The Cards Don't Lie Read online

  She closed her eyes once more.

  Yet the mourners continued praying, the sun continued shining, and the flies continued buzzing.

  Until Sheila lightly tapped her shoulder. The ceremony was complete, the small casket was no longer in sight, the mourners were slowly withdrawing.

  Marguerite leaned heavily upon her mother and tottered over to the black-draped coach. The coachmen assisted her in mounting the steps. She sank into the seat and then laid her head in her mother’s lap.

  On the return trip to their home, neither woman said a word; the only sounds came from the hoofbeats. Sheila gently massaged her daughter’s head. Marguerite wondered if she knew about the voices. Perhaps her mother was trying to eliminate them forever?

  The two black Morgan horses pulling the carriage trotted through the avenue of trees leading up to the house and came to a halt in front of the home’s entrance. The young footman riding on the back platform jumped off and opened the carriage door. With Sheila’s help, Marguerite stepped down precariously and looked out to the meticulously landscaped green. The sturdy oaks and cedars bordered the grounds all the way to the Mississippi River, the nearby water lily pond glittered delicately in the sunlight, and the ornamental benches where she frequently fed the birds had been polished. All was as it should be. Except . . . Jacques was not there.

  Marguerite pondered her husband’s whereabouts. She had not seen Jacques since her labor had begun. As per tradition, he had gone to a nearby plantation to await the baby’s arrival. A manservant had been sent to the neighbor’s place bearing the sad news, but the domestic had returned only with a note: “Marguerite, I’m sorry.”

  And that was it. She had not seen or heard from him since. Where was he? Was he suffering from their baby’s loss, too? She certainly hoped so. She hoped he was miserable. How dare he not be here to comfort her!

  “Do you need some time alone, dear?” They had reached the porch, when Sheila interrupted her daughter’s thoughts.

  Alone? She felt totally isolated! Nevertheless, Marguerite quietly responded, “I just need to tidy up, Mother.” She told her maid to get a bowl of water, along with some more clean rags.

  Now cognizant of Marguerite’s sticky problem, Sheila put her hands on her hips and scowled. “Mon Dieu! I knew this would happen! Didn’t I tell you not to go to the burial, Marguerite?”

  Obviously agitated, Sheila spoke even more loudly, and her tone went up along with her indignation. “In your condition! Everyone would have understood that you were indisposed. But no—you had to go! And now see what you’ve done; I certainly hope you haven’t ruined that dress.”

  Appalled, Marguerite stared at Sheila for a moment and then screamed, “Ferme ta bouche, Mother!”

  Instead, Sheila’s mouth dropped open.

  Marguerite turned away and, not wanting to argue further, slowly inched her way toward her bedroom.

  Even as her maid gently removed the blood from her legs and assisted her in wrapping strips of cloth around her groin, Marguerite could still feel herself shaking with rage and frustration. Now exasperated at her mother and furious with her husband, she felt her brooding thoughts gnawing aggressively at her.

  An hour later, although she had changed her dress, Marguerite still did not feel “refreshed.” She made her way into the quiet drawing room. She thought of her infant inside the soundless and still casket. Collapsing on the low sofa, she reflected that her fragile baby’s body, too, was cushioned in its coffin. One. Dead. And Jacques. Departed. Had she lost both her baby and now her husband, too? She felt herself becoming more and more depleted; her heart pitched around inside her emptiness.

  She glimpsed herself in one of the gilded mirrors on the wall. Her usually creamy skin now looked pasty. Her face was gaunt, hollow, unoccupied, her ash-blond curls also drooping. A true reflection of her wretched self.

  Sheila, still raw from her daughter’s rebuke, came in but said nothing. She motioned to a servant to bring a glass of orange-blossom water for Marguerite to sip.

  “Why?” Marguerite finally broke the silence. “Mother, I’m miserable. And it’s not only because of my baby. Where is Jacques? Why isn’t he here, with me? I don’t understand!”

  “Now, dear,” Sheila said soothingly, as she tried to think of an explanation for her son-in-law’s absence, “men are different. I’m sure Jacques is distraught and can barely handle the death of the baby himself. He’ll come to you when he feels he has the strength to support you.”

  “But we should be consoling each other. I need him!”

  “I believe he is avoiding you because he probably feels powerless to change anything. His hopes and dreams for the future were dashed, too.”

  “But—”

  “He needs time to deal with losing the baby in his own way. You know Jacques is a very private person, and has always had difficulty expressing his feelings, Marguerite. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them. The child was his heir. I’m certain he is deeply grieving the loss of his son.”

  Sheila thought a moment and then added, “In fact, darling, I did overhear one of the servants saying that Jacques has been working long hours, refusing to leave his office. That’s typical of some men, you know—immersing themselves in work in order to shut out their troubles. I’m sure that’s it. In fact, I gather that the only person allowed to enter the building is his manservant, Tobias. Knowing how delicate you are, Jacques must be protecting you from his suffering. I’m certain that he does not want to inflict even more pain on you.”

  Marguerite, her eyes wide, looked at her mother in astonishment. “Oh! I didn’t know! I’ve been so selfish, thinking of my own needs. My poor husband. I must go to him!” she said, about to push her way up from the deep cushions of the sofa.

  “No, no! Don’t be too hasty, dear; let him cope in his own way. Plus, you are obviously in no condition to see him now,” said Sheila. “You must use this time to heal yourself. Your bleeding has not stopped yet; I suspect you need more sleep. Are your breasts still painful?”

  “They’re still a bit tender, but my milk is drying up.”

  “Good. Now, let’s get you back to bed for more rest. My precious daughter, you are young, you are beautiful, and you can and will become pregnant again. We’ll put all this unpleasantness behind us. And next year, I’m confident that you’ll be presenting a precious little baby de Trahan to Jacques.”

  Tarot: THE THREE OF CUPS

  Revelation: A happy matter: the birth of a child.

  As soon as Catherine entered Jeanette’s cottage, she knew which room held Antoinette’s mother. The grunting phase had begun. The pushing would start soon.

  Smiling when she encountered her laboring neighbor on her bed, Catherine said, “Hello, Jeanette. I see it’s time. Let me make you more comfortable.”

  “Ah, Catherine. I’m so happy to see you! The pains! I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’m so tired. And I need to go to the toilet!”

  “Not really, Jeanette; Antoinette told me that you haven’t eaten in a while. You’re feeling pressure on your rectum from the baby descending, and that’s good news! Let’s get these linens changed, now!”

  With Scamp’s help, Catherine removed the covering blanket and replaced the wet padding as Jeanette raised her hips.

  After Jeanette settled again onto her back, Catherine said, “All right, now, put your legs on these pillows so that they’re above your hips. . . . Bien! Now, bend your knees a little.”

  With sure and gentle hands, Catherine massaged the pregnant woman’s distended stomach with a salve of lard infused with a liquor of sumac leaves, sage, and swamp-lily root.

  “Mmm. That feels so good!”

  Catherine smiled. “I made lots of this liniment for you to use after the baby is born. It will reduce stretch marks.”

  “I’m looking forward to that already,” said Jeanette.

  The midwife got some of her necessities from the medicine case and placed them on the nightsta
nd: a piece of valerian root, catnip leaves, olive oil, powdered snakeroot, and shavings of willow bark. She arranged her other essentials: scissors, a jar of rainwater, and a silver two-bit piece with a hole drilled in the middle.

  After taking a bottle of red wine out of her bag, she said, “Scamp, will you put this on the dresser? And, Antoinette, please lean this picture of St. Anthony of Padua against it. Merci.”

  Then Catherine placed the charm of Papa Legba in Jeanette’s hand.

  “Here, squeeze Papa Legba and entreat St. Anthony for a safe childbirth,” she said.

  “Ohhhhh,” the drained woman groaned. “I’ve been praying a long time now. I just wish it were over.”

  “You’re going to be fine, Jeanette,” said Catherine. “You’ve done this before. You are strong, healthy, and at full term. Scamp and I are here to help you. And so is Antoinette.”

  The young girl, eyes wide and extremely pale, was speechless.

  “Antoinette, get a cup of hot water for your maman. Scamp, you go with Antoinette into the kitchen and keep the water boiling.” Turning to Jeanette, Catherine showed her the piece of valerian root. “This will take care of your nerves,” she said. “We’ll add this to your tea. And the willow bark in the tea will take away some of the pain.”

  “Oh!” For the first time, Jeanette smiled. “Please make it a big cup—because right now I have lots of pain.”

  As if to prove her point, she grabbed Catherine’s hand and screamed.

  “Bear down, now, and push!” counseled Catherine, massaging the vaginal opening with the olive oil.

  Another scream.

  Antoinette returned with the cup of hot water. Catherine placed a pinch of willow bark into a tea infuser and steeped it in the water. Removing the infuser from the cup, she held it so Jeanette could sip.

  “Ahhh. It’s warm. And . . .” Another scream.

  “Push, Jeanette. Good, good.”

  Jeanette’s nut-brown face reddened as she pushed down yet another time and let out an ear-piercing yell. Catherine put the cup of tea on the nightstand and moved toward the foot of the bed to monitor the baby’s progress. She smiled at the young mother.

  “Reach down, Jeanette, with your hand. That’s right! Can you feel the head? Good! Another big push, now . . .”

  Jeanette grimaced, clasped both hands on top of her stomach, gave a loud groan, and shoved down with all her might. The baby slipped into Catherine’s hands, giving a lusty cry.

  “Bien, bien, Jeanette! Congratulations! You have a son,” said Catherine, as she held up the baby for the mother to see.

  “Eww,” said Antoinette. “It’s messy!”

  “‘It,’” said Catherine, raising an eyebrow warningly at Antoinette, “is your beautiful baby brother. And you’ll see something else somewhat bloody come out soon, Antoinette. That’s called the placenta, which nourished your baby brother before he was born. All normal, and yet marvelous! Now, I want you to get fresh sheets and blankets for your mother while I take care of your new brother.”

  Catherine snipped off the umbilical cord with her scissors. To prevent the child from becoming a bed-wetter, she made sure that the stub was turned to the infant’s left side. Then she gently washed the baby. After swaddling the newborn in a soft cotton cloth, she put a wool cap on his head and presented him to his mother.

  “He’s beautiful, Jeanette! And hungry!”

  The new mother received her son, then sighed happily as he nuzzled and sucked at her breast.

  Antoinette returned with the fresh bedding, which Catherine maneuvered under and around the tranquil mother and suckling child.

  “What can I do now?” asked Antoinette, eager to appease and please Catherine.

  “Take these wet and soiled bedclothes to the courtyard to be laundered. Scamp will show you what to do. I need to give your maman a sponge bath, and then she should have some soup.”

  “I’ll get the bathwater, too,” said Antoinette, as she sped off to the kitchen.

  “How are you feeling, Jeanette?” asked Catherine.

  “Wonderful, mostly. Isn’t he exquisite? Look at all this hair! And his eyes—they’re almost a violet color! He looks very much like Antoinette when she was born.”

  “And they both have your beautiful complexion, too. What will you name him?”

  “Pierre, after his father. Oh, I can’t wait to show him to his daddy!”

  “I have forgotten, Jeanette—does Pierre have any other sons?”

  “No, just daughters. So my baby will be special. And Pierre has promised that he will send my son to France to be educated.”

  “Oui? Our petit Pierre already has a grand future! Ah, here’s Antoinette!”

  The young girl had returned with a large pail of hot water and poured it into the basin. “I’ll get the soup now,” she said. “It’s your favorite, Maman: crab-and-shrimp gumbo!” She hurried back outside to the kitchen.

  Opening her medicine bag, Catherine got out her marble mortar and pestle. She took out a small sack of rosemary sprigs, parsley leaves, and rose petals.

  “I expected you to deliver sometime soon,” Catherine said, smiling, “so I prepared these last night.”

  Looking into the medicine bag again, she pulled out another small container of olive oil. Emptying the sack of flowers and herbs into her mortar, she crushed them with the pestle and then added a little bit of the oil. She poured in a cup of water from the pail, let the mixture steep for a few minutes, and slowly stirred the scented brew into the bathwater.

  Catherine threaded a piece of cord through the hole in the silver two-bit piece. She took the now-sleeping baby from Jeanette, placed him in a beautifully carved walnut cradle, and then tied the cord around the baby’s left ankle to bring him good luck. Helping the new mother sit up more comfortably, Catherine tenderly bathed her neighbor’s body.

  “You’ll have other assistance besides Antoinette?” she asked.

  “Yes, my sister Augusta will be coming to help. I’ll send Antoinette to fetch her. But right now, after I have some gumbo, I think I’ll just want to take a nice nap.”

  “I’m not surprised. But you did have a relatively uncomplicated delivery, Jeanette. I remember Antoinette taking a couple of days to appear. And I had to use forceps to help her out.”

  “Yes, you’re right, Catherine. Little Pierre’s birth was much easier.”

  Catherine continued, “We will stay until Augusta comes. I have not seen her since she had that horrible toothache. How is she doing?”

  “She is well; that prickly ash bark you gave her worked wonders. She’s grateful that you saved her tooth.”

  Catherine remembered also having prepared a tailor-made charm bag of allspice, moss, and cedar. “I suspect my special gris-gris helped, too,” she said.

  “We are very fortunate to have you, Catherine. You are a great healer. I’ll never forget how you cured my brother’s alcoholism with eels. Thank you for all you do.”

  “I am blessed and grateful to possess these gifts of healing, Jeanette. I enjoy being able to give assistance in one way or another.”

  Jeanette inhaled deeply. “The water’s fragrance is delightful. I suspect this particular bath is significant, too?”

  Catherine smiled. “I knew it would please you. It’s specifically for mothers who have just given birth. These special ingredients will help open the door for new opportunities, Jeanette—for you and little Pierre!”

  “Maman! Here’s the gumbo!” cried Antoinette, bursting into the room, spilling a bit of the tureen’s soup. Scamp followed the girl, carrying bowls and spoons.

  “And Tante Augusta is here, too!” Antoinette announced.

  “Perfect timing,” said Catherine, as she started to gather her supplies.

  “Well, well, well!” laughed Augusta, as she came into the room. “I was hoping you wouldn’t start without me, but it looks like I missed all the fun!”

  After kissing her sister hello, Augusta looked down at Pierre. “Another go
rgeous baby, Jeanette!”

  Then she turned and gave Catherine a hug. “So good to see you, Catherine! And you’ve performed your amazing marvels again. Are there any instructions for taking care of Jeanette and my new nephew?”

  Catherine gave Augusta a small bag of the powdered snakeroot. “Just a couple of suggestions, Augusta. If Jeanette has cramps, make a tea using a tablespoon of this. You can make a cup of tea for yourself, too; it’s excellent for anyone’s good health.”

  Handing Augusta an even smaller bag of the catnip leaves, she said, “Now, with this, use only a pinch, with six tablespoons of warm water. Then dip your finger in it and put it into the baby’s mouth. It will prevent him from getting hives.”

  “That gumbo smells wonderful. Can you stay, Catherine, and share some with us?”

  “I’d love to, Augusta, thank you, but I need to go home and take care of some business. I’ll be back in a couple of days to see how you’re all doing. Perhaps then. Ready, Scamp?”

  Catherine finished her packing and put the picture of St. Anthony, along with her scissors, into her bag.

  “Don’t forget the bottle of red wine,” said Jeanette.

  “Oh, that’s for you and Augusta.” Catherine smiled. “I’ve been told that it’s the best medicine of all!”

  Tarot: THE TEN OF WANDS

  Revelation: Bearing an oppressive burden.

  The purser hailed one of the sailors, who was down on his knees, rigorously washing the deck boards. “Benjamin! Meet the Landsman. You are to show him the ropes.” The purser turned to leave, then added, “And keep him busy!”

  Looking up, the young, muscular seaman nodded to Peter to get down and join him. Peter knelt down dutifully and, upon closer inspection, saw that Benjamin had been scrubbing at various drips of tar that had splattered from strands of rope in the rigging. The sailor was using a hog-bristle deck bumper, but he handed Peter a large, abrasive sandstone.

  “Use this holystone, Landsman,” he said. “See how it resembles a bible?” Benjamin chuckled at his joke. Peter, however, was not in the mood for humor.