~ The Curse Of Belle Haven ~

by

Irene Pascoe

Charleston, South Carolina, 1850

For nearly two months now I had lived with the cold, heart-shattering fact that the stepsister who had been so dear to me was dead.

Repeatedly throughout the long voyage home to America from France, I had told myself that it just couldn’t be true, until the words of denial ringed my head with tight bands of pain. Charlotte was gone! I had to accept what her husband, Matthew Steele, had made so clear in his letter.

In the open carriage I had hired to drive me out to Belle Haven, the Steele plantation, the grizzle-haired driver flicked the reins at the chestnut mare. I was nearly pitched off the seat when the animal lurched forward and one wheel plunged in and out of a deep rut. “Slow down, sir,” I entreated, grabbing my slipping bonnet with one hand, while the other hand flashed out to clutch the side of the rattling conveyance.

“It’s gettin’ late,” he threw gruffly over his shoulder in a thick Southern accent. “I aim to be back in the city before dark.” He glanced up at the gathering dusk in the slate-gray sky. It was barely visible through the overspreading branches of moss-draped oaks and pungent pines that lined the lonely country road. “It ain’t much farther now.”

If he’d meant that last remark as a measure of reassurance, the attempt fell flat. I could hardly be anything but apprehensive when we were moving at a dangerous speed that turned the damp spring air from cool to cold and the trees and dense, subtropical undergrowth into a blur. “You’re going to land us upside down in a ditch!” I shouted over the sound of pounding hooves. “Slow this carriage at once!”

The driver muttered an expletive, and after several more hair-raising seconds he reluctantly obeyed.

By then my gloved fingers were gripping the lacquered buggy so tightly that I practically had to pry them free. How foolish I’d been to hire this slovenly man who smelled of spirits. Not that I’d had much of a choice. Only he and one other driver, of the handful I’d approached at the Charleston harbor, had been willing to journey the short distance out of the city in the approaching dark. And the other man had looked me over with a lascivious gleam that left no doubt he’d been mentally divesting me of my cloak and matching burgundy traveling dress.

Suppressing a shiver that had nothing to do with the dampness, I settled back on the leather seat and returned my attention to the lush panorama. The city, with its teeming port, elegant homes, quaint shops, and cobbled streets, was a good fifteen minutes behind us. And the smell of bracing salt air had given way to the sweet fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle that intermingled with the scent of pines. So far the only other person we’d seen since leaving the city was a robust Negro man driving a heavily laden cart toward Charleston. As we’d come upon him, he had slowed his vehicle as if he had expected to be stopped. Slaves, I’d heard, were not allowed in public without a pass, which they were obliged to show any white man upon demand. I was more than a little relieved when my driver did not stop and issue the unjust order.

From time to time we passed long drives that led to magnificent clapboard and brick homes, with handsome, columned verandas. Spacious lawns, stretching in every direction, edged striking flower gardens, magnolias, and weeping willows. Beyond the lawns were outbuildings, slave quarters, and endless acreage planted with rice or cotton.

To me, the picturesque countryside was a wilderness compared to congested Boston, where my stepsister and I were born and reared. Through business acquaintances Charlotte had met Matthew and married him after a whirlwind courtship in that city. Mere weeks before their initial meeting I had sailed for Paris to study under Madame Fontaine, the renowned couturiere. Now three years had come and gone, and Charlotte, just twenty-two, a scant ten months older than myself, was also gone.

My throat tightened on a surge of overwhelming emptiness. The only immediate family I had left was my stepsister’s six-month-old son, Rory. Now he would be partly in my care. While I yearned to see the little boy and hold him near, just the thought of the tremendous responsibility I had inherited made my stomach flutter with unease. I knew nothing about caring for a child. On top of that I couldn’t even imagine that Matthew Steele would want me, Alexandra Chandler, under his roof any more than he’d come to want his wife there.

A painful jolt snapped me back to the present, and my lips compressed when I saw that the driver had cunningly inched up the speed again. I was sympathetic to his wish to start back to the city before nightfall, but I wasn’t willing to risk life and limb for him to achieve that end. I leaned forward and was about to tap him sharply on the shoulder when a brawny, dark-dressed rider whizzed by. Hot on his heels was another male rider, also darkly attired and with his hat pulled low.

From the way the men sped past, without so much as a sideways glance, I got the impression they were either engaged in a race or being pursued by someone. To my horror, the driver must have assumed the former, for he laughed with the glee of challenge and slapped the reins forcibly against the horse’s flanks.

We shot forward, and I was flung violently back against the seat, knocking the wind from my lungs. Before I could catch my breath and order this madman to an immediate halt, one of the front wheels dropped into a cavernous pothole, and I heard a snap.

The carriage teetered wildly. I gasped and hung on, my eyes wide with fright. In front of me the driver jumped clear as the creaking vehicle tipped, then crashed onto its side with a thunderous racket that echoed with the sharp scream of the horse. In the terrifying tumble I was flung out and hurled into the thick growth of ferns and tuberous vines that blanketed the ground beneath the roadside trees. On impact every bone in my body was jarred and my head reeled as my temple struck a moss-covered rock. Bright colors swam before my eyes, disappeared in a moment of blackness, then reappeared. I lay sprawled face-down, one arm pinned awkwardly beneath me and tendrils of ebony hair spilling across my cheek. My cloak was a twisted, constricting vise about my body, and my lungs strained for air.

Above my labored breathing I heard a man with a slight Southern accent shout, “Keep going! You know where the entrance is!”

I tried to lift my head and call for help, but excruciating pain, and the blackness that faded in and out, rendered me immobile and mute. Scalding tears surfaced.

Strong masculine hands came down on my shoulders, then moved beneath my ribs, slowly over my torso, and onto my limbs, fingers probing for what I dazedly prayed was nothing more than possible broken bones.

“Where do you hurt, miss?” a man asked with concern. Gently he turned me onto my back. Just as gently he brushed away my tears, and I looked up at the wavering, hat-shaded face just inches above my own. Involuntarily my eyes closed against the unrelenting pain. I tried to speak, but the words refused to come. I blinked and looked up again, right into the inky eyes dominating a strong face. Then the world spun, and I slipped into the black hole of unconsciousness and disjointed dreams.

In some of the visions I was in Paris, at work alongside Madame Fontaine and then laughing with friends in that fabled city. But the most pleasant scenes were of childhood days in the big house in Boston. I was born in the stately home, and my stepsister had come there in her third year after the marriage of our widowed parents. I saw beautiful, blond-haired Charlotte with her former fiancé, the only man she had ever loved. In an instant he vanished. A moment later she, too, was gone, and I once again felt the utter emptiness.

The hollow sensation startled me awake. My eyes opened for a second, then shut against the savage drumming in my head. I ached all over, as if I’d been trampled. What had happened to me? That question had scarcely penetrated the fog in my brain when a picture of the carriage accident loomed and my lips parted in renewed horror.

My eyes flew open. Through a blur I saw that I was in a canopied bed, in a dimly lit room. Blinking, I cleared my vision. The mahogany bed was large and draped in a rich apricot color. From what little I could see of the room, it was immense and lavishly appointed. I tried to lift my head to survey the unfamiliar surroundings, but shooting pain compelled me to lie still. The moan that escaped my parched lips must have signaled someone, because I glimpsed movement from beyond the foot of the bed.

Squinting, I brought into focus a tall, broad-shouldered man in dark clothes. He was turned partially away from me, his profile hidden in shadows, so I couldn’t see his features clearly. He put something down on the chest of drawers beside him, then came toward me. “It’s good to see you awake,” he said and added in a soft, reassuring tone, “You’re safe and being well cared for, miss.” Across the room the door opened. A round, middle-aged Negro maid entered. She went to the man’s side, the starched white trim of her black skirt whispering over the muted carpet. When she spoke, her voice was also a whisper, and her eyes shone with delight: “Ah, the child is awake.”

“She just came around.” He moved to the night table. As he measured a spoonful of powder into a glass of water, he said in the same soft voice, “This will help alleviate any discomfort.” The maid joined him at the bedside. After sliding an arm beneath my shoulders, she lifted me slightly, then took the glass and held it to my lips. The bitter-tasting potion made my mouth pucker just as biting into a fresh lemon would.

“Fortunately you suffered no broken bones,” the man said as the maid settled me on the pillows and smoothed my thick, unbound hair in a curtain about my shoulders. “Can you remember what happened to you?”

I drew a shallow breath, then responded with a slight nod.

“And who you are?”

“Yes.” The word was little more than a raspy whisper, and my eyelids had grown so heavy it was a struggle to keep them open.

“She’ll be fine,” the man said to the maid.

“Thank the Lord, the child is so young and pretty.”

“That she is,” he murmured.

Those were the last words I heard before drifting off. Each time I awakened from the sleep that freed me of pain, someone was nearby. Occasionally it was the tall, dark-haired man, who leaned near once and asked my name. I tried to say Alexandra, but all that came out was “An.”

“Ann,” he’d repeated in a whisper, as if he liked the sound of what he assumed was my name. In that lucid moment I had thought to ask where I was and to say that I’d been headed for Belle Haven, but the drowsiness once again overcame me.

Most often, though, when I opened my eyes, the ample maid was hovering near. She chattered good-naturedly as she straightened the bedclothes, wiped my brow, and offered liquids.

Once I saw a beautiful, chestnut-haired woman with sapphire blue eyes staring down at me with open curiosity. She was dressed in an exquisite, low-cut shimmering silk gown over a wide crinoline. The woman, who didn’t appear to be much older than I, hadn’t said a word, and when she left the room, it was as if she hadn’t really been there. Yet I knew, from the lingering fragrance of my favorite French perfume, I hadn’t been dreaming.

Finally the gauzy webs of sleep receded. I felt wonderfully clear-headed and, except for stiffness in my body, almost free of pain. I was still in the canopied bed, and the room was bright with sunlight. How I had come to be in this place was no mystery. The miserable carriage driver was responsible! But who lived here? And for how long had I been asleep? As those questions raced through my mind, the memory of Charlotte swept back.

I swallowed the constricting lump that came to my throat, then fixed my attention on the door across the way and scanned left. The walls of the spacious and airy room were a pleasant pale green, the color repeated in the floral upholstered chairs and chaise, accented in the soft shade of apricot which matched the bed canopy. Gleaming mahogany furniture highlighted the chalk-white woodwork, ceiling moldings, and fireplace mantel with fluted pilasters. Other than the ticking of the mantel clock, which indicated it was 2:15, the room was quiet.

I rose up on one arm. Just as I was about to survey the other side of the room, a man said quietly from there, “It’s good to see you looking alert.”

My head jerked up, a sharp pain shooting through it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Even before I saw the man standing near the curtained French doors, I knew him by his voice. He was the one who had come to my aid on the road, and later was at my bedside, offering words of comfort and reassurance. His compassion convinced me I need not fear being alone with him.

As he crossed slowly to my side, I saw his face clearly. My throat tightened again, only this time at his bold good looks and intense dark eyes. “Have you any discomfort?” he asked, gazing down at me.

Only when I look at you, I thought wryly and scolded myself for practically gaping. “No, not really.” The words croaked out when I realized I was in a nightdress. If he saw the flush of embarrassment I felt surface, he didn’t let it show in his face.