Garden of the Moon (21 page)

Without hesitation, she pulled the bell rope beside her bed. Moments later Raina appeared in the doorway.

“You called, Miss Sara?” Raina didn’t even try to conceal the concern in her face when she saw Sara.

“Raina, please pack a few clothes for us. We’re going to visit my mother and father.”

“How long we gonna be gone?”

Sara shook her head. “I don’t know, a few days. Please have Samuel get my trunk down from the attic, then ready the carriage. We’ll be leaving right after breakfast.”

“Yas ‘um.” Raina turned to leave, then stopped and turned back, concern written clearly in her features. “You gonna be okay?”

Sara forced a smile to her lips. Then surprised herself by saying, “I think I will be soon. Now, please do as I asked.”

Never in her wildest dreams did she ever think she’d be happy to leave Harrogate. But she knew in her heart that if she stayed here, she’d never be able to think clearly, Katherine would see to that. If she was ever to find the answers about what had happened here, she had to start thinking with her head and not her heart. But even more strongly, she knew that answers awaited her in the Crescent City, answers she would never find at Harrogate.

***

The Garden District greeted Sara regaled in all its summer splendor. Thanks to a flood in 1816 and the resulting deposit of nutrient-filled sediment, the district had the perfect soil to help the section live up to its name. Giant, ancient oaks, pecans, and leathery-leafed magnolia trees surrounded and caressed the rooftops of the homes, while a myriad of flowering shrubs and meticulously-tended gardens circled their feet. Only the perfume emanating from the landscaping exceeded the richness of the residents of the neighborhood.

As Sara’s carriage made its way down St. Charles Avenue, she reacquainted herself with the splendor of each house. Antebellum mansions lined the street and boasted architecture reminiscent of Italy, Spain, France, and Greek Revival. Like their occupants, each house stood apart from the others in its uniqueness and overlooked the street like a reigning monarch. Although a deep-seated hatred existed between the Americans and the Creole’s, it didn’t stop the American’s from adopting the Creole’s ornamental ironwork on their galleries and railings and the intricately designed wrought iron fences

As one of the largest on the street, the Wade home, a classic Greek Revival style called Azalea House for the many flowering shrubs in its gardens, stood out as one of the most resplendent residential achievements of famed architect, James Gallier Sr.

The front, with its upper and lower porticos topped off by a pediment at the top, towered high above some of the trees. Four columns marched across the façade, and planters spewing forth multi-colored flowers were positioned between them.

Sara had to tilt her head back to see one of the many chimneys reaching above the roofline. It’s a good thing the chimney tax was revoked in the 1700’s or her father would have been digging deep into the Wade coffers to pay for the many chimneys that topped his home.

Samuel maneuvered the carriage through the high wrought iron gates and eased it to a stop before the lower portico. The front door flew open and Josiah, the Wade’s butler, stepped out to greet the callers.

When he saw Sara, total surprise washed over his features. “Miss Sara. Wasn’t ‘spectin’ you.”

He hurried forward to help her down from the carriage and at the same time instructed the two young blacks that had followed him out to take Sara’s luggage to her room. They did as instructed and disappeared back into the house with Raina on their heels to supervise.

“It was a spur of the moment decision, Josiah.” She shook the travel wrinkles from her skirts. “Are my mother and father here?”

Before the butler could answer, a shout came from behind him. “Sara!” Her father rushed to her and scooped her into his arms. “What a lovely surprise.” Looping his arm around her waist, he guided her into the house.

The inside of Azalea House was, if it was possible, grander than the outside. With its eighteen foot ceilings; twenty-five rooms, each with its own fireplace; walls covered in hand-painted murals; crystal and bronze chandeliers; marble mantels; and ornate frieze work ceiling medallions, it far outshone the elegance of many of the street’s counterparts. Of course, Patricia wouldn’t have it any other way. She’d always demanded the best of everything and usually got it. Flaunting their wealth was among Sara’s mother’s favorite pastimes. Sara was convinced Patricia felt it her duty to society.

“Is Mother here?”

Preston Wade stopped smiling. “Yes, but she’s having her hair done upstairs. You’ll see her at dinner. You are staying for dinner, aren’t you?”

Heat rose in Sara’s her cheeks. Her mother would look very dimly on her arriving unannounced. It was just not done in polite society. The routine was to send word ahead to prepare the hostess for the visit. Nevertheless… “I had hoped to stay for a few days…if that’s all right with you and Mother.”

He laughed. “Of course it is. This will always be your home.” Moving toward the wide Y-shaped marble staircase, he urged her forward. “Now, you freshen up, and then we’ll talk.”

Sara hadn’t come all this way to rest. “I’d rather talk first, if that’s okay?”

For a moment, her father studied her. “Very well.” He turned to the butler, who had just come down from upstairs, presumably having delivered Sara’s luggage to her room. “Please bring refreshments to the drawing room, Josiah.”

“Yassur.” He stepped past them, the paused and grinned at Sara. “It’s mighty nice havin’ you back, Miss Sara. Mighty nice.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Josiah. It’s good to be back.”

She wished she meant that. Oh, she loved seeing her father, but along with seeing him came the daunting aspect of also coming face to face with his most stringent critic…her mother. Something Sara was not anticipating with any degree of eagerness.

Preston eased Sara across the hall and into the drawing room, a more informal room used for family. He closed the door behind them. She took a seat on the settee and waited for her father to join her. When he did, he took her hand and enveloped it in his much larger one.

“Now, what brings you to New Orleans?”

Sara looked at their linked hands. “To be quite honest, I’m not sure why I came. I just felt like…I had to come.” She wasn’t worried that her father would look at her reasoning with skepticism. He’d always understood her better than anyone else.

Preston nodded. “I’m sure the reason will be made clear soon. Have you found the letter yet?”

Before she could answer, the drawing room door opened, and Patricia Wade swept in in all her glory—gown immaculate and in the latest style, hair coiffed to perfection. But her tightly drawn mouth marred the picture of a beautiful woman. The reprimanding look she sent Sara told her that her impromptu visit was going to be received exactly as she’d anticipated…with indignant displeasure.

“Hello, Mother.”

“Sara,” she said with a cold tone that hardly reflected that of a mother happy to see her only child. “How delightful to see you.” Stiff insincerity dripped from the words. “However, it would have been nicer if you’d prepared me for your visit. Haven’t I taught you better than to just drop in on people?”

Sara’s nerves coiled into tight springs. Could her mother never just be happy to see her?

Patricia sat and spent several minutes arranging the folds of her gown around her.

With her mother out of the way Sara could see beyond the drawing room door. Staring intently at her from the hallway was a very beautiful, statuesque mulatto woman who seemed vaguely familiar to Sara. A bright yellow
tignon
covered her head and a brilliant red shawl embraced her shoulders. Clutched in her hand was a small carpetbag. The woman continued to study Sara with an intensity that made her squirm in her seat.

Despite the discomfort produced by the woman’s scrutiny, Sara couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away, nor could she hear what her mother was saying. The mulatto woman stepped inside the room, walked directly to Sara and took her hand. Patricia stopped speaking and looked from her daughter to the back woman.

Then the woman smiled. “You must come see me at my home. I can help you.” She dropped Sara’s hand and left the house.

Sara stared after her, mouth agape. “Who was that, Mother?”

“My hairdresser, the voodoo priestess, Marie Laveau.”

Chapter 18

When Samuel guided Sara’s carriage down Bourbon St. the next day, they found the streets of the French Quarter teaming with people. Peddlers hawked rice cakes on the sidewalks. Flowers vendors passed their wares under the noses of couples strolling down the street, tempting the gentlemen to buy their ladies a bouquet. Rich aromas of freshly baked bread, cakes and pastries wafted from the bakeries and saturated the humid air, making Sara’s mouth water despite having just finished breakfast. From the direction of the docks came the singsong chant of the workers unloading cargos of cotton and sugar cane from a line of snow-white riverboats.

Having been at Harrogate for the past few weeks, Sara had forgotten how much she loved the French Quarter and its exciting, never-ending, diversified activity. By day the proper lady. By night the bawdy woman of the streets.

Samuel skillfully maneuvered the carriage down Bourbon St., through the throng of conveyances ranging from street vendor’s carts to the carriages of the Creole elite. Just as the steeple of St. Louis Cathedral came into view, he turned left onto St. Ann St. where he stopped before a two-story, red adobe cottage surrounded by a partially broken-down courtyard fence with trees that had seen many years peeking over it. At one time, the cottage must have been lovely. Now it was just rundown, neglected and sad.

Sara took Samuel’s hand and climbed down from the carriage.

“Wants me to come, too?” Samuel asked casting the house a wary glance.

As frightened as the Negroes were of the woman who professed to be a Voodoo Queen, Sara didn’t have the heart to have him accompany her. “No. Wait for me here.”

“You sure, Miss? No good for you to be goin’ in der alone. I can come with you.”

That Samuel, as fearful as he was, would go into Marie’s house with her touched Sara immeasurably. She patted his hand. “I’ll be fine. You wait here.”

“Yas, ‘um.” He climbed back into the driver’s seat, relief obvious on his face, but keeping his gaze fixed on the cottage as though waiting for a demon to emerge and gobble them both up.

Sara pushed open the rickety gate, its hinges announcing her arrival with a high-pitched squeal. Picking her way amid the overgrown vegetation half covering the walkway, she moved quickly to the front door, which, even judging from her diminutive height, seemed too low for a person to pass through without ducking. Tentatively, she knocked.

Through one of the tiny panes in the small windows, she caught sight of someone peeking out, and then quickly vanishing behind the curtains. Moments later, the door opened.

Framed in the doorway, a dim light behind her, was the lovely mulatto woman Sara had met in her mother’s drawing room. Today, a bright green
tignon
concealed her hair and a rainbow-colored shawl covered the bodice of a plain blue dress. Gold hoop earrings hung from each ear. Her dark brown eyes studied Sara from a face covered in skin the color of
café au lait
.

“Hello. I’m—”

“Sara Wade. Come in, Miss Wade.” Marie stepped to the side.

Sara bowed her head and entered the cottage. She could see nothing. She paused for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the contrast between the bright sunlight and the dimness inside the cottage. When she could see again, she found herself in a narrow room lit by a few meager candles. In the center of the room was a table covered with a variety of objects. Behind the table was a chair with a thick red velvet cushion. The aroma of something like incense filled the air with a rather overwhelming, sickening odor.

Turning to her hostess, she gasped and stepped back. Marie stood beside her with a large snake draped around her shoulders. The head swayed a foot or so above Marie’s head, and its slitted, cold eyes focused on Sara. Her skin crawled. She shivered and took several steps backwards.

“Do not be afraid. Zombi is quite harmless and will not bother you.” As she spoke she lovingly caressed the length of the snake’s back. “Please, have a seat.” She motioned to the table littered with things the identity of which Sara could only guess at.

After Sara was seated, Marie took the snake from her shoulders and placed it on a cushioned seat behind her where it coiled and surveyed them, then Marie sat down facing Sara. “It was good of you to come.”

Had she a choice? After their strange meeting in her father’s house, Sara could scarcely stay away, especially now when her life had turned into one series of strange occurrences after another. Added to that was the fact that she’d felt inexplicably drawn to New Orleans. Perhaps Marie could tell her why.

“I still don’t understand why you ask me to come here.”

“But nevertheless, you came.” Marie’s dark eyes bore into her much the same as those of the serpent hovering over her shoulder.

“Yes. I came.” Sara chomped at the bit to get to why Marie had asked her to visit her.

As if reading Sara’s thoughts, Marie said, “You are being haunted.”

Astonished, Sara nodded.

“You must continue to fight her. She will not give up. Your will to live and fulfill your destiny is what will be your salvation.” For a moment she closed her eyes. When she opened them, she smiled. “As will your love for this man Jonathan. But neither will save you from this woman’s wrath. She does not want him, but neither does she want you to have him.”

Sara gasped. “How do you know about Jonathan?”

Marie said nothing. She just smiled.

“Is that all you have to tell me?” Sara knew all this or had guessed at it. She’d really hoped to learn something new.

“No. I will give you a
gris gris
to protect you from the malevolent spirit of the woman who haunts you.” She reached into a bejeweled box on the table and extracted a small cloth bag.