his face with a linen handkerchief. "You know why I'm here, Dulcette. The same reason I arrive every week."

She smiled and led him to her bedchamber, closing the door behind them. After placing ten dollars on her bureau, Lyman shucked his clothing and crawled between the satin sheets, one shade darker than her lips.

Dulcette counted the bills and tucked them into her bureau drawer. Next, she turned to him and undressed at a leisurely pace.

She stood before him naked, her throaty chuckle sending a jolt of desire through his loins. "What's your pleasure this afternoon, Lyman?"

"Let me think." His eyes raked over her voluptuous figure. "Should I join you in bed?" The urge to take her this minute overpowered him. "Not yet."

At his command, Dulcette dropped to her knees beside the four-poster, took his rigid shaft into her hands and guided it to her mouth. He couldn't stifle his moans of pleasure as she licked and suckled his engorged manhood. "Yes, yes, that's the way, my little whore."

On the brink of spilling his seed, he yanked her up and tossed her onto the bed beneath him. He kneaded one breast, and swirled his tongue around the nipple of the other. He couldn't wait a moment longer. Entering her, he rammed in and out of her hot, silken depths. With a low growl, he plunged deep and embraced the jubilant cry tearing from his throat. His body stiffened and a burst of lights exploded behind his eyelids.

As if he had run for blocks, he panted like a beast and collapsed onto the bed beside her. He wouldn't touch her now that he'd spilled his seed. Nor would he whisper endearments into her ear or take her into his arms. Men didn't procure soiled doves for emotional gratification. What passed between them every week was a primeval mating of bodies, base rutting and nothing else. In any event, Dulcette had grown accustomed to such treatment and expected nothing less from him.

They rose from the bed and she filled two glasses with whiskey while he dressed. Handing him a tall glass, she plopped into a chair at the table in her room. "Oh, I almost forgot." On her feet again, she fetched a piece of paper from her bureau. "This arrived for you last Friday." She handed the parchment to him and eased herself into the chair again. "Zaira said it must be placed in your hands and your hands alone."

He stared at the sealed envelope. "Zaira's handwriting all right. What does the cursed witch want of me?"

Dulcette leaned forward. "Why don't you open it and find out?"

"It can wait." Lyman tucked it into his vest pocket. "I'm certain it's of little importance."

"There's not another suicide on the horizon?"

Taken aback, he stammered. "What-whatever do you mean?"

"Oh come now, Lyman." Her sarcastic voice grated on his nerves. "You aren't naïve enough to think women have nothing to talk about other than the weather or how to please a man?"

"I have no idea what malicious blather Zaira's bent your ear with, but I assure you, Derek's wife walked into the river of her own volition." He squirmed in the chair. "The frail, fidgety bird of a woman was prone to fits of madness."

"And you did nothing to contribute to her severe bouts of depression?"

"Other than leap with joy when poor, fragile Cinda drowned herself, no." He spoke the last words with a smile. "Why my father wished for a male heir from that crazed woman eludes me."

Dulcette shook her head. "You are a cold-hearted bastard."

Anger surfaced. "And you are treading dangerous waters, Dulcette."

"Do you think to threaten me?" She tossed the drink down her throat. "It would seem you need me now for reasons other than satisfying your lust."

He wanted to strangle the intrusive woman. "The cat is out of the bag," he said with a snicker. "Zaira exposed our private conspiracy."

Dulcette nodded. "After your brother's wife died, yes."

"Derek is a widower now. He's been rendered incapable of producing a male heir."

"With a little nudge from you."

Heat inflamed his cheeks. "Slipping toxic herbs into Cinda's tea in the early months of her lying-in was no easy feat."

"Tinctures prepared by Zaira."

"Yes," he said and felt no remorse. "From the moment Derek married the insipid little chit. Cinda became a casualty of war. Zaira assured me the dose would be kept to a minimum, the child would die, but the mother would not." He placed his hand over his heart. "You see, Dulcette, I'm not the demon you make me out to be."

"How did you accomplish it? A slight of hand or―?"

"Dear Cinda was too trusting, so callow."

Dulcette raised a brow.

"Incapable of thinking people, much less family would stoop to such measures in the name of wealth." A devilish smile curled his lips. "To answer your question, I humbled myself many times by offering to serve coffee and tea following the evening meal."

Zilpha and I were, and still are, frequent dinner guests at Stafford House. Without fail, Lucinda chose her favorite, lemon and blackberry tea. I had only to pinch several drops into the cup before serving her." Wide-eyed he said, "On two occasions, the plan ran amuck, the poison didn't seem to be working. I confronted Zaira, warned her if a child came forth, she'd meet with a tragic accident."

"Lucinda miscarried?"

"Much to my exultation, she did in due course." Lyman rose from the table with a haughty air. "She took her life; believed evil spirits invaded her body."

A gasp fell from Dulcette's lips.

"Well, in one manner, they had." He bowed. "The occurrence of Cinda's demise has unwittingly placed me in the forefront of the race. Zilpha is with child again, and this time she'll bring forth a male."

"If not?"

He frowned, the thought disgusting him. "If not, within several months, she'll be with child again, and again until she does." Placing his drink on the table he said, "I must be going, but I warn you, Madame LaMotte, if you think to extrapolate money from me over this nasty business, think again."

"I may be a whore, but I assure you, even I draw the line at blackmail."

"Good, we have an understanding then, and I'll deal with Zaira for her loose tongue."

Dulcette shuddered. "Parlor talk on a rainy afternoon, that's all. I don't recall your name mentioned but she tossed enough clues around to complete the puzzle after Lucinda died at such a young age."

"Do we have an understanding, Dulcette?"

"Of course," she replied. "My reputation is built on discretion."

Lyman walked from the bedchamber with Dulcette on his heels. He donned his greatcoat and glanced around the inner sanctum of the establishment. Although several scantily clad women sat in an adjacent parlor enjoying a game of cards, it seemed quiet this afternoon.

"Business must be sluggish these days." He turned to Dulcette.

"On the contrary, no doubt you will recognize a familiar face on your way out."

He pursed his lips and fixed her with a sharp glare.

"Of-of course, darling," she said, in a patronizing tone, "none compare to you."

"I'll be back next week. Do plan something special."

The catlike smile appeared; the one she bestowed on every client frequenting her whorehouse. "I shall spend all week designing something spectacular."

With a smile, Lyman walked to his transport, certain the queen of harlots found him quite skilled in the arena of sexual prowess. Of late, he viewed the world through rose-colored glasses now that everything was proceeding according to plan.

He plucked Zaira's missive from his pocket and scanned the paper with a frown.

While the river rages, a quarter moon appears,

Armed with fork and fury, the devil screams your fears.

The best-laid plans disintegrate while the maiden lies in rest,

The question now becomes, whose bastard suckles at her breast?"

Come! Time is of the essence. Zaira

He read it several times and couldn't make sense of it. What is Zaira about now? He didn't have time for such nonsense. If she thought to wrench more money from him, she best think again. She had charged him an exorbitant amount for the poisonous tinctures in the past. Upon hearing of Lucinda's passing, he sensed Zaira's disappointment now that her services wouldn't be required.

Under the remote possibility Derek remarried, Lyman had told Zaira he would be in touch again. Riddles indeed! Zaira can go to the devil.

He tucked the envelope inside his vest pocket again and headed for home, the words of the riddle rattling around in his brain, The best-laid plans disintegrate. Whose bastard suckles at her breast? Disgusted, he sighed.

The thought of returning to the manor was drearier than the weather, but he had no choice. He would have the dull meal with his family before he announced his intention to play cards for the night. He had been uncannily lucky at cards of late. Perhaps his good fortune would continue.

Lyman walked through the front door of his manor and cringed when Zilpha's high-pitched screech reached his ears.

"Lord above, deliver me!" he said under his breath.