The Wish Collector
Page 3
She settled herself back in her chair, the old wood squeaking as her eyes met Clara’s once more. “It’s a sugar plantation that was built more than two hundred years ago.” Clara realized she was holding her breath. She released it slowly so as not to distract Mrs. Guillot from her story. “Oh, some call it sacred. And some call it cursed. But everyone does agree that it’s haunted.”
Mrs. Guillot’s brown, gnarled hands gripped the arms of the rocking chair, the wedding ring she still wore glinting in the final vestiges of daylight. “You see, darlin’, a young woman named Angelina Loreaux, broken-hearted by her lover’s betrayal, took her own life in the rose garden, and that is where her restless spirit lingers still, along with the ghost of the man who rejected her, denied eternal peace by the tragic results of his worldly actions.” Mrs. Guillot smiled ruefully. “Though I’ve always thought if such a thing were true—if people are destined to haunt the earth because of their selfish human choices—why, there wouldn’t be any souls in heaven at all.” Mrs. Guillot’s lips tipped, and internally, Clara agreed. No, in that case, she suspected heaven would be quite empty.
“What a heartbreaking story.”
Mrs. Guillot nodded solemnly. “Oh yes.”
“Who was she? Angelina, I mean. Was she the daughter of the plantation owner?”
“Well, yes. Robert Chamberlain was his name. But she was also the daughter of Mama Loreaux, a kitchen slave who bore his illegitimate daughter. Mama Loreaux was a striking woman with dark, perceptive eyes, they say, and known among her fellow slaves to practice a West African form of voodoo passed down by her mother and her grandmother. She used herbs and charms to provide relief from every ailment under the sun. Their daughter, Angelina Loreaux, was a beautiful, spirited child, beloved by her mother and her father. It’s said that Robert Chamberlain was enchanted by his little girl and would rock her on his knee on the front porch of the plantation house . . . much to the chagrin of his wife and legitimate children, who tolerated Angelina though not much more.”
Intrigued, Clara tilted her head in wonder, soaking in every word of the story. How utterly tragic. It stole her breath.
“Angelina grew up in the Chamberlain kitchen under the careful watch of her mother, charming her own family of slaves and visitors to the plantation alike. Quick to laugh, possessing kindness as warm as sunshine, a spirit as delicate as the wings of a hummingbird, and the rare beauty of an exotic flower, she was very easy to love. Or so it’s been said.”
“Where does all this information come from, Mrs. Guillot?”
“Oh, the other slaves who lived at Windisle, I imagine. It’s been passed down through generations. Why, my own grandmother told me the story of Angelina Loreaux and John Whitfield when I was knee-high to a mosquito.” She laughed, the sound melodic and sweet.
“Anyway, the way the story goes, when Angelina was seventeen, she met John Whitfield, a young southern soldier from an extremely wealthy family, who was at the plantation. They spent only a short time together but John became enchanted by the beautiful Angelina.” Mrs. Guillot frowned. “It’s said they both fell in love, but I find it hard to believe due to what occurred later.”
“He betrayed her,” Clara whispered. “And she took her own life.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Guillot nodded. “But before that, they became lovers in secret.”
In secret. Of course, Clara thought. What a completely different world they lived in. Her own problems, her own sadness suddenly seemed . . . well, not minor exactly. But how terrible would it be to fall deeply in love with someone and have to keep it hidden like a shameful secret? It would be unbearable, wouldn’t it? “How did he betray her?” Clara asked, almost afraid to know.
“Well, oh I guess it’d be in 1860 or ’61, John was called to serve in the Civil War. He left Angelina, making promises to return to her. Angelina waited, loving him unendingly, her pure and tender heart filled with hope for the future they'd somehow create together. She must have been a dreamer, that one.” Mrs. Guillot looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps it seemed to her that she'd finally found a place to belong in a world where she felt part of nothing at all.” Mrs. Guillot smiled. “But that’s just my own supposing.”
“It makes sense,” Clara murmured.
Mrs. Guillot frowned. “However, John's heart was not as true, and he sent a note through his family telling Angelina he no longer loved her, and she should forget him as he'd already begun to forget her.”
She started to rock again, the squeaking of the chair breaking the silence that had descended upon the street. The saxophone player had put away his instrument at some point and Clara hadn’t even noticed. “Angelina was shattered and she fled to the rose garden. It was there, the place where she'd first met her beloved, that she took one of her father's razors to her wrists.”
Clara gasped, sorrow flooding her heart, though she’d already been told the outcome.
Mrs. Guillot nodded as if she’d perfectly understood Clara’s small intake of breath. “Yes, I know. Mama Loreaux found her daughter, and they say her keening cry of horror carried on the wind to every corner of Windisle Plantation and far beyond. She held her daughter's sweet head in her arms and cursed the love that had taken her precious girl, calling to the spirits that John never find true love, in this life or the next.”
Mrs. Guillot sighed. “John came home from the war and lived alone until his death, indeed never finding love at all. He was rarely seen in public, and it was said he suffered frequent flashbacks from the war. He contracted tuberculosis in his late thirties and died of the disease shortly thereafter.”
Good! Clara was tempted to say. But she didn’t. It seemed wrong to curse someone who was already dead. And already cursed.
They were both silent for several moments as Clara let the story filter through her mind. She felt somehow taken over by the sad tale, as if it had not only piqued her interest but had wrapped itself around her bones, her very being. “How is the weeping wall tied to the story? And why do people make wishes there?”
Mrs. Guillot’s deeply lined forehead lowered in thought. “From what I remember, it’s believed that John and Angelina's spirits wander the rose garden, even still, unable to find rest, unable to find peace, always seeking the thing that will free them of the burden of their earthly sins. The locals believe that Angelina, somehow tangled up in the curse in a way no one truly knows, will grant a wish to those who slip one through the cracks in the wall surrounding Windisle.”
Mrs. Guillot smiled. “Angelina grants wishes, they say, to encourage more people to come, hoping that one special someone will be able to solve the riddle and break the curse.”
“What riddle?”
Mrs. Guillot frowned again. “Well now, I don’t think I remember exactly how the riddle goes, but I do believe it was spoken by a voodoo priestess at some time or another. You could ask Dory Dupre at the neighborhood library. She’d probably remember or be able to look it up for you.”
Clara smiled, happy to be given a direction in which to learn more about the mystery. “I will. Do you know why it’s called the weeping wall?”
“It’s said that the wall weeps tears for the heartbreak and tragedy that came to pass behind it, for the spirits still trapped within. Now I don’t know about that as the few times I’ve been there, I never witnessed it, but it’s said that it will only stop weeping when John and Angelina's spirits are set free.”
“Who lives there now, Mrs. Guillot?”
“I don’t believe anyone does. It’s been empty for years.”
Clara’s thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of the gate as it opened. An old man holding a cane walked through, removing his hat and smiling bashfully up at Mrs. Guillot. “Bernice, fine evening, isn’t it?”
Clara glanced over at Mrs. Guillot, and though her skin was a beautifully deep mahogany, she swore there was a blush glowing on her wrinkled cheeks.
“Harry.”
Harry glanced at Clara, inclining his head. “I didn’t realize you had company. I was just on my evening stroll and thought I’d drop in and say hi.”
Mrs. Guillot’s brown, gnarled hands gripped the arms of the rocking chair, the wedding ring she still wore glinting in the final vestiges of daylight. “You see, darlin’, a young woman named Angelina Loreaux, broken-hearted by her lover’s betrayal, took her own life in the rose garden, and that is where her restless spirit lingers still, along with the ghost of the man who rejected her, denied eternal peace by the tragic results of his worldly actions.” Mrs. Guillot smiled ruefully. “Though I’ve always thought if such a thing were true—if people are destined to haunt the earth because of their selfish human choices—why, there wouldn’t be any souls in heaven at all.” Mrs. Guillot’s lips tipped, and internally, Clara agreed. No, in that case, she suspected heaven would be quite empty.
“What a heartbreaking story.”
Mrs. Guillot nodded solemnly. “Oh yes.”
“Who was she? Angelina, I mean. Was she the daughter of the plantation owner?”
“Well, yes. Robert Chamberlain was his name. But she was also the daughter of Mama Loreaux, a kitchen slave who bore his illegitimate daughter. Mama Loreaux was a striking woman with dark, perceptive eyes, they say, and known among her fellow slaves to practice a West African form of voodoo passed down by her mother and her grandmother. She used herbs and charms to provide relief from every ailment under the sun. Their daughter, Angelina Loreaux, was a beautiful, spirited child, beloved by her mother and her father. It’s said that Robert Chamberlain was enchanted by his little girl and would rock her on his knee on the front porch of the plantation house . . . much to the chagrin of his wife and legitimate children, who tolerated Angelina though not much more.”
Intrigued, Clara tilted her head in wonder, soaking in every word of the story. How utterly tragic. It stole her breath.
“Angelina grew up in the Chamberlain kitchen under the careful watch of her mother, charming her own family of slaves and visitors to the plantation alike. Quick to laugh, possessing kindness as warm as sunshine, a spirit as delicate as the wings of a hummingbird, and the rare beauty of an exotic flower, she was very easy to love. Or so it’s been said.”
“Where does all this information come from, Mrs. Guillot?”
“Oh, the other slaves who lived at Windisle, I imagine. It’s been passed down through generations. Why, my own grandmother told me the story of Angelina Loreaux and John Whitfield when I was knee-high to a mosquito.” She laughed, the sound melodic and sweet.
“Anyway, the way the story goes, when Angelina was seventeen, she met John Whitfield, a young southern soldier from an extremely wealthy family, who was at the plantation. They spent only a short time together but John became enchanted by the beautiful Angelina.” Mrs. Guillot frowned. “It’s said they both fell in love, but I find it hard to believe due to what occurred later.”
“He betrayed her,” Clara whispered. “And she took her own life.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Guillot nodded. “But before that, they became lovers in secret.”
In secret. Of course, Clara thought. What a completely different world they lived in. Her own problems, her own sadness suddenly seemed . . . well, not minor exactly. But how terrible would it be to fall deeply in love with someone and have to keep it hidden like a shameful secret? It would be unbearable, wouldn’t it? “How did he betray her?” Clara asked, almost afraid to know.
“Well, oh I guess it’d be in 1860 or ’61, John was called to serve in the Civil War. He left Angelina, making promises to return to her. Angelina waited, loving him unendingly, her pure and tender heart filled with hope for the future they'd somehow create together. She must have been a dreamer, that one.” Mrs. Guillot looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps it seemed to her that she'd finally found a place to belong in a world where she felt part of nothing at all.” Mrs. Guillot smiled. “But that’s just my own supposing.”
“It makes sense,” Clara murmured.
Mrs. Guillot frowned. “However, John's heart was not as true, and he sent a note through his family telling Angelina he no longer loved her, and she should forget him as he'd already begun to forget her.”
She started to rock again, the squeaking of the chair breaking the silence that had descended upon the street. The saxophone player had put away his instrument at some point and Clara hadn’t even noticed. “Angelina was shattered and she fled to the rose garden. It was there, the place where she'd first met her beloved, that she took one of her father's razors to her wrists.”
Clara gasped, sorrow flooding her heart, though she’d already been told the outcome.
Mrs. Guillot nodded as if she’d perfectly understood Clara’s small intake of breath. “Yes, I know. Mama Loreaux found her daughter, and they say her keening cry of horror carried on the wind to every corner of Windisle Plantation and far beyond. She held her daughter's sweet head in her arms and cursed the love that had taken her precious girl, calling to the spirits that John never find true love, in this life or the next.”
Mrs. Guillot sighed. “John came home from the war and lived alone until his death, indeed never finding love at all. He was rarely seen in public, and it was said he suffered frequent flashbacks from the war. He contracted tuberculosis in his late thirties and died of the disease shortly thereafter.”
Good! Clara was tempted to say. But she didn’t. It seemed wrong to curse someone who was already dead. And already cursed.
They were both silent for several moments as Clara let the story filter through her mind. She felt somehow taken over by the sad tale, as if it had not only piqued her interest but had wrapped itself around her bones, her very being. “How is the weeping wall tied to the story? And why do people make wishes there?”
Mrs. Guillot’s deeply lined forehead lowered in thought. “From what I remember, it’s believed that John and Angelina's spirits wander the rose garden, even still, unable to find rest, unable to find peace, always seeking the thing that will free them of the burden of their earthly sins. The locals believe that Angelina, somehow tangled up in the curse in a way no one truly knows, will grant a wish to those who slip one through the cracks in the wall surrounding Windisle.”
Mrs. Guillot smiled. “Angelina grants wishes, they say, to encourage more people to come, hoping that one special someone will be able to solve the riddle and break the curse.”
“What riddle?”
Mrs. Guillot frowned again. “Well now, I don’t think I remember exactly how the riddle goes, but I do believe it was spoken by a voodoo priestess at some time or another. You could ask Dory Dupre at the neighborhood library. She’d probably remember or be able to look it up for you.”
Clara smiled, happy to be given a direction in which to learn more about the mystery. “I will. Do you know why it’s called the weeping wall?”
“It’s said that the wall weeps tears for the heartbreak and tragedy that came to pass behind it, for the spirits still trapped within. Now I don’t know about that as the few times I’ve been there, I never witnessed it, but it’s said that it will only stop weeping when John and Angelina's spirits are set free.”
“Who lives there now, Mrs. Guillot?”
“I don’t believe anyone does. It’s been empty for years.”
Clara’s thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of the gate as it opened. An old man holding a cane walked through, removing his hat and smiling bashfully up at Mrs. Guillot. “Bernice, fine evening, isn’t it?”
Clara glanced over at Mrs. Guillot, and though her skin was a beautifully deep mahogany, she swore there was a blush glowing on her wrinkled cheeks.
“Harry.”
Harry glanced at Clara, inclining his head. “I didn’t realize you had company. I was just on my evening stroll and thought I’d drop in and say hi.”
