The Curse of Bloodstone. V. J. Banis
he wondered what that purpose might be.
CHAPTER THREE
The storm was raging full force. Vanessa and Tutrice fought hard to control the horses as they sped through the open gates and up the winding drive to Bloodstone.
Vanessa whipped the team forward, toward the carriage house. She struggled to hold them steady while Tutrice climbed from the covered carriage and pushed herself against the howling gale. Between the two of them they sheltered the horses and carriage, not bothering to unbridle the team.
“Father will see to them.” Vanessa had to yell to make herself heard. “Come, let’s get inside before we are swept away.”
“The storm is fighting against you, my child. It does not want you here,” the old Cajun called.
“Be still. I’ve had enough of your grumbling. Come along.”
Their cloaks and skirts billowed out behind them as they made their way slowly up the walkway, under the portico, onto the wide, sagging front veranda. The pillars supporting the second-story balcony were uneven and weak-looking. Their paint had peeled away long ago, leaving them naked and vulnerable to the terrible winds. They, like the house itself, looked tired and weary.
Vanessa stood for a moment staring at the extent of deterioration. It was as if she were seeing her beloved Bloodstone for the first time. It was not the lovely, stately old mansion she’d left five years ago. It was old and creaky and falling into ruin. It seemed impossible that such a change could take place within the short span of five years.
She refused to dwell on such morbid thoughts. If the house were in need of repair, she would see that it was repaired. She gathered her hood tighter around her head and her cloak about her shoulders and went toward the front door. The wind was blowing so hard it made it difficult for her to see. She groped for the door handle but her hand touched nothing but rough wood. She backed away slightly and saw that the door was boarded over.
“You must not go inside that house,” Tutrice warned.
“Be quiet, I say. It’s boarded over. Why?”
“They are no longer here, child. You must have known as much.”
“Of course they’re here. Where else would they be?” She reached out to grab hold of a corner of one of the boards.
“You must not uncrate your own coffin.”
“I said, be still,” Vanessa hissed, raising her hand as though to strike the old woman. Tutrice did not cower; Vanessa would never strike her, she knew.
“Help me,” Vanessa said as again she tried to pull away the boards nailed across the door.
“I will not be a party to this,” Tutrice said. “I cannot help you. I will not be responsible.”
Vanessa said something angry, but Tutrice did not hear; it was lost in the storm. Frantically Vanessa began tugging at the edges of the boards. One by one they finally came away and were caught up by the wind and carried away.
Finally, the last board came free and Vanessa tried the latch, but it did not move. The door was locked.
She snatched her traveling bag from Tutrice and rummaged inside it, searching. Her fingers touched upon the hard, cold metal of her latch key. She pulled it out.
“No,” Tutrice said as Vanessa inserted the key into the lock. “You will never leave once you step inside. You will be a prisoner, like before.”
Vanessa gave the key an angry twist. She pushed down on the handle and the door swung easily upon its hinges.
Bloodstone engulfed her the moment she took a step over its threshold. The interior of the house was as quiet as a tomb. Even the raging storm seemed to refuse to cross the sill and intrude upon the deadly calm that hung like a pall over the inside of the old mansion.
“Bloodstone,” Vanessa said in reverence, staring at the graceful staircase that curved in a perfect crescent. The storm that raged outside did not stir a single prism of the massive chandelier. Unlike the neglected exterior, the house inside looked as clean and lovely as ever. The marble floors were polished. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a stain of neglect anywhere to be seen. The reception hall was as new and bright as it must have been when it was first constructed.
Tutrice remained on the threshold, her cloak and skirt streaming out into the night.
Vanessa took another step deeper into the house. “Father!” she called, looking up toward the top of the staircase. “Father, it’s me, Vanessa. I’ve come home.”
She called several more times, but each time was met with the same ominous, almost unearthly silence. With a shrug of annoyance she set down her traveling case and whirled to face the open door. “Get yourself in here,” she yelled at Tutrice.
Reluctantly Tutrice took a step toward her, then another. With a deep sigh of resignation she stepped over the threshold. The moment the wind handed her over to Bloodstone, her cloak and skirts fell limp. She sagged and let the tears run unchecked down her wrinkled old face. Slowly, reluctantly she pushed the door shut.
A clock ticked somewhere in the dark recesses of the hall. To Vanessa it was ticking backward in time—back to the year when she was eighteen and standing as she was now, looking fondly at the home she loved so dearly. Then she had looked at it through tears of farewell. She had run away from Bloodstone, away from her weak, distant mother, from her indifferent, uncaring father. She had listened to Tutrice and to her heart and she had allowed her emotions to rule her senses. And so, she had fled.
Without turning, Vanessa asked Tutrice, “Why did I leave all this? For what?”
“You know why,” Tutrice answered, almost in a monotone.
“It was you who urged me to run after him.”
“No, I merely told you to go away, to go away from this accursed house.”
“Stop saying that.” Vanessa put her hands over her ears. “Bloodstone is not accursed. It is our home.”
“It is your grave.” Tutrice shouldered past Vanessa and disappeared through a door tucked under the curving staircase.
“Old fool,” Vanessa yelled as the door shut.
Suddenly a man appeared at the head of the stairs. “Vanessa?” he said. “Vanessa, is that you?”
“Father! Oh, Father!” She ran up the steps and threw herself into his arms.
It was not a comfortable embrace, however—they had not been accustomed to embracing. After a moment, she stepped back and looked him up and down.
“You’re looking so well,” she said, but her father looked far from well. “And Mother? Is she well?”
Her father motioned to a door that stood partly open. “She is in the sitting room.” He gave a little chuckle. “You know your mother. She never changes.”
But her mother too had changed. Hester Mallory sat before a fireless hearth calmly working on a bit of embroidery. She glanced at Vanessa. She did not smile.
“Hello, Mother. I’ve come home.”
“Yes.” Hester gazed at her daughter for a moment, then returned her attention to the needlework in her lap.
Vanessa looked from her mother to her father. “You don’t seem surprised at seeing me,” she said, forcing the pitch of her voice higher in order to give it a more cheerful lilt. “It has been five years, you know.”
“We know,” her father answered. “Of course, we are overjoyed at seeing you.” He paused. “They told us you drowned.” There was no emotion in his voice. The words came out flat and stiff.
“Me? Drowned?” She suddenly laughed gaily.
Jeremiah nodded gravely. “Five years ago. You and Captain....” He fumbled for a name, but none came to him.