The Wish Collector
Page 4
Clara stood, grabbing her bag. “Actually, I really should go. I have an early morning.” She leaned over and kissed Mrs. Guillot’s cheek, her papery skin as soft as velvet. “Thank you so much for telling me the story.”
“I don’t have a lot left, but I’m full to the brim with stories.” Mrs. Guillot laughed. “You go slip a wish or two through the cracks in that wall,” she said softly. “And say hi to Angelina for me.”
Clara nodded and shot a grin over her shoulder as she walked down the steps. “I will.”
“Oh and Clara dear,” Mrs. Guillot called. “I’ll have some more of that homemade liniment for you next time you stop by.”
Clara suppressed a grimace, smiling back at the sweet old woman. “Thank you, Mrs. Guillot.” She nodded at Harry as she moved past him, noting that he was looking pretty dapper in his pressed shirt and fedora for a simple evening walk. “Have a good evening, you two.”
**********
That Sunday, Clara woke up bright and early and walked the ten blocks to the library.
She’d been turning over the story of Windisle in her mind ever since Mrs. Guillot had told her about it several days before. Clara had become captivated—perhaps even a little obsessed—with the tale of heartbreak and misery that had occurred more than a hundred and fifty years before. She thought about it as she rode the bus to and from the ballet, she thought about it as she drifted off to sleep at night, and she even thought about it as she danced, the whispers of the other ballerinas becoming mere background noise.
She was no longer distracted by them, her mind instead focused inward on a beautiful girl who had a smile like the sunshine and a spirit as delicate as a hummingbird’s wings. What had her life been like? Had it been filled with suffering even before the betrayal that caused her to take her own life? And what dark secrets lay behind that wall?
Perhaps the intensity of Clara’s focus on the legend had as much to do with her loneliness that summer as with the intrigue of the tale. But she also felt this strange pull inside whenever she thought of Windisle. Whatever the reason, she wanted to know more.
The small library was dim and quiet, and as Clara entered she paused, inhaling deeply of the unmistakable smell of old books—aged paper and souls cast in ink.
There were a few people browsing the shelves quietly, but even on a Sunday, the space was mostly empty. Clara spotted an older woman with a cart next to her re-shelving books and walked to where she was. “Excuse me?”
The tiny old woman turned, smiling. She looked to be in her nineties at least, a pair of glasses hanging on a chain around her neck, her poof of white hair a startling contrast to her rich brown skin. “May I help you?”
“Are you Dory Dupre?”
“I am.”
“Oh good.” Clara smiled, extending her hand. “I’m Clara Campbell. Mrs. Guillot suggested I should come speak to you.”
“Oh, how is Bernice?”
Clara’s smile grew. “She’s very good.”
“Wonderful to hear. Now what subject did you want to speak to me about?”
“Windisle Plantation.”
A shadow moved across Ms. Dupre’s face, her wrinkles seeming to tighten for a brief moment. She shook her head. “Tragic tale.”
“Yes,” Clara breathed. “Mrs. Guillot told me what she knew, but she wasn’t able to answer all my questions.”
“Ah. Follow me. I’ll see if I can fill in some blanks.”
Clara followed the elderly librarian to a round table near the checkout counter, and they both sat down. “May I ask why you’re interested in Windisle, dear?”
Clara glanced to the side, considering the question. “Truthfully, Ms. Dupre, I’m not entirely sure. Mrs. Guillot told me the story, and I can’t seem to get it out of my mind.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s an intriguing story. And so much mystery.” She smiled. “And who knows, maybe you’ll be the one to solve the riddle and set Angelina free. Do you believe in curses, dear?”
Clara laughed softly. “I don’t know that I believe in curses, but I’d love to hear the riddle if you remember it.”
“Oh, I remember it well. I heard it spoken in person by the voodoo priestess herself.”
Clara’s eyes widened in surprise. “You did?”
“Oh yes. It was first said at a party held at Windisle Manor in 1934. Now, that was back when the Chamberlain family still occupied it and threw lavish soirees. I was only fourteen but my sister got me a job working for the catering company at that gathering. Prentiss Chamberlain and his wife, Dixie, asked an old, blind voodoo priestess to attend.” She paused. “From what I knew, the Chamberlain family never did put much stock in the belief that ghosts roamed their property—though there were always rumors that guests to the house reported seeing ghostly apparitions, especially near the rose garden. But in any case, Prentiss and Dixie Chamberlain were happy enough to use the legend as entertainment, and for that reason, the priestess was invited.”
Ms. Dupre looked off behind Clara, her gaze growing distant as she looked into the past. “The priestess sat in a red velvet chair and the crowd of partygoers gathered, the entire room growing silent. I watched from a doorway off to the side, practically holding my breath. There was this . . . feeling in the room. I remember it well, though I still find it difficult to explain. A . . . heaviness, something pressing. The priestess—I can still see her closing her milky eyes as she spoke—confirmed that indeed the spirits of John and Angelina haunted the grounds, specifically the garden where they both roamed, blind to the presence of the other.”
“How sad,” Clara whispered. Although she supposed it was better that Angelina not have to wander eternally with a man who broke her heart.
Ms. Dupre nodded. “A party guest asked about the curse Mama Loreaux had cast, and the priestess said that indeed it was true and that such a curse could be broken by one thing and one thing alone.” Her pause was full, weighty as she met Clara’s eyes. "By a drop of Angelina's blood being brought to the light."
By a drop of Angelina’s blood being brought to the light. Clara let the words slip around her. “No one has any idea what it means?”
Ms. Dupre shook her head. “No one, including the priestess, who insisted the spirits didn't always reveal their secrets, even to her.”
Clara turned that over in her mind, committing the line to memory.
They spoke for a few more minutes, Clara telling Ms. Dupre the gist of what Mrs. Guillot had imparted about the legend. Ms. Dupre couldn’t offer anything more in the way of information, but pointed Clara to the computers where she said she might find something about the house itself, and the family who had once occupied it.
Clara thanked Ms. Dupre warmly just as a woman approached the desk to check out a stack of books.
Seated at the computer, Clara did a search of both the plantation and the family, scrolling through the articles she found, making a few notes on the small pieces of loose paper provided at each of the three stations.
Windisle Manor, a Greek Revival-style home, was built in the early eighteen hundreds on a one-thousand-acre sugar plantation owned by the Chamberlain family. Before the Civil War, Windisle Plantation owned over a hundred slaves, most of whom toiled in the sugarcane fields, but some of whom worked in the manor.
“Mama Loreaux,” Clara whispered softly, picturing the striking woman with the knowing eyes Mrs. Guillot had described. She could see her now, watching from a window as Robert Chamberlain rocked her little girl on his knee and his family looked on with disdain. What had that been like for her? How had she felt?
Coming from a working class, single-parent household, Clara had experienced her share of scathing judgment from the haughty rich girls at the ballet schools she’d attended, and it had made her feel uncomfortable. But it wasn’t twenty-four hours a day. And not everyone participated. She couldn’t fathom the nasty, open barbs of vitriol that’d be thrown her way if—for most anyway—it wasn’t frowned upon to criticize those considered beneath you.
Clara focused her mind back on the information in front of her. Unlike many of the other plantations in the area that had been passed on to the Historic Preservation Society and opened to the public, the Chamberlain family still owned Windisle, and it remained a private residence. Eager to get their hands on this great piece of American history, the Historic Preservation Society had made many offers to the family and had received just as many rejections. Interesting, Clara thought, wondering why the family had no interest in preserving the estate.
“I don’t have a lot left, but I’m full to the brim with stories.” Mrs. Guillot laughed. “You go slip a wish or two through the cracks in that wall,” she said softly. “And say hi to Angelina for me.”
Clara nodded and shot a grin over her shoulder as she walked down the steps. “I will.”
“Oh and Clara dear,” Mrs. Guillot called. “I’ll have some more of that homemade liniment for you next time you stop by.”
Clara suppressed a grimace, smiling back at the sweet old woman. “Thank you, Mrs. Guillot.” She nodded at Harry as she moved past him, noting that he was looking pretty dapper in his pressed shirt and fedora for a simple evening walk. “Have a good evening, you two.”
**********
That Sunday, Clara woke up bright and early and walked the ten blocks to the library.
She’d been turning over the story of Windisle in her mind ever since Mrs. Guillot had told her about it several days before. Clara had become captivated—perhaps even a little obsessed—with the tale of heartbreak and misery that had occurred more than a hundred and fifty years before. She thought about it as she rode the bus to and from the ballet, she thought about it as she drifted off to sleep at night, and she even thought about it as she danced, the whispers of the other ballerinas becoming mere background noise.
She was no longer distracted by them, her mind instead focused inward on a beautiful girl who had a smile like the sunshine and a spirit as delicate as a hummingbird’s wings. What had her life been like? Had it been filled with suffering even before the betrayal that caused her to take her own life? And what dark secrets lay behind that wall?
Perhaps the intensity of Clara’s focus on the legend had as much to do with her loneliness that summer as with the intrigue of the tale. But she also felt this strange pull inside whenever she thought of Windisle. Whatever the reason, she wanted to know more.
The small library was dim and quiet, and as Clara entered she paused, inhaling deeply of the unmistakable smell of old books—aged paper and souls cast in ink.
There were a few people browsing the shelves quietly, but even on a Sunday, the space was mostly empty. Clara spotted an older woman with a cart next to her re-shelving books and walked to where she was. “Excuse me?”
The tiny old woman turned, smiling. She looked to be in her nineties at least, a pair of glasses hanging on a chain around her neck, her poof of white hair a startling contrast to her rich brown skin. “May I help you?”
“Are you Dory Dupre?”
“I am.”
“Oh good.” Clara smiled, extending her hand. “I’m Clara Campbell. Mrs. Guillot suggested I should come speak to you.”
“Oh, how is Bernice?”
Clara’s smile grew. “She’s very good.”
“Wonderful to hear. Now what subject did you want to speak to me about?”
“Windisle Plantation.”
A shadow moved across Ms. Dupre’s face, her wrinkles seeming to tighten for a brief moment. She shook her head. “Tragic tale.”
“Yes,” Clara breathed. “Mrs. Guillot told me what she knew, but she wasn’t able to answer all my questions.”
“Ah. Follow me. I’ll see if I can fill in some blanks.”
Clara followed the elderly librarian to a round table near the checkout counter, and they both sat down. “May I ask why you’re interested in Windisle, dear?”
Clara glanced to the side, considering the question. “Truthfully, Ms. Dupre, I’m not entirely sure. Mrs. Guillot told me the story, and I can’t seem to get it out of my mind.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s an intriguing story. And so much mystery.” She smiled. “And who knows, maybe you’ll be the one to solve the riddle and set Angelina free. Do you believe in curses, dear?”
Clara laughed softly. “I don’t know that I believe in curses, but I’d love to hear the riddle if you remember it.”
“Oh, I remember it well. I heard it spoken in person by the voodoo priestess herself.”
Clara’s eyes widened in surprise. “You did?”
“Oh yes. It was first said at a party held at Windisle Manor in 1934. Now, that was back when the Chamberlain family still occupied it and threw lavish soirees. I was only fourteen but my sister got me a job working for the catering company at that gathering. Prentiss Chamberlain and his wife, Dixie, asked an old, blind voodoo priestess to attend.” She paused. “From what I knew, the Chamberlain family never did put much stock in the belief that ghosts roamed their property—though there were always rumors that guests to the house reported seeing ghostly apparitions, especially near the rose garden. But in any case, Prentiss and Dixie Chamberlain were happy enough to use the legend as entertainment, and for that reason, the priestess was invited.”
Ms. Dupre looked off behind Clara, her gaze growing distant as she looked into the past. “The priestess sat in a red velvet chair and the crowd of partygoers gathered, the entire room growing silent. I watched from a doorway off to the side, practically holding my breath. There was this . . . feeling in the room. I remember it well, though I still find it difficult to explain. A . . . heaviness, something pressing. The priestess—I can still see her closing her milky eyes as she spoke—confirmed that indeed the spirits of John and Angelina haunted the grounds, specifically the garden where they both roamed, blind to the presence of the other.”
“How sad,” Clara whispered. Although she supposed it was better that Angelina not have to wander eternally with a man who broke her heart.
Ms. Dupre nodded. “A party guest asked about the curse Mama Loreaux had cast, and the priestess said that indeed it was true and that such a curse could be broken by one thing and one thing alone.” Her pause was full, weighty as she met Clara’s eyes. "By a drop of Angelina's blood being brought to the light."
By a drop of Angelina’s blood being brought to the light. Clara let the words slip around her. “No one has any idea what it means?”
Ms. Dupre shook her head. “No one, including the priestess, who insisted the spirits didn't always reveal their secrets, even to her.”
Clara turned that over in her mind, committing the line to memory.
They spoke for a few more minutes, Clara telling Ms. Dupre the gist of what Mrs. Guillot had imparted about the legend. Ms. Dupre couldn’t offer anything more in the way of information, but pointed Clara to the computers where she said she might find something about the house itself, and the family who had once occupied it.
Clara thanked Ms. Dupre warmly just as a woman approached the desk to check out a stack of books.
Seated at the computer, Clara did a search of both the plantation and the family, scrolling through the articles she found, making a few notes on the small pieces of loose paper provided at each of the three stations.
Windisle Manor, a Greek Revival-style home, was built in the early eighteen hundreds on a one-thousand-acre sugar plantation owned by the Chamberlain family. Before the Civil War, Windisle Plantation owned over a hundred slaves, most of whom toiled in the sugarcane fields, but some of whom worked in the manor.
“Mama Loreaux,” Clara whispered softly, picturing the striking woman with the knowing eyes Mrs. Guillot had described. She could see her now, watching from a window as Robert Chamberlain rocked her little girl on his knee and his family looked on with disdain. What had that been like for her? How had she felt?
Coming from a working class, single-parent household, Clara had experienced her share of scathing judgment from the haughty rich girls at the ballet schools she’d attended, and it had made her feel uncomfortable. But it wasn’t twenty-four hours a day. And not everyone participated. She couldn’t fathom the nasty, open barbs of vitriol that’d be thrown her way if—for most anyway—it wasn’t frowned upon to criticize those considered beneath you.
Clara focused her mind back on the information in front of her. Unlike many of the other plantations in the area that had been passed on to the Historic Preservation Society and opened to the public, the Chamberlain family still owned Windisle, and it remained a private residence. Eager to get their hands on this great piece of American history, the Historic Preservation Society had made many offers to the family and had received just as many rejections. Interesting, Clara thought, wondering why the family had no interest in preserving the estate.
