The Stars We Walked Upon (Seven Sisters Series Book 5) Read online

  “You know, if you sell the shop, Claudette Page will think she’s won.”

  “Let her think that. What it really means is—what’s that poker term? Oh yes, ‘I’m all in.’”

  He laughed. “I never figured you for a poker player.”

  “It’s a recent hobby I’ve taken up, and I am told I’m quite good at it.”

  “I believe that completely,” he replied, smiling down at me. “So a small home, like a cottage?”

  “Yes, nothing too pricy.”

  “You know, according to Dr. Page’s will, you technically own a few properties near here.”

  “Yes, and if I step foot near one, his sister will have me tossed out before I unpack the first trunk. No, I don’t think I’m ready to go to war. Not yet, Mr. Keene.”

  “I like your spirit, Miss Page.” By his smile, I could tell he meant it. Still, I refused to blush like a teenage virgin. “It is nearly suppertime. Will you do me the honor of having supper with me this evening? We could talk more about what it is you’re looking for, in the way of houses. Did I tell you that the judge who will be hearing your case came in on the train today? I have already taken the liberty of introducing myself to him. I think the high-and-mighty Claudette Page may find this new judge less flexible on the law.”

  “Flexible. That’s a nice word for it,” I huffed, ignoring his question. “Judge Parker barely even heard our case before he ruled against me.” A few people walked down the side street and stared at us, but I had trained myself not to look at their faces. I didn’t even mind that some women saw me and crossed to the other side of the street, as if being illegitimate were a disease to be caught. Mr. Keene didn’t seem to mind at all.

  “You were right to appeal, and you will win. Of that I am sure. The morality law that Judge Parker cited is a relic—almost as much of a relic as the judge himself. I feel sure that by this summer you’ll be sipping lemonade on the porch of some Page property.” He smiled again—it was a nice thing to see.

  Jackson Keene was not overtly handsome, not like Adam with his chiseled, Nordic features, impressive height and fit physique. From working in Maundy’s shop I could take Mr. Keene’s measure without ever putting a tape to him. Barely 5’10”, he had a sturdy medium build with flashing blue eyes and a manicured mustache that hinted at pink lips. I knew for a fact that the ladies enjoyed looking at him because anytime he visited the shop there was a wave of excited chatter after he left and sometimes even while he was there. He was five years my senior but had a young face, and I believed if he ever shaved he’d probably look much younger than he was.

  He paused at the back door of my shop as I pulled the key from my purse. I thanked him for walking me home, but he didn’t leave right away. He stood with his hat in his hand, waiting for my answer to his invitation.

  With a polite smile I answered, “Yes, I will have supper with you. Step inside, Mr. Keene. You can make yourself comfortable in the shop. There are some chairs behind the counter. I would like to tidy up if you don’t mind. I won’t be a minute.”

  “Certainly, I will be happy to wait.” He followed me into the shop, and I walked up the stairs sure that he was watching me. I changed my clothes quickly. Although Adam no longer lived in the apartment with me—he’d moved into the quarter house attached to the shop—it wasn’t beyond him to come stomping up the stairs without warning. Tidying myself as quickly as I could, I scowled at myself in the mirror. Hadn’t I just sworn off men? Here I was, going to dinner with my attorney. Tongues would wag, but weren’t they already? Again rebellion filled my heart.

  What did these people know about me?

  I dipped my fingers in the water basin and smoothed my hair in an attempt to tidy up the curls that sprang up around my face. I had a new gray dress with a thin black ribbon that ran across the top of the bodice. It had a modest neckline with three-quarter sleeves, a bit old fashioned perhaps but perfectly respectable for a business dinner.

  In a few minutes I was ready, but I lingered at the mirror. I was still young and some called me pretty, although it had been a long time since anyone had complimented me on my appearance.

  Like I had so many times since I first read that letter from Dr. Page, I studied my face in the mirror. I wondered whose eyes those were, whose nose? Did my mother have a pretty voice? How did she die? I would never know, but at least I had life. I supposed I should be grateful that I wasn’t abandoned at an orphanage or drowned in a river. With a frown I reached for my perfume and sprayed my hair once before I rejoined my guest.

  I heard Mr. Keene sliding the wooden chair back; it made a hash sound, and I tried not to stare at the scrape on the floor. He walked toward the back door but I stopped him.

  “No, not the back door. Let’s go this way, if you don’t mind.” I waved him to the front. I took the key out of my black satin purse and opened the front door.

  “As you wish.” He followed me out and waited patiently as I fumbled with the key. My black lace glove caught the metal, but I quickly unsnagged myself and locked the door. “You look lovely,” he whispered.

  “Thank you, Mr. Keene. Where are we dining tonight?”

  “Let’s take my carriage. Have you been to Patterson’s yet?”

  “No, I haven’t, but I am quite hungry.” I climbed aboard the carriage and arranged my dress neatly. Mr. Keene sat beside me, and together we rode through town with our heads held high. As we traveled, he told me stories about the war, how various businesses and families had fared and what he thought about the prospects for the city. He had been born in Mississippi but had been in Mobile since the end of the war. I did not think it polite to tell him I probably knew more than he did about Mobile society, as I was Maundy’s friend and was privy to much information. So I listened and nodded appropriately.

  We drove at least twenty minutes, passing the cathedral and the expansive oak groves that lined Dauphin Street. I had not been this far down Dauphin since I was a child, and I could barely remember those times anymore. The carriage turned down an unmarked road, and I suddenly felt a bit panicked. Where were we going? The carriage paused in front of a looming plantation at the end of a wide red dirt lane. As we drew closer, I could see that the house wasn’t completely empty; a few lamps shone through the windows, and gas lamps flickered along the carriageway. Despite the light it didn’t feel like a happy place, not in the least. I shivered and pulled my wrap closer. “Is this Patterson’s? I didn’t know we were going to someone’s home.”

  “You’ve never been here, Miss Page? This is Seven Sisters.”

  I caught my breath. “My mother’s home?”

  “Yes. She moved here from north Alabama when she married Jeremiah Cottonwood. Truth be told, it was her money that kept this house in the Cottonwood name. It’s no secret that her husband could not manage his pocketbook, much less an estate of this size.”

  In a determined voice I said, “I want to go inside.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I had no intention of stopping—I merely wanted you to see the place. I don’t think anyone lives there anymore, except for a few of the former slaves and occasionally some obscure relative. And…not to cast aspersions, Miss Page, but the current resident is probably a Cottonwood and thus is less likely to make you welcome. No offense, of course.”

  “I want to go inside,” I said again as I slid clumsily out of the carriage seat. The red clay dirt crumbled into powder beneath my feet, evidence of the long dry spell Mobile had endured recently. Mr. Keene stepped down beside me and offered me his arm.

  “Let us go and make our acquaintance.” I slid my arm through his and held my breath as the massive front door opened. A tall black man stepped out on the porch. Other faces peered at us from the hallway. My grip on Mr. Keene’s arm tightened as we walked up the steps.

  The attorney called to the man in a friendly voice, “Good evening. We would like to call on the lady or gentleman of the house. I am Jackson Keene, and this is Miss Delilah…Iverson.�
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  “Delilah Page,” I corrected him. I wasn’t going to hide my identity like some criminal. He squeezed my hand gently. The tall man showed no emotion one way or another. His dark eyes revealed nothing.

  “Please come in, sir, ma’am. My name is Stokes. I will tell Miss Cottonwood you are here. I think she’s been expecting you.” With a puzzled look, Mr. Keene followed the man into the house and I trailed behind him. Pulling my gray silk wrap even tighter around my shoulders, I nearly fainted at the sight.

  The house was easily the biggest home I had ever visited. Maundy Weaver’s was nothing in comparison to this place, and I thought her home grand. That was before I set foot in Seven Sisters. Under my feet was a colorful rug with big blue flowers. It looked worn and frayed at the edges, but the floors were neatly kept. A side table held a vase full of dying flowers, the shriveled petals the only flaw in the scene. The place smelled like soap and magnolias. Stokes had walked up the wooden staircase, leaving us to wait in the foyer.

  I saw a small fire burning in the room to my left, and like a moth to a flame I walked toward it. Mr. Keene did not follow me, and I did not seek his permission to go. I still couldn’t believe I was here—at Seven Sisters. This may be the closest I’ll ever be to my mother!

  So many fine things, and yet an overwhelming sadness pervaded the room. It almost made me cry. A small collection of books lay on a round cherrywood table near the fireplace. I couldn’t help but touch them. I thought Miss Cottonwood must like to read, a hobby that I had not taken up faithfully. I read quite well but found that reading for long periods of time made me sleepy. After glancing at the books for a few minutes, I warmed my hands at the fire.

  I heard voices in the foyer but didn’t turn to look. I stepped back from the fire and saw a large portrait hanging on the wall. I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t noticed it when I first came in. The frame was painted gold, and I could see the artist’s signature in the corner: R. Ball.

  It was a portrait of a young woman dressed in a beautiful coral gown. Her shiny brown hair was arranged in a complicated yet flattering hairstyle, and dainty earbobs dangled from her pretty ears. She had a faraway look in her eyes, and on her lips was a hint of a smile. I wondered who she might be. My mother? Some relative I would never know or be able to claim? As if someone were reading my mind, a voice beside me answered my question.

  “That is Calpurnia Cottonwood—the daughter of the late Jeremiah and Christine Cottonwood. From what I understand she was the beauty of the county. She disappeared some time ago, before I was born.”

  I wanted to continue to stare at the portrait, especially now that I knew the woman’s identity. To think this was my sister Calpurnia, and not just a half-sister or a stepsister but my true blood sister, if Dr. Page’s account was to be believed. She was riveting. Still, I couldn’t be rude to my hostess; I had not been invited into this room. The least I could do was be polite.

  Pulling my attention from the portrait, I faced the new lady of the house. Younger than me and not as tall, her voice didn’t quite match her face. Although she was young, she had a deep voice and intelligent hazel eyes. I could tell she didn’t give two figs about her appearance: her clothes were smart but not too stylish, and she wore her dark blond hair in a simple bun. My hostess did not extend her hand or offer a smile. I could sense that she was suspicious, but who could blame her with two strangers showing up at her mansion uninvited? If she did know who I was, then she must think I was crazy or an upstart. Honestly, I didn’t know why I had wanted to come inside. Visiting Seven Sisters had not been on my list of things to do. The idea had never crossed my mind before we arrived there this evening.

  My attorney cleared his throat and offered an explanation. “Please pardon the intrusion, madam. We were just passing by, and the house is such a lovely Mobile landmark that we could not resist visiting it. Let me introduce myself properly. I am Jackson Keene and this is my friend, Delilah Iverson-Page.” I thought I saw her eyes widen a little, but Miss Cottonwood did not comment or ask questions. In fact, she ignored Mr. Keene entirely.

  “Yes,” she said as she stepped toward me, “you have the look of her. I have seen you before—at Miss Weaver’s fitting parlor. Now I remember. But you don’t remember me? My name is Karah Cottonwood.”

  Embarrassed at the slight I stammered, “We see many women on a daily basis. Forgive me if I don’t. Did I work on your dress?”

  She smiled, and I was reminded of that phrase, ‘the cat that ate the canary’. I had a feeling I was the canary. “No, you didn’t work on my dress. I came to place an order with Miss Weaver. We have not been introduced, not officially.” She turned her attention to the portrait. “Is this why you are here? To assess some claim on Seven Sisters?” She finally spoke to Mr. Keene. “You are an attorney, correct?”

  With a courteous wave of his hand, he shook his head. “As Miss Page’s attorney, I can assure you that my client has not expressed any desire to make a claim on Seven Sisters. She was merely curious to see the place, and I must confess she had no idea I was bringing her here. Please accept my apology. It was not my intention to inconvenience you.” Miss Cottonwood listened, but her gaze didn’t leave my face. I felt compelled to speak.

  “I have no such desire.”

  The young lady must have been satisfied with that answer, for she took a deep breath and a sincere smile crossed her face. “Have you had any supper? I was about to take mine, and there is more than enough. Would you two be my guests? I never knew your sister, Miss Page, or the late Mrs. Cottonwood, but I will be happy to answer any of your questions if I can.”

  Now it was my turn to smile. “Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”

  “Follow me.” Miss Cottonwood walked with her hands in front of her. Wherever she was from, she was certainly trained to behave like a lady. An evil thought crossed my mind. What if I did claim the house? Shouldn’t it be partly mine? Miss Cottonwood was living in grand style in this grand house, enjoying my mother’s wealth while I was laboring in the dress shop. Then I instantly felt guilty. My current situation was not Miss Cottonwood’s responsibility or anyone else’s. She had not wronged me.

  We walked down the broad hallway, and I tried not to stare at the oil paintings that filled the walls. We walked to the door and stepped into the most beautiful room I had ever seen. With some pride Miss Cottonwood said, “This is the Blue Room—it is my favorite room in the house. The servants tell me it was once a place for musical concerts and spiritual readings. I think it’s a delightful space.” For the first time I heard youthful excitement in her voice. “Please make yourself welcome while I go tell Docie to set two more plates.” With a polite nod she left us, closing the door behind her.

  “Mr. Keene, have you ever seen anything like this place?” I explored the room, curious to examine every nook and cranny. On one wall a built-in shelf displayed a collection of ceramic puppies. I longed to pick them up and hold each one in my hand. I imagined they felt cool and smooth, but I did not dare. My hostess would not appreciate strangers destroying her property.

  “I can’t say that I have. I have been in some grand old homes, but I have to admit this is the grandest. I hope you hold no grudge toward me because I brought you here without warning. On reflection perhaps this was not a good idea. Perhaps it is wrong to show you all this knowing that you could never claim it.”

  “I am grateful that you did. I would never have had the courage to come here myself. I suppose I could press the issue if I wanted to, but I am happy with what I have—or will have.” Tapping the spines of a collection of books by some obscure author I added, “It’s never been about the money, Mr. Keene. I hope you know that. I want my name. My real name. I want to hold my head up high and introduce myself as Delilah Page. It is what my father wanted, or else he would never have written to me.”

  “Yes, the letter.” His voice dropped. “Let us keep that letter to ourselves, if at all possible.”

  “Why? I’m not ashamed. I am w
ho I am. I’m not less of a person despite my unhappy situation.”

  “No insult to you, Miss Page, but let me remind you that your father confessed to murder in that letter. In fact, I suspect that he did indeed murder Miss Cottonwood’s father.”

  My face paled at the reminder. “I haven’t forgotten that, Mr. Keene.”

  “Please call me Jackson.”

  Before I could argue with him, I heard yelling in the hall. Curious to discover the source of the disturbance, I walked to the door and opened it slightly. The young Miss Cottonwood was arguing with an older woman—a woman I had never seen before. “Just stop it! Do what I ask!” The older woman raised her head and stared at me. Miss Cottonwood spun about and saw me standing there. With a swish of her skirts she left the old woman in the hallway and came toward me, her face a mask of determination.

  “Come, Miss Page. Let’s sit together. Dinner will be here soon.” Leading us to a round table in the corner of the room, she sat as if she were a queen at court. She had a natural elegance, an elegance I admired but did not have. As she and Mr. Keene exchanged pleasantries and talked about Mobile, I stared around the room, silently comparing myself to Miss Cottonwood. I was taller by at least a foot, and my dark hair was prone to curl, while hers was smooth and not as dark. Could it be true that we were related somehow? I wondered what Mr. Keene thought about her. I knew nothing about her, but I was dying to know where she was from and who she was related to. As if she read my mind, Miss Cottonwood said, “I suppose you are both wondering about me.”

  “We do seem to be at a disadvantage. Excuse me for asking, but is that an English accent I detect?”

  “Yes, Mr. Keene. I spent quite a bit of time abroad with my mother before coming to Mobile.”