The Sun Rises Over Seven Sisters

  The Sun Rises Over Seven Sisters

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2016 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication

  To the ghosts of the South, we remember you.

  MIDNIGHT has come, and the great Christ Church Bell

  And may a lesser bell sound through the room;

  And it is All Souls’ Night,

  And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel

  Bubble upon the table.

  A ghost may come;

  For it is a ghost’s right,

  His element is so fine

  Being sharpened by his death,

  To drink from the wine-breath

  While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.

  —William Butler Yeats

  “All Souls’ Night”

  Autumn 1920

  Prologue—Isla

  This morning’s chilly air had long since evaporated, replaced by the pungent fragrance of the nearby docks. No cool breeze blew off the water. Not one strong enough to wind through the stale rooms of the Holy Angels Sanitarium. I supposed building the hospital near the Mobile Bay was meant to soothe the facility’s patients, but it did not bring that kind of relief for me. The eternal slapping of the water on the shore and the constant churning of the steamboats passing by made me think of my Sweet Captain.

  Oh, mon amour! How I miss you! Rescue me, my darling! Take me in your arms once again!

  Never had I met a man so beautiful and amiable. So far above all others. Until he failed, and then all of heaven wept at his fall. I was sure some lovely angel with long limbs and golden skin was loving him even now, and the thought of it filled me with anger all over again. Yes, in the end he had been like all the others. Unfaithful to the bone was he, and the fact I missed him so only reflected on my poor character.

  Yet, I did miss him. Especially during the quiet moments of the day. Wouldn’t any wife miss her husband? Even an unfaithful one?

  I could not think of him now. Not with so much to plan.

  I would never give up my claim on Seven Sisters. It was mine now, that and the Beaumont fortune. They would both be mine! I clamped my lips together in determination.

  One of the dull girls who shared a room with me—Angela, I believe her name was—muffled a cry at the sight of my grimaced face, but she did not speak to me. She knew better. Yes, she had learned that quickly, in spite of her madness. We shuffled down the hall to eat our morning meal, looking like a string of prostitutes, our hair unbound, gowns hanging loosely. The guards made the women here surrender their ribbons and corset ties for fear we might hang ourselves. Who ever heard of doing yourself in with a corset ribbon? I could not imagine ever doing such a thing, but then I was not the kind of woman to take her own life. I might be compelled to take the lives of others. Whenever necessary.

  I had a clever mind, but I would remove anyone who stood in my way. It was as simple as that. I tried to explain all this to the physician. When I saw I shocked him, I used my prettiest pout and even twisted my hair playfully, but he was not moved. After a few hours of constant interviewing, I told him what I thought about him and demanded that he release me.

  “My dear lady, I did not put you here. You are a ward of the city now and due to stand trial. Only the judge can issue a release, so I suggest you make yourself comfortable. Take time to reflect upon your deeds, and perhaps the judge will have mercy on you.” I knocked over his ink well and slapped his papers around before he yelled for the guard. Upon later reflection I realized that I had been foolish to act so rashly, but I felt sure I could persuade Dr. Hannah to petition the court on my behalf. I was still pretty. I had charms and skills that many women did not. From that day forward I did not stir up the staff or the other patients. Not openly, at any rate.

  After stuffing a piece of dry biscuit into my mouth and swallowing a few gulps of water, I walked into the open yard looking for a quiet place where I could sit alone. How I longed to have a meal that required a knife and fork. Never would I enjoy that here. I could not abide the company of such madwomen! Even now they were behaving like idiot children. One of them, a tall, thin wisp of a woman, slapped her own face constantly. She had near permanent red marks on her cheeks. Most days, a guard would eventually tire of her self-destruction and tie her hands together. Then she would sit and moan and whine until bedtime. If anyone cared to listen, they would hear her repeat the same phrase, “My boy, Dimitri. My boy, Dimitri.” She had a heavy Russian accent; I had heard it before during my travels with my captain!

  Oh, David! How I miss you! What will become of me now, my love?

  Another patient always pulled at the hem of her sleeve or dress. She pulled away inches of fabric every day and seemed absolutely riveted by the destruction. In the short time I had been at Holy Angels Sanitarium, she had been issued two garments, both essentially sacks made to look like dresses. I did not think she minded much because she quickly unwound them and then sat naked, crying that she had nothing to do. Mrs. Ambrosia, she was called, and she appeared as if she would come sit by me this morning with her missing sleeve and hem to the knees. I hissed at her under my breath to discourage her without making an open fuss. She took the hint and wandered off in the other direction, tugging at the string on her sleeve.

  Now, where was I? I said to no one in particular. I stared at the nearby waters of the Mobile Bay from behind the cast-iron bars. I made plans for after this unnecessary excursion. A girl had to have plans, didn’t she? I was always a girl with a plan. I would demand, pleasantly, to see the physician tomorrow. I would apologize most humbly and explain to him the great distress I had been in since the death of my husband. He would understand. Men always understood pretty faces.

  I frowned into the sun and closed my eyes. Where had Docie been? She had visited me only once, and even then she acted as if she did not want to linger too long. I suspected my former maid had vanished—probably with my remaining fortune. That would be a mistake for her. I treasured loyalty above all things.

  The sound of mewing pulled me back to my present circumstance. I had seen the kitten before, but it had not amused me to help it in any way. Fortunately for the lost feline, my situation had changed. I knelt on the ground near the fence and pulled a few biscuit crumbs from my pocket. I knew the guard was watching me, for he always watched me, but thus far he had been careful to keep his distance and had not spoken to me directly. He was a portly man with a bushy brown mustache and thinning hair. Just from observing him I could tell he was secretive and quiet. Those men were the most dangerous kind because they were hard to predict and sometimes hard to please, but he did not frighten me. I pushed the biscuit pieces through the metal bars and spoke sweetly to the animal. Hunger drove it to trust me at least long enough to accept my offerings. It was a sad-looking tabby cat, underweight with missing patches of hair. I did not imagine it would live very long, but anything was possible.

  After it got a taste of the biscuit, it naturally wanted more. I pretended I had not noticed the guard step closer to observe me. I held another piece of biscuit out for the kitten to see but put it in my lap. I let the loose gown fall from my shoulder, exposing my skin. Since I was pretending that I did not see the guard, I did not bother to tug it back into place. I kept my eyes on the kitten, who was not cooperating too well. If it wanted something to eat, it would have to take a chance. “It’s okay, Mr. Buttons,” I purred loudly enough for the guard to hear, “you can trust me.”

  “What do you plan on doing with that animal? You cannot bring it in here, miss.”

  Artfully placing my dainty hand over my eyes, I peered into his face with my most innocent expre
ssion. “Oh no, sir. I have no intention of keeping him. I only meant to help him along a bit. Look how small and helpless he is.”

  “Keep that cat out of the yard, miss.”

  “Oh, have I broken a rule, sir?” I turned my upper body, arching my back slightly, and my hand flew to my mouth as if I were surprised. “Forgive me. May I toss the last of my crumbs to the poor thing?”

  He shuffled his feet and hesitated but finally said, “Yes, you may.”

  “Thank you, sir. Here, Mr. Buttons.”

  I tossed the crumbs through the gate and stood clumsily, pretending I might trip and fall on my loose gown. His hands quickly went out to steady me, and I did not push them away. “Again, I thank you,” I whispered as a small smile spread across my face. I did not meet his eyes but looked at his hand as he removed it nervously. This was too easy. I did not know yet what my plan was, but I felt sure that if I needed to, I would be able to call upon the very helpful guard. Who knows? Maybe Dr. Hannah would not see reason and release me. In that case, I would need help from someone else. I left the guard to watch me walk away, looking back once over my shoulder to give him a demure smile. I picked up the skirts of my untied dress just as I would if I were climbing the steps at Seven Sisters.

  He did not follow me. The lady warden, a stern woman named Miss Calypso, came toward me, her shiny black kid boots clicking on the grimy floor. “Miss Beaumont, you have a visitor.”

  “I have a visitor?” I could not hide my surprise.

  “Your mother has come to see you. Straighten your dress and make yourself presentable. As presentable as you get, anyway. The physician has given you permission to sit in the private yard to speak with her. This way, miss.”

  I thanked Miss Calypso politely and followed her. How clever of Docie to claim to be my mother! Surely she could manage that disguise! She had seen me on the stage for years pretending to be Ophelia, Lady Macbeth and a dozen other characters. I smiled more, thinking of what her choice of disguise might be. Would she have colored her hair? Surely she would not have borrowed a gown, for she did not fit into my clothes at all.

  I stepped through the physician’s office, and he greeted me briefly. I could tell by his suspicious look and tone that he had not yet forgiven me for my outburst the week before. The lady warden opened the door that led to the doctor’s private garden. It was a meager garden at best, but it did have a pleasant shade tree, a young magnolia, two benches and a few scant patches of Bourbon roses. My eyes were on none of these but on the woman who sat on the farthest bench. Her cold blue eyes clamped on my face. This was certainly not Docie, and I could not place her although she was familiar to me in some way. Perhaps she was a fan of my work? I smiled pleasantly, but it was not returned. She studied me as she rose from her peaceful spot in the shade of the tree. She came closer, and the unsettled feeling climbed up my spine.

  This woman was my mother.

  There we stood appraising one another, not in an overtly threatening manner, just curious. One would have imagined that I would have questions, and perhaps someone other than myself would have been overwhelmed with love or sadness. I experienced none of those things. It did not occur to me to wonder what she might be thinking. Did that matter? I knew one thing—she had been a fool for sending me away. I was beautiful, intelligent and clever at solving puzzles.

  Olivia Beaumont had a chiseled, lovely face for an older woman. She must have been at least forty, but she was far lovelier than her sister Christine had been. Olivia had dark blond hair that appeared to have been tinted recently, perhaps to hide silver strands? I smiled at that. She wore it in an upswept, feminine fashion like the women in London. Her hairstyle held plenty of decorative pins, and she wore carefully placed curls at her neck and ears.

  I wondered what she would do if I told her about her brother, how he died beaten in the head with a garden curiosity by his brother-in-law’s young black lover. Worm food now, I suppose. Would she collapse into a pile and whimper as her fragile sister had? I knew she would not. She was not a frail thing but someone with a will and soul of steel, despite her lacy appearance.

  Her lips were carefully painted a dark color, but it did not make her look a whore. It made her light blue eyes lovelier and more expressive. At her ears were modest pearls, and her gown was also in the London style with a smaller bustle than the hoopskirts we Southern women were forced to endure. So was she more than a fashion plate? She appeared wealthy and lovely, like a great woman should. I wondered how she came to be here. Who had summoned her to the Holy Angels Sanitarium?

  There we were, mother and daughter, standing in a sparse garden and silently staring at one another. I suddenly felt foolish for looking so out of sorts. When had I last bathed? When had I washed my hair? She seemed not to notice those things but instead focused on my face.

  “Ah, thank you for waiting, ladies. I did not mean to be so long.” It was Dr. Hannah, the tall, fleshy physician with the white hair and the monocle. His pale skin had a touch of pinkness, like a baby’s or an albino rat’s. I suppressed a giggle at the thought of Dr. Hannah as a rat. Olivia stared at me, her blue eyes like two glass marbles that could see right through me. I quieted and sat with my hands folded in my lap, just as I had learned from Christine and Calpurnia.

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Torrence. How disappointing that I will not meet your husband. Typhoid, is it? Very nasty illness, that. If I were you, I would keep far away from home until he is completely clear of the disease.”

  Abruptly she stood and interrupted his speech. “Would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with Isla? As you can imagine, we have many private things to speak of.”

  With a serious pursing of his lips he answered her, “Certainly, Mrs. Torrence. I will be in the office if you need me. I would like to speak to the two of you together, but there is no need to hurry. Take your time.”

  “In fact—Dr. Hannah, is it? We will not be speaking with you at all, today or any other day. This is for you.” She handed the man a scroll of papers. He could not hide his surprise as he scanned the documents.

  “Everything looks to be in order, but I am afraid I haven’t yet completed my examination of Miss Beaumont. This is most irregular.” His objections availed him nothing, and he knew it after a few more stern looks. “Will you be leaving right away?” Olivia stared at him as if he were the mental patient. He sputtered and stammered, “Yes, of course you will be. Very well, I will ask the warden to collect your daughter’s things. Good day to you then, Mrs. Torrence.” She did not smile or thank him, just watched him disappear back into the white painted building.

  I marveled at the whole thing. I had planned to seduce my way to freedom, but Olivia wielded a power I had never seen before, all without saying please or smiling even once. I wanted to learn how to use this power. I wondered if she would share it with me.

  “Now you and I need to talk.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I said sweetly.

  “Drop the act. Do not call me Mother. I am not your mother. I am your aunt. You may call me Mrs. Torrence.”

  Now I felt like Dr. Hannah, completely unprepared to withstand Olivia’s stare and authoritative manner.

  “Your mother was a common street woman from New Orleans, a woman who convinced my brother that he was your father. He was foolish to believe so, but he did.”

  “What do you mean you are not my mother? I have always been told that you were. How can this be wrong?” I frowned in suspicion.

  “I am not. I would think I would know whether or not you were mine.” No smile, no expression of sadness or regret. No expression at all. To her, this was a boring conversation forced upon her by the judge who had summoned her to speak on my behalf. Or so I assumed.

  “Then why the charade with the judge and the physician?”

  “Why not? It is what they believe, so who am I to tell them different? I refuse to share family gossip with them or shame my family further.”

  I stepped toward her, uncaring that my
gown had fallen off my shoulder again. “What about the shame it brought on you? Having a cast-off child, having me believe you did not want me as your daughter.”

  “It is my brother who should feel the shame. On the other hand, he is dead, so I doubt he feels much of anything.” I gasped at her total lack of concern for my feelings on this matter. “Are you going to cry now? If so, do me the courtesy of waiting until we are in the carriage. I cannot abide public outbursts.”

  Sniffing away the wash of emotions, I answered her confidently, “I will not make a fuss.”

  She appraised me again. “I should leave you here. I am sure you could finagle your way out if you chose to. Probably already have a plan, don’t you?”

  I should never have admitted it, but I nodded slowly.

  “Yes, you are your father’s child. Scheming and planning. Let us go now.”

  “Where are we going, Mrs. Torrence?”

  “To Seven Sisters, of course. I want to see what’s become of my sister’s fortune. You sure have made a mess of things, haven’t you?” She walked toward the door, but I had to correct her. I had done everything—everything imaginable—to keep the family fortune. I would not let this slight pass.

  “No! Your sister did that by having two children out of wedlock. Cottonwood knew all about it. However…” I smiled proudly here. I was anxious for her to respect me. No need to wait. Let us establish the facts now, I told myself. “He has left everything to his rightful heir, my own daughter, Karah Cottonwood.”

  Olivia’s hard stare elicited another sentence from my lips. It was probably not wise to say aloud, but the words came anyway. “That leaves nothing to the Beaumonts, I’m afraid.”

  “Is that what you truly believe?” she asked, her face a pretty, unemotional mask. It wasn’t really a question; it was more of a challenge. “My carriage is outside.” She walked into the office, down the hall and out the door without looking back once. Good thing for her she didn’t. I stuck out my tongue at her at least a half dozen times during the trek to the entrance. To my surprise the raggedy-looking tabby cat waited for us as if he too wanted to escape. He rubbed against my leg as if I were his only friend. Perhaps I was. More was the pity for him.