The Witch of Bourbon Street Page 19

  “Oh, my goodness, what did you find, Craven?” Frances asked impatiently. “Some secret, hidden journal or something? Just tell us!”

  “Well, yes, actually. But not in the hiding spot. I found mouse poop there. But right there in the drawer itself, I found this. “‘The Journals of Albert Monroe.’ He was the—”

  “We know!” Sippie and Frances grabbed the musty pages and ran back to the apartment upstairs. “Promise we’ll bring ’em back!”

  And so, as the humid day filtered a lie of sunshine through the windows and the sounds of people boarding up their windows and heading out of town grew muted, Frances Green Sorrow sat curled up with her daughter. They shut out the world, taking turns to read to each other. And though Sippie knew Frances couldn’t put the thought of Jack, out there somewhere, out of her mind, she was as present with Sippie as if there weren’t a thing wrong. Which made Sippie feel more loved than any type of wordy declaration.

  The reunited pair were once again finding a balance of dark and light. But at least they were together doing it.

  They read fast and frantic. The answer was there.

  It had to be.

  The Sorrow Papers

  21

  Reflections and Revelations

  Albert Monroe

  June 22, 1902

  As the caretaker for the Sorrow Estate, I, Albert Monroe, compile this document full of thoughts, revelations, and notes I took during the questioning of Sister Vesta Grace concerning her alleged involvement in the demise of the Sorrow family. My purpose is simple: When another Sorrow finally steps forward to claim what is rightfully theirs, they will have an accurate account of what transpired during the darkest hour of their history. I have written letters to all members of the family that reside scattered across Europe, and though not many have written back—indeed many of my letters have been returned unopened owing to faulty address information—the few that have responded sent their regrets. They are fearful of the perceived curse, and though they are full of kind words, they do not wish to return.

  SuzyNell has set up a small stipend for the upkeep of the estate and granted me guardianship over the business at 13 Bourbon Street. I must admit, reading her letter filled me with despair. I hope she may find the way back to her bayou someday.

  But I cannot begin this accounting with the end of the story. I must begin where it started, which is, oddly enough, at the end of an era. This document begins with a transcription of the questioning over a period of days during the weeks following Helene Sorrow’s death. And it ends with a full recounting of the events that followed the hurricane of August 14, 1901, that caused so much devastation. The events herein still shock me to my very core and call into question what is truly right and wrong. The world is, it seems, full of shadowy areas that only the bravest of us can learn to accept. I am not one of those brave souls. But I believe Sr. Vesta was.

  It was June 1, 1901, two years to the day of her arrival. The District Attorney of Tivoli Parish sent me a note stating that its citizens were convinced she had bewitched the Sorrows and were demanding an inquiry.

  Mr. Monroe, as you can imagine, this situation is much too big for our small justice system. I plan on inviting the New Orleans District Attorney to take over the case as the family has stakes in both Tivoli and Orleans Parish. But out of deference to the bond you secured with Edmond, and assuming you will take Sr. Vesta’s case were it to come to that, I am offering you the opportunity to come question her yourself. Once you feel you have built a good defense, we can quiet the growing rage of this community. And if we fail, then you will at least have the opportunity to construct a solid case on her behalf.

  I have instructed Vesta to remain on the Sorrow Estate and have placed an officer at the dock for her protection. I suggest you make arrangements for immediate arrival.

  Regards,

  Clifford Levoy

  I cleared my schedule, packed my valise, and left within the hour.

  Until my trips to the Sorrow Estate became those of mourning, I always looked forward to meeting with Edmond in his bayou paradise. We would walk through the citrus groves and he’d tell me of his many troubles—most revolving around women or money. Edmond was always terrible at managing his finances.

  “You must employ an accountant, or at least a bookkeeper, Edmond. I’m your lawyer, not your financial adviser. I’m quite ignorant when it comes to money matters,” I would tell him repeatedly.

  “Ah, but you cut a fine figure in front of the jury.”

  “Thankfully, your malingering hasn’t ended you up there yet, old boy.”

  “Not yet,” he’d say with that gleam in his eye. As a man that shared his taste for women, whiskey, and gambling—the reason why I was in his employ—I am man enough to admit that Edmond Sorrow could charm the devil.

  As the driver brought me in from New Orleans, I let my mind reminisce over our walks through those lush estate grounds and our boat trips through the wild, forgotten areas of Serafina’s Bayou. But as we crossed into Tivoli Parish, I began to prepare for what would be the first of my sessions with Sister Vesta Grace. I myself was overcome with the loss of that fine, eccentric family. But the pain and anger etched across the faces of the people in Tivoli Proper and ingrained even deeper on the faces of those in the bayou chilled me. Rosella, Edmond’s childhood friend, was kind enough to meet me at Trinity Bridge.

  “Good to see you, Albert.”

  She was always an alarming beauty. Dark hair and dark eyes, but a mystery about her that seemed at once free and in need of capture. She was a woman you looked at and wanted to possess, knowing full well you never quite could.

  “And you, Rosella. Though I wish I could say we’d been estranged for longer. Helene is only a week in the ground, God rest her.”

  “You are here to question our captive nun? She has been graced with such a fine, gilded prison, don’t you think?”

  “You believe she did this? I’m surprised.”

  “I don’t believe it. I know it, Albert. Everyone thinks I’m the witch, my mother, too. All because we hold tight to the old traditions and do terrible, monstrous things like heal people. God forbid you try and help someone these days. But that woman is guilty as sin. And trust me, she knows sin better than anyone. Don’t let her beguile you. She’ll try.”

  We were silent as Rosella deftly moved the pirogue through the low-lying swampy areas. I began to question my decision to wear a suit. The air was as humid and damp as ever, but it held something else, something even more oppressive. It held hate.

  When we reached the long dock that wound up to the white, shell-covered road leading to the Sorrow Estate, Rosella pulled in close but did not tie off the boat.

  “Don’t look so alarmed, Albert. The officer will signal me when you’re ready to come back. I have not set foot on that property since we buried Helene. And I don’t intend to ever set foot on it again.”

  “Merci,” I said.

  “Ça va,” she said, pushing off easily from the dock. Even the ripples in the water seemed to mock me.

  I walked up the path, fanning myself with my hat. Sister Vesta must have seen me coming because she was running down to the gate. I’d always found her pretty. Edmond, when he wrote to me of her arrival, had likened her to Jane Eyre. And I quite agreed. Plain at first and then simply magnificent. There was an officer at the gate, as promised.

  “How do you do, sir?” I asked.

  He nodded at me, more perfunctory than personable, and turned to unlock the chains that held the iron gates together. I remembered when Edmond had them commissioned, not long after he brought Helene home as a new bride. They were made by a local artisan and had crescent moons and stars decorating each ironwork arch. Helene had become hysterical, yelling that she had to endure heathen culture even when she asked for something practical, like a gate. Edmond and I had laughed over that. And it was, of course, his intention to annoy her. He’d wanted to keep the estate open, as it had been since it was built. But
Helene was different, an outsider from Royal Street. She didn’t understand the freedom that came with living in seclusion.

  Sister Vesta looked at me through the bars, waiting for the officer to fumble the lock open. It was more like visiting a client in Angola than I realized. And in that moment, I was scared for her.

  We walked up to the house together, past her whitewashed cottage. She’d lived there the first year of her employ, but as she grew closer to the family, Helene gave her a set of rooms right next to her own.

  “Do you miss it, living there?” I asked as we passed it.

  “Yes. Especially now. It’s terrifying to be up here all alone. But somehow I feel closer to all of them when I’m there. So I spend my days taking care of their things, and I come here to sleep. It’s not a bad arrangement.”

  As we stepped onto the lower gallery of the house, I looked out over Helene’s saint garden to the family plot. Eight raised stones shone in the sun. The marble, still so new, shocking next to the weathered graves of Sorrow ancestors that died appropriately.

  “Too many, too soon. It’s haunting, is it not?” said Sister Vesta.

  “Indeed.”

  “I won’t speak of it, you know. And I know that’s why you’ve come. It seems you may have wasted a trip,” she said as we entered the large front parlor. She had all the windows on both sides open so that the breeze from the front and back galleries made the interior of the home comfortably cool.

  “Won’t speak of what?” I asked.

  “How they died.”

  “Sister Vesta,” I said, placing my valise on the ground and laying my hat down on top of it, “I am not here to accuse you. I am here to help you.”

  “Mr. Monroe, would you care for a drink? I’ve learned to make a wonderful julep.”

  “I would like that very much.” I smiled.

  “Good. Meet me on the back gallery. Oh, and Mr. Monroe?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please call me Vesta. And I’ll call you Albert. I seem to lose a vow each day.”

  What an odd creature, I thought as she went off to fix our drinks.

  When she returned with two drinks in hand, I was already settled on a wicker couch facing the teahouse, right in the center of the larger mouth of the bayou in the back of the house. The arching oaks and magnolias framed the setting sun perfectly.

  “Here you are.” She handed me a glass and then turned, leaning against the baluster to face me. She took a sip of her drink and winced. “I’m still getting used to spirits,” she said. “Both alcoholic and otherwise.”

  “I have to admit, Sister … I mean, Vesta, I’m at a loss. I assure you that the district attorney is not overreacting. If you do not want to talk to me about your opinions and ideas of what may or may not have transpired here, you must at least tell me what you plan to do.”

  “To do?”

  “For example, do you plan on returning to Baltimore?”

  That’s when she laughed. And I tell you her whole face lit up with that laugh.

  “I don’t think they want me, Albert.”

  “So I ask again, with no disrespect, what is it you plan to do?”

  “Die here,” she said. And there wasn’t an ounce of falseness to her declaration.

  “You mustn’t!” I said.

  “Calm down, Albert. There is nothing left for me. I do not take the accusations lightly. I’ve seen what can happen to people when this parish has decided to take the law into their own hands. And I know that is exactly what has happened. So, I’ll stay here for as long as I can, search for Belinda, and when the mob comes for me, they can have me.”

  “This is insanity, Vesta. You did nothing!”

  “How did they die, then?”

  “That is what I’m here to ask you.” I almost ended the statement with “darling” and was reminded of Rosella and her comment about beguiling.

  “Well, if you are here to gather proof of my innocence, then you must have an idea of what actually happened.”

  “It was a bizarre set of accidents! That’s all. A horrifying case of coincidence. But these are people who believe curses, and the fact that the fatalities began right after your arrival two years ago is all the proof they need. What I need from you are facts that can outweigh the fiction they are creating.”

  She turned away from me then and looked out over the sunset that had now turned the entire vista into a vibrant painting of pinks, oranges, and violet.

  “It is Eden here,” she said.

  “It is.”

  “Or perhaps hell. At least, that’s what Helene always thought.”

  “Ah, Helene. She always seemed to be, how shall I put this, tormented.”

  “Oh, she was,” said Vesta with a certainty that made me curious.

  “I must tell you, Vesta, I have toyed with the notion that she may have been the one who was the catalyst for much of what happened. If there is any grain of truth to that idea, tell me what you know and I can clear up this whole mess. You can come back and I will let you have a room at Thirteen Bourbon. You can start life anew.”

  “It was most definitely not Helene,” was her simple, solid answer.

  “How can you be so sure? She wasn’t in her right mind for years. Everyone knew it. It’s part of why you were employed here.”

  “I am sure, Albert, because there isn’t much I don’t know about her. About who she was before she came here, about whom she turned into and why. I was honored to have her so quickly consider me a friend and confidante. Helene was full of longing and loss, but she was not a murderess. And no mother ever loved her children the way Helene loved hers.”

  “Well, if you won’t help me figure out a logical explanation to feed to the hungry masses, why not tell me about Helene? I was always closer to Edmond. Tell me what you know.”

  “Are you planning on staying here for a while, Albert?”

  “I came with my valise, did I not? I intend on staying in Tivoli Parish until I can clear your name.”

  “That won’t happen. But I am glad you planned an extended visit. We will talk about Helene by and by. It will feel good, like she’s with us somehow. And I know she’d want me to tell her story. Sometimes I think learning their stories is the whole reason I came here. As if the future knew the past and needed a translator of sorts. Is that very odd?”

  “Not odd at all.”

  Vesta took a seat next to me, and as she began to speak of Helene, she grew more at ease. The cool evening set in around us as she spoke.

  “Well, let’s begin with the day I arrived and we can skip around a bit.”

  “Yes, that sounds like a good way to proceed.”

  “On the day I arrived, June 1, 1899, Helene was standing in her bedroom window…”

  22

  Heathens and Hoodoo

  Helene Dupuis Sorrow

  Helene watched the children from her window high above the front lawn, saying her rosary. The beads, handcrafted from precious metals, had been handed down through Edmond’s family. He’d given her a set before they were married, and now, all of her daughters had sets as well. Each was different, some with leaf motifs etched onto the beads, some with florals. Helene’s was the largest, the most ornate. And the chain was wrought in the form of vines. She cherished those beads and was never seen without them wrapped around her hand or pinned to the waist of her dress. They helped her remember that the Sorrows, for all their heathen ways, had once been holy.

  Always a devout Catholic, Helene had fallen deeper and deeper into a zealous practice of the faith as she grew more disillusioned with her life as a Sorrow. Her growing fanaticism irritated Edmond. She’d even had a chapel built by knocking down the walls of the staff quarters, which meant that those who worked and lived on the estate before her arrival were forced to move. For Helene, it was a double blessing. First, she would no longer be required to leave the estate to attend mass, which meant she no longer had to take one of those awful little boats through the swamps, then wade through th
e muck of Sweet Meadow, with its foul, fishy smells, or see the Cajun trappers hanging creatures by their feet in the market square. It all soured her stomach so. She’d begged to travel into Tivoli Proper, where the church was grander and reminded her, if only a little, of home. But when Edmond finally gave in, Helene discovered that the journey was an all-day event and that the children fussed too much. Nothing ever turned out the way Helene thought it would. Second, with everyone but her own children and Edmond gone, she no longer had to suffer through those mixed-race lowborns and their sidelong glances. She no longer had to listen to their unhushed whispers about the way she mothered her children, or her fancy ways, or what a terrible choice Edmond had made when he married her. A terrible choice? she’d think. I’m a Dupuis, from New Orleans. Finally one of these Sorrows has gotten it right, not wrong. But it didn’t matter what they thought of her anymore, because ces abrutis, as she called them, would now come and go during the day only, and Helene would not have to worry about their ridiculous judgments or influence over her children.

  Though she never liked to admit it, she’d wanted to marry Edmond from the second she’d seen him. She’d had her doubts before her father introduced them. More than once during her marriage, she’d asked herself why she hadn’t listened to her instincts instead of her heart all those years ago.

  “Papa,” she’d said when she was still a young, vibrant girl growing up in the Quarter. She was confident and spoiled back then, with thick blond hair and a list of suitors a mile long. “Why should I consider this proposal? Alexander Dumond will ask you for my hand any day now. He’s handsome and a good Catholic … and just think! I won’t even have to change the monograms on my linens.”

  They’d been sitting in the garden room of the grand house she’d grown up in on Royal Street. Her father had prepared a fête so that Edmond Sorrow could come and court her properly. He poured a drink for himself and gave her a small glass of cordial, then sat with her under the potted palms.

  “Ma belle chérie, you don’t understand the history. It’s an honor to be invited into the Sorrow family. Tivoli Parish will be all yours. The bayou, the quaint town of Sweet Meadow, the cane fields, and that wonderful building on Thirteen Bourbon. It’s a prized piece of property, you know. Not to mention, you’ll summer on Saint Sabine Isle, the finest and most haut monde retreat on the Gulf. Who could want more?”