The Bourbon Kings
Page 130
Miss Aurora shook her head. “You’re looking at it the wrong way.”
“I’m really not.”
Miss Aurora sat forward in her chair and reached for his hands. “This is … your time, Lane. God has provided you with a sacred duty to keep this family together. You are the only one who can do it. This is all falling into place because it is your destiny to bind the blood once again. It happens every couple of generations. It’s happening now. This is your time.”
Lane stared down at their fingers, the white and dark intertwined. “It was supposed to be Edward, you know.”
“No, or he wouldn’t be where he is right now.” Miss Aurora’s voice gathered strength. “I raised you better than to be a coward, Lane. I raised you better than to leave your duty at the exit door. If you want to honor me when I’m gone, you will do it by taking this family and moving them forward—together. I did my sacred job with you—and you, son of my heart, are going to do it with them.”
Lane closed his eyes and felt a sudden weight settle all over his body, as if Easterly’s walls and roof had caved in and landed on him.
“You will do this, Lane, for me. Because if you don’t, everything I put into you means nothing. If you don’t, I have failed in my job.”
Inside, he was screaming.
Inside, he was already on a plane, going anywhere away from Charlemont.
“God does not give us more than we can handle,” she said grimly.
But what if God doesn’t really know us, Lane thought to himself. Or worse … what if God was just plain wrong?
“I don’t know, Miss Aurora.”
“Well, I do. And you are not going to let me down, son. You simply are not.”
FORTY-NINE
The true definition of eternity, Lizzie decided, was when you were stuck somewhere you shouldn’t be.
With a camisole that wasn’t your own, shoved down your damn shorts.
When the sounds of people in the hall finally quieted, she waited another five or ten minutes before she poked her head out.
Lunchtime, she thought. Thank God.
Jumping into the middle of the hallway, she let the door close behind her and stayed where she was, listening.
Next stop was going down past Gin’s room and knocking on Chantal’s door.
No answer. Then again, the woman had left, right?
Sneaking inside, she shut herself in—
“Oh, God,” she muttered, fanning in front of her nose.
The stench of fancy perfume was enough to make her eyes water, but she had bigger fish to fry, as they say. Hightailing it into Chantal’s walk-in closet, she faced off at a wardrobe big enough to rival an entire Nordstrom’s women’s department. Or Saks. Or whatever high-end place folks like Chantal got their clothes from.
Jeez, was she actually going to do this?
It was probably a really dumb idea, she decided as she began rifling through the hanging sections, breezing past all manner of silk and satin and lace. Then came the suits, the jackets, the dresses, the gowns.
“Where is your lingerie, Chantal …”
Of course. The dresser.
In the middle of the room, like an island of organization, there was a built-in stretch of double-faced drawers, and she started pulling them open at random.
Okay, this is stupid, she thought. Did she really think she was going to find the bottoms—
She was third drawer from the bottom of the left side on the north-facing part when she found what she was looking for.
Sort of.
In the midst of a line-up of carefully folded and tissue-paper-separated slips and matching panties, she found … a purple camisole that was identical to the one she had taken from behind William Baldwine’s bed.
Just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things, she took the peach one out and put them both side by side on the thick white carpeting. Same size, same maker—La Perla?—same everything except for the color.
Lizzie sat back on her butt and stared at the two.
And that was when she saw the stain on the rug.
Over in the far end of the room, there was a make-up vanity that was lined up in a windowed alcove that overlooked the gardens. It was the perfect place to do your makeup—or have it done—in natural light.
And under the ivory legs, in the corner, there was an unsightly yellow stain in a circle.
It was the kind of thing you’d find in a house with dogs.
Except Easterly had no dogs.
Crab walking over, she wedged herself under a second piece of furniture and patted at the discoloration. It was dry. But as she brought her fingertips to her nose—yup, that was the source of the perfume smell in the air.
Frowning, Lizzie rose up onto her knees. “Oh … God.”
The glass-covered surface of the vanity had a crack down the center. And the mirror was smashed in a starburst pattern.
With blood in the center.
Time to get out of here, she thought to herself.
Going back to the lingerie she’d laid out, she returned the purple one to where it had been. And then on a lark, she used the peach silk to clean her fingerprints off the drawer pulls.
All of them.
The last thing she needed was for the police to come in here and find out she’d been sniffing around, so to speak—
Lizzie froze at the sound of a man’s voice. Except it wasn’t in the wardrobe with her. It was next door—Gin’s room, she realized.
Two people were talking. Loudly.
Going over, she put her ear to the wall beside a painting of a French woman who was mostly nude.
“I’m really not.”
Miss Aurora sat forward in her chair and reached for his hands. “This is … your time, Lane. God has provided you with a sacred duty to keep this family together. You are the only one who can do it. This is all falling into place because it is your destiny to bind the blood once again. It happens every couple of generations. It’s happening now. This is your time.”
Lane stared down at their fingers, the white and dark intertwined. “It was supposed to be Edward, you know.”
“No, or he wouldn’t be where he is right now.” Miss Aurora’s voice gathered strength. “I raised you better than to be a coward, Lane. I raised you better than to leave your duty at the exit door. If you want to honor me when I’m gone, you will do it by taking this family and moving them forward—together. I did my sacred job with you—and you, son of my heart, are going to do it with them.”
Lane closed his eyes and felt a sudden weight settle all over his body, as if Easterly’s walls and roof had caved in and landed on him.
“You will do this, Lane, for me. Because if you don’t, everything I put into you means nothing. If you don’t, I have failed in my job.”
Inside, he was screaming.
Inside, he was already on a plane, going anywhere away from Charlemont.
“God does not give us more than we can handle,” she said grimly.
But what if God doesn’t really know us, Lane thought to himself. Or worse … what if God was just plain wrong?
“I don’t know, Miss Aurora.”
“Well, I do. And you are not going to let me down, son. You simply are not.”
FORTY-NINE
The true definition of eternity, Lizzie decided, was when you were stuck somewhere you shouldn’t be.
With a camisole that wasn’t your own, shoved down your damn shorts.
When the sounds of people in the hall finally quieted, she waited another five or ten minutes before she poked her head out.
Lunchtime, she thought. Thank God.
Jumping into the middle of the hallway, she let the door close behind her and stayed where she was, listening.
Next stop was going down past Gin’s room and knocking on Chantal’s door.
No answer. Then again, the woman had left, right?
Sneaking inside, she shut herself in—
“Oh, God,” she muttered, fanning in front of her nose.
The stench of fancy perfume was enough to make her eyes water, but she had bigger fish to fry, as they say. Hightailing it into Chantal’s walk-in closet, she faced off at a wardrobe big enough to rival an entire Nordstrom’s women’s department. Or Saks. Or whatever high-end place folks like Chantal got their clothes from.
Jeez, was she actually going to do this?
It was probably a really dumb idea, she decided as she began rifling through the hanging sections, breezing past all manner of silk and satin and lace. Then came the suits, the jackets, the dresses, the gowns.
“Where is your lingerie, Chantal …”
Of course. The dresser.
In the middle of the room, like an island of organization, there was a built-in stretch of double-faced drawers, and she started pulling them open at random.
Okay, this is stupid, she thought. Did she really think she was going to find the bottoms—
She was third drawer from the bottom of the left side on the north-facing part when she found what she was looking for.
Sort of.
In the midst of a line-up of carefully folded and tissue-paper-separated slips and matching panties, she found … a purple camisole that was identical to the one she had taken from behind William Baldwine’s bed.
Just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things, she took the peach one out and put them both side by side on the thick white carpeting. Same size, same maker—La Perla?—same everything except for the color.
Lizzie sat back on her butt and stared at the two.
And that was when she saw the stain on the rug.
Over in the far end of the room, there was a make-up vanity that was lined up in a windowed alcove that overlooked the gardens. It was the perfect place to do your makeup—or have it done—in natural light.
And under the ivory legs, in the corner, there was an unsightly yellow stain in a circle.
It was the kind of thing you’d find in a house with dogs.
Except Easterly had no dogs.
Crab walking over, she wedged herself under a second piece of furniture and patted at the discoloration. It was dry. But as she brought her fingertips to her nose—yup, that was the source of the perfume smell in the air.
Frowning, Lizzie rose up onto her knees. “Oh … God.”
The glass-covered surface of the vanity had a crack down the center. And the mirror was smashed in a starburst pattern.
With blood in the center.
Time to get out of here, she thought to herself.
Going back to the lingerie she’d laid out, she returned the purple one to where it had been. And then on a lark, she used the peach silk to clean her fingerprints off the drawer pulls.
All of them.
The last thing she needed was for the police to come in here and find out she’d been sniffing around, so to speak—
Lizzie froze at the sound of a man’s voice. Except it wasn’t in the wardrobe with her. It was next door—Gin’s room, she realized.
Two people were talking. Loudly.
Going over, she put her ear to the wall beside a painting of a French woman who was mostly nude.
