Ghosts of White Raven Estate

GHOSTS OF

WHITE RAVEN ESTATE

By Emily Hill

A.V. Harrison Publishing

Copyright 2013

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

* * * * * 5-Star Reviews for Emily Hill’s Writing * * * * *

Carrie Ann Lehain

Atmosphere AND Suspense . . . If you like your chills the old-fashioned way--more ghostly groans, less gore--this is the book for you.

Geoffrey West

Terror strikes you four square and sets your heart racing . . .

J. McCormick

Emily Hill is a great writer. The stories . . . in this book are very well told . . . there are some stories that I wish would just continue because the plots are just that good. I can't wait to see what she does in the future.

Ghosts of White Raven Estate is a novel—purely a work of fiction.

The characters and events portrayed in this manuscript

Are intended to be composites of imagination and folklore.

And contains content of a sexual nature. Language warning.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 ~ 1853 – Someone is Watching

Chapter 2 ~ Where the Bones Are Buried

Chapter 3 ~ Before the Epidemic

Chapter 4 ~ Unfortunate Girls

Chapter 5 ~ Widow Paris

Chapter 6 ~ Tremè

Chapter 7 ~ Jasmine Visits the Mambo Queen

Chapter 8 ~ A Snake In The Grass

Chapter 9 ~ Sisters Sharing a Room

Chapter 10 ~ A Morning Visit

Chapter 11 ~ Madame Calais Dream

Chapter 12 ~ 1807 – Sugar Plantation Road

Chapter 13 ~ Madame Calais’ Infirmity

Chapter 14 ~ The Abduction

Chapter 15 ~ Den of Thieves

Chapter 16 ~ Black Carriage

Chapter 17 ~ Someone Wants to Meet You

Chapter 18 ~ A Carriage Ride to Tremè

Chapter 19 ~ Playing to Win

Chapter 20 ~ Near the Banks of Lake Pontchartrain

Chapter 21 ~ Séances and Slave Blocks

Chapter 22 ~ Having Reached the Other Side

Chapter 23 ~ The Church Bell Tolls

Chapter 24 ~ Dash to Freedom

Chapter 25 ~ Conclusion ~ The Horseman Rides

Chapter 1

1853 ~ Someone Is Watching

It all took place in the fashionable Garden District of New Orleans, where beautiful estates hide behind the screen of tree-lined boulevards. The year was 1853, during an era when family loyalties were guarded vigilantly, some even from beyond the grave.

* * *

Dusky afternoon sunlight streamed into the bedroom of young heiress, Victoria Calais, casting the room in a brooding hue that foreshadowed an evening squall. Flying toward the Crescent City at that moment was the kind of storm that causes shutters to clatter, and the shadows of gnarled oaks to bob and weave across expansive lawns. By midnight bolts of lightning would be dancing along darkened lanes, like skeletons frolicking at an undertaker’s ball.

Victoria sat at her vanity, staring into her mirror unable to make out her own reflection. Her fingertips, like the feelers of an ant, followed along the edges of each item laid out on the embroidered runner decorating her vanity. The ingénue straightened each article, one at a time - the brush lined up next to the comb, and the comb lined up to the curling iron. She ran her palm over each colorful cosmetic jar—cornflower blue, sunburst yellow, tangerine orange. The jar lids were decorated with textured baubles or jewels—either pearls, or sequins, or precious stones—so that Victoria could distinguish them in case they were moved around . . . by someone, something.

Victoria tapped her fingernails on the smoked-ebony container of carmine to her right. The texture of seed pearls greeted her fingertips. To the left of the carmine sat a tin of charcoal, to darken her sable brown lashes. Sequins decorated that container—easily distinguishable. A square-cut amber adorned the dainty container of beeswax. A place for everything and everything in its place. That is the only way it can be—from now on.

A gentle breeze rustled through Victoria’s bedroom, bringing with it the fragrance of rose petals, reminding her that she was not alone. Victoria stiffened. She craned her neck and squinted into a milky field of vision from heavy-lidded eyes.

Hello? Who’s here? She waited. Every instinct told her that someone was standing in the shadows of her room.

There was no response to her inquiry, other than the sputtering sound of candles as they burned down.

She shook her head, and felt her curls bounce, unable to rid herself of the feeling that she was being watched.

Is someone there?

Shivers ran down her back - tingling sensations prickled her armpits. She was afraid to turn her head, in spite of the reality that she would not be able to make out any specter observing her.

You can’t do this to me! It’s brutally cruel!

I must stop this calling out like an insecure child must. Whoever is in this room refuses to answer, and I cannot expect grandmother to be beside me every moment of the day to calm my fears.

The bedroom continued to cool off with the approaching thunderstorm, and the winds intensified, rustling the palm fronds outside Victoria’s window. The fragrance of tropical flowers swirled, finding their way into her room from the estate’s gardens. Her curtains billowed and curled as the breeze picked up. Slowly Victoria’s feeling of unease drew away, and her breathing calmed.

Reaching across her vanity and touched the cool surface of the mirror, she reconciled her situation, I am indeed going blind. Each day I stare into a haze that spreads farther across my field of vision. For all practical purposes I am blind right now.

Victoria traced the outline of her face, crediting her classic beauty to French-Canadian ancestry. Her fingertips moved along high cheekbones as she leaned into the mirror, hoping for any reflection her vision might afford. She touched her jawline—proud and defined—with the same small dimple that set off so many members of the Calais family. A tear rolled down her cheek. Dr. Faust’s diagnosis, delivered the previous day, had been devastating.

Hysterical blindness was his prognosis. There’s nothing I can do. A psychologist would be better suited for what Victoria is experiencing, he stated brusquely to Victoria’s grandmother, as he snapped the clasp on his medical bag.

The diagnosis did not sit well with Antonia Calais, if her outburst was any indication, slapping her fan against the arm of her chair and berating the family physician. You fool! That’s ridiculous! She’s not hysterical. Look at her! If anything, she’s depressed.

They scrutinized the young woman as though she were a laboratory specimen. Victoria’s cheeks grew hot. Whatever the cause of her blindness, whether from disease or psychological malady, the result was the same. Victoria began losing her vision two months ago, just days after Yellow Fever took the lives of her parents, Elise and Henri Calais and her sister, Evangeline.

Putting the doctor’s distressing words out of her mind for a moment, Victoria pushed back her wicker stool and stood up. She placed her tortoise shell comb on the embroidered runner. Poised and balanced, she lined her feet up in a ballerina’s stance. Squaring her shoulders, Victoria moved forward with the intention of crossing her expansive bedroom. She was slightly apprehensive and tried to blink away the opaque void that stretched out in front of her. Right foot first, then left foot; counting the steps aloud, she proceeded.

There! The folds of Victoria’s skirt brushed the coverlet of her bed. She moved around the edge of the mattress. At the headboard she folded down her blankets and plumped the pillow, sweeping her hand under it. Aha! Exactly where it should be. She wound her mother’s rosary around her fingers. White mother-of-pearl beads, silver links. The crucifix was worn smooth; Christ was fading into the past.

Everything must be in order. Everything must stay in order. Another mantra repeated. The massive rosewood wardrobe cabinet was in the exact location it had always occupied. In fact, very little had been changed in the bedroom over the past fifteen years, except the removal, quite recently, of one canopy bed from the opposite side of the room.

Victoria repeated the walk that took her from her vanity to her bed, and from the bed to the wardrobe. One . . . two . . . three. She walked forward, steadying herself and concentrating on her stride. The toe of her right shoe struck the wardrobe. She reached out for the cabinet’s two ornate handles and placed her fingertips on each, swinging the doors open wide, imagining the contents. Breathing deeply and closing her eyes, she remembered. The sweet sachet of roses and tea greeted her. The scent was emotionally overwhelming.

Smoothing her dresses, she recalled which ones were light-colored and which ones were made of lace. She touched the covered buttons and the finished seams. Moving from one sachet-filled hanger to the next, left to right, she came upon her mourning gowns, having only recently moved them to the back of the wardrobe. Victoria spaced the hangers so that the long heavy dresses hung uniformly across the bar. The wardrobe contained so many more dresses before Evangeline’s death - rich textures, heavy fabrics, all carrying the fragrance of rose petals. Tears welled up, collecting in Victoria’s eyelashes like tiny prisms. Her mouth watered, and her throat felt as though it were closing. Her nose stung in her attempt to gulp back the tears.

Victoria remembered what life had been like during the weeks that Yellow Fever swept through New Orleans. She was now haunted by Evangeline’s plaintive whisper, Who will the fever strike next? The question loomed in the mind of all New Orleans residents - estate owners, shopkeepers, and slaves. Day after day the air vibrated with the peal of church bells. You could easily be next, was Fate’s refrain. And within days of one another Victoria’s mother, then her sister, and finally her father, lay dead.

The bereaved young woman stood on tiptoe and felt along the top shelf of the wardrobe until she located Evangeline’s doll. It had been years since she had played with it. Victoria’s sense of longing stung as she pulled the doll toward her. She tugged at its skirt, causing it to fall over with a loud thunk, its porcelain head hitting the mahogany shelf. 

Meow!

 Oh, Bon-Bon! Did I frighten you, my little pet? 

Meow! 

Victoria turned toward the plaintive cry just as her cat bounded off the bed and pranced toward her across the richly woven carpet. The little bell on Bon-Bon’s collar gave away the cat’s whereabouts. 

She reached down to pet the black-and-white feline rubbing against her shoes, entwining itself in a serpentine pattern. The cat purred, a soothing, low rumble.

Oh, my dear, don’t fret. Let’s place Evangeline’s doll on my bed, shall we? Then we will have something that reminds us of happier times.

The cat pawed the air, as if it saw something. Victoria cocked her head to the side, curious. You little silly, Bon-Bon.

The cat mewed.

Can you guide me back to my bed?

Victoria followed the sound of the little bell on Bon-Bon’s collar as she scampered back across the room.

Who understands what has gone on in this room better than you, my attentive little sentry.

Victoria retraced her steps, her left arm wrapped around the doll.

Are you there, Bon-Bon?

A repetitious mew guided her back toward the bed, one carefully retraced step at a time.

Quite suddenly, Victoria stumbled forward, an unexpected lurch into the uncertainty that was her new world. She clawed the air as she went down, drawing the doll close. A tangled-skirt tumble would easily shatter the doll’s porcelain head into a thousand pieces. Victoria caught her awkward fall with her left hand, and cried out in pain as she landed. Her petticoats formed a billowy cloud of netting and lace. Impatiently, she untangled her gazelle-like legs and sat upright.

Bang! The doors of the wardrobe crashed shut.

Hello! Answer me! Is someone there?

Eerie silence hung in the air, as the room grew more chilled. Victoria scrambled to her knees looking around apprehensively. Pin prickles danced up her spine. An unladylike moistness spread from her underarms onto her frilly gown.

She gasped, Something, or someone, is causing this!

Bon-Bon jumped down from the bed into Victoria’s lap and Evangeline’s doll clattered to the floor, unharmed.

Now, don’t you become jealous and add to my problems. She stroked the cat; not at all sure what had caused her sudden fall.

Victoria felt around her feet. Something is out of place. Something is amiss.

She laughed, My slippers! That’s all it was. Am I too distracted? She thought back to earlier that morning. She thought she remembered being down on the floor, sweeping her hands over the carpet, looking for hazards. Her slippers were a foot farther away from the edge of the bed than she recalled, and now they were placed heel to heel. How peculiar.

Plaintively her cat mewed.

"Oh, my darling, of course, I trust you not to be mischievous!"

The cat responded, rubbing against her and pawing at the folds of Victoria’s skirt.

A voice called up from the bottom of the stairs. Victoria! Are you up in your room still?

Yes, Grandmother!

What is going on? I heard something fall.

Victoria scooted the slippers out of the way.

I tripped, Grandmother! It’s nothing! Bon-Bon was here to save me!

"Oh, Mon Cher."

Madame Calais softened her voice. Refresh yourself and come down, Victoria. You’ve been alone in your room all afternoon, and Dr. Teiner will be here soon. Let’s have tea and discuss things.

Victoria scrambled up. Placing the doll on the bed, she called down, "Oui, Grandmother! I’m coming."

* * *

Pass your teacup, Victoria, her grandmother requested. Narrow shouldered, with a diminutive hourglass figure, Madame Calais was the epitome of elegance. Many were fooled by her feminine demeanor—at their peril; she always thought one step ahead and always for the well being of her family.

Victoria picked up the saucer, extending the trumpet-shaped floral cup.

"Merci, Grandmother."

You’ve been moping in your room today, haven’t you, dear? Are you missing your parents and Evangeline?

Victoria was silent as she set down her teacup. Wringing her hands she fought back tears. How could I not be missing my parents and my sister?

Carrying on will not bring back our family, Victoria. And dwelling on this past season’s tragedies will not make your newest burden any lighter.

Victoria wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the conclusion of the oft-repeated lecture.

Oh, please, Victoria, don’t start weeping again. And, wipe your eyes with your handkerchief, not the back of your hand.

Victoria nodded.

When Doctor Teiner examines you this afternoon, it’s very possible that he will have a different explanation for the problems you are having with your eyesight than did Dr. Faust.

Victoria shrugged and looked across the parlor toward the double glass doors leading to the French Renaissance-inspired garden. At one time she would have been able to watch the dragonflies flitting about the trimmed shrubbery. She imagined Evangeline strolling along the flowerbeds taking in the fragrance of the roses—her sister’s favorite flower. Now a halo effect of light shattered into rainbow-shards across her vision. It was as though she were seeing the deep yellow roses and her own favorite flower, the bright, saucer-size Shasta daisies through filmy gauze.

It’s not hysterical blindness. There is no such thing, Victoria announced.

I know, I agree with you. It’s something else. Madame Calais said. But regardless, let’s be practical for a moment and realize things for what they are. For one, I am sixty-six. My heart is no stronger for the misfortunes of this past year. As ironic as it is, that I am caring for you at this point in time, instead of the reverse, our reality must be faced.

You’re not that old, Grandmother!

Madame Calais laughed ruefully. "Well, I am certainly sixty-six. Look at how my hair has silvered. If what you are protesting is my mortality, we have experienced too much death for you to delude yourself.

But . . .

The matriarch held up her hand, stopping her granddaughter’s protest. As the surviving members of our family, we have no choice but to plan for each other and for the management of Corbeau Blanc. She watched as her granddaughter twisted the amethyst ring she was wearing.

You did hear me emphasize ‘plan for each other,’ did you not, Victoria?

Madame Calais looked up as the house slave announced, Dr. Teiner has arrived, Madame.

See him in, Jasmine. And bring another tea setting.

Yes, Ma’am.

Madame Calais stood and moved gracefully across the parlor toward the foyer. The rich taffeta of her ensemble rustled as she moved to greet Dr. Teiner.

Doctor?

Madame. A pleasure, a pleasure indeed.

Thank you. We have been anxious to meet you after receiving Father Vivenzio’s referral.

Indeed. I am grateful for Father’s confidence in my abilities.

The matriarch nodded. May I present my granddaughter, Victoria Calais.

Victoria rose but did not move toward the physician, compelling the doctor to come to her.

Miss Calais, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Let’s just see about all of this, shall we?

"Oui, Docteur."

Do you speak English, Victoria? I can switch to French, if you prefer.

No, I suppose that will not be necessary.

"Please, do not be angry with me, Victoria. I am actually going to do all that I can to help you. May I address you as Victoria, or do you prefer Miss Calais . . . or mademoiselle?"

Victoria will do. I am sixteen in January, Doctor.

Ah, a very impressionable age. I am so pleased that Father Vivenzio recommended me to you.

Madame Calais took over for her granddaughter. "Yes, Father Vivenzio has, without question, been our savior this year. He and my daughter-in-law were very close.