Amongst the Shadows

CHAPTER 1

Ellen breathed a sigh of relief as the car rolled off the ferry onto the island. The trip from the mainland had not been a smooth one. High winds from a fast approaching storm had whipped the waters of Chaddoux Sound (pronounced Shadow Sound) into a fury. The small boat had been tossed about like a cork for what seemed an eternity before finally reaching its destination. This, on top of the turbulence she had experienced on the nine hour flight from London, had left her feeling more than a little queasy. It had been an exhausting journey, but the day’s travel was not entirely responsible for her fatigue. Several weeks of sleepless nights were to be blamed for that.

The decision to accept Mrs.Chaddoux-Foxx’s invitation to come to this obscure island off the coast of Louisiana had been a difficult one to make. Even though the arrangement would be strictly temporary, Ellen had agonized over it for days. She had lived in London for four years now and had not been home to the States once in that time. Not even to visit her family in Dallas. She had gone to London with one purpose in mind—to make a name for herself abroad in her beloved field of antiques, antique furniture being her specialty. She had given herself over so completely to accomplishing her goal that every aspect of her life revolved around the people or things associated with her work.

Her dedication and devotion to her dream, however, had paid off. In a relatively short period of time she had gained the respect of some of England’s best known antiquarians whose endorsement had made her a much sought after commodity by many of London’s elite collectors. And, compared to most in her position, she was extremely young to have obtained this degree of renown as an antiquities authenticator.

But despite her age, she was not naive. She understood full well the fickle nature of the clientele she served, and knew that regardless of her qualifications, the tide of her success could easily and quickly turn. To leave London at this point in her career, even for a short period of time, could prove disastrous—out of sight, out of mind. But sadly she knew she had no choice. Time and distance were the only two things that would be able to sever the cords she had been so cunningly ensnared with.

Davin Carstairs, the handsome and beguiling young owner of an East London antique shop had spent the last two years methodically drawing Ellen into his web. He had recognized her early on as his ticket into London’s very closed society of antiquarians—an illustrious group that had always hovered just beyond his reach. He had pursued her shamelessly and won, and as planned, gained instant acceptance into her circle of acquaintances simply as a consequence of his association with her. Capitalizing on her impeccable reputation, he had transformed his second-rate antique shop in one of London’s seedier neighborhoods into a thriving business. He now catered to the rich and famous instead of the tourist trade he was once accustomed to. Ellen lent an air of reputability to his establishment that he had been unable to achieve without her—despite all his charm and panache.

And he was charming. Ellen had watched him work his magic on the most proper of patrons and the results never ceased to amaze her. Davin laughingly called it a gift. And Ellen herself had always thought it harmless enough—until she realized that it was not a gift but a craft—a craft by which he skillfully manipulated everyone and everything around him. Including Ellen, she now realized, who had always thought herself immune to the effects of his theatrics. And, she might still believe that, had it not been for one flawed performance at a dinner party six weeks ago when she saw all too clearly the malevolence that lie just beneath the mask. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and sank back into the luxuriant leather upholstery of the vintage Rolls Royce that had met her at the airport in New Orleans. Once again she was overcome with the desperate feeling that regardless of how many miles she put between Davin and herself, she would never be completely free of his hold on her.

That was the last conscious thought she had. Within minutes she had succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep. The next thing she knew, the car had stopped and the driver was standing at her open door waiting to help her out. As she prepared to step out of the car, her attention was drawn immediately to the massive stone edifice looming behind him. From her position in the car it was impossible to discern the entire dimension of the building, but if the portion she could see were any indication, the Chaddoux-Foxx family dwelling was more of a fortress than a house.

The structure, though simple in design, possessed a regal quality. The walls were of gray stone, formidable and imposing. Two heavily carved wooden doors, slightly recessed, stood atop a shallow course of stone steps. Rows of evenly spaced windows ran away from the doors in both directions for an undeterminable distance, and up for what looked to be three stories. The architectural influence appeared to be predominantly French baroque, which style would indeed correspond with the time period in which Mrs.Chaddoux-Foxx had said the central part of the house had been constructed—the mid 1700’s.

Ellen could not believe her eyes. The fact that this incredible monument had stood for nearly three centuries off the coast of Louisiana—just a few short hours from her Dallas home—without her ever having known of its existence seemed impossible. But, it was a private residence, on a private island, that had belonged to one extremely reclusive family for hundreds of years—a family who had obviously done an excellent job of protecting their sanctuary from the outside world. Mrs.Chaddoux-Foxx was the first in her line to even toy with the idea of opening the house to the public. Ellen determined at that moment to do everything within her power to reassure Mrs.Chaddoux-Foxx that sharing her wonderful heritage was the right thing to do.

She had lost all track of time as she sat staring incredulously at the mansion. The driver, still waiting to help her out of the car, cleared his throat rather loudly breaking into her thoughts. It was no wonder he was impatient, the storm that had followed them from New Orleans was now directly upon them.

I’m sorry, Ellen said, realizing he was waiting for her to get out of the car. Don’t worry with me, I just need to gather up my things. I just need a minute.

Yes ma’am, the driver said, his response barely audible over the gusting wind.

Ellen was captivated by the way the house reflected the changing light in the face of the storm, and turned to look at it once more. As the black clouds churned ominously overhead, the house seemed to come alive before her eyes, fortifying itself against the eminent tempest. She could feel its strength, its agelessness, calling to her, beckoning her urgently to come inside, into a safe place.

How odd, Ellen said aloud of that sensation, as she reached to retrieve her purse from the floorboard of the car.

As she bent over, she thought the car door must have blown closed behind her, because instantly, the howling wind had stopped and an eerie stillness had taken its place. The air that had been cool moments before had become suffocatingly hot and sultry. Beads of perspiration began forming on her forehead and upper lip. The humidity, suddenly so high, made even breathing seem a laborious chore.

Something was not right. Time seemed to have shifted into slow motion. For no apparent reason and with no warning, Ellen became instantly weak and nauseous. Her vision became fuzzy and blurred as the interior of the car began to spin. She could feel herself slipping into darkness but was completely helpless to stop her descent. Somewhere in the distance she could hear voices, but a loud ringing in her ears prevented her from being able to understand what they were saying. Then out of nowhere, the ringing was replaced by a deafening din of night sounds—cicadas and tree frogs. She could see nothing at all through the thick darkness now blinding her, but was keenly aware of a familiar smell. It was leather polish—like they had used on the saddles at the stables where she had learned to ride horses as a child.

As she was trying to assimilate this information the car began to rock back and forth—apparently of its own volition. The movement was slight at first, but became increasingly more and more pronounced with every second that passed. Then, she heard a sort of stomping and snorting...definitely not human…in a panic she recognized it! It was a horse, and somehow she knew beyond any doubt that she was no longer in a car but a carriage!

The lethargy that had subdued her was overcome by sheer terror—her heart and mind both now racing. She was racked with fear and confusion. Something was horribly wrong. What had happened? How had she gotten here?! Her head was pounding, she could not think, could not reason, could see nothing but darkness. She had only one instinct and that was to run, to get away. As she reached out, groping wildly for where she imagined a door handle might have been, she realized in horror that her wrists were bound together tightly with some type of cloth. As she wrestled and strained to free herself from the cloth bondage, she swung her feet up to kick against the door, but to no avail. Her legs were bound as well, tangled beneath what felt like layers and layers of heavy skirts. Unable to control the panic any longer she drew in a breath to scream. In the split second that she did so, a gust of cool air blew into the car hurtling her back to reality.

Fool! an angry voice shouted over the wind, now howling loudly again. Why didn’t you take her around to the portico? Can’t you see a storm is upon us?!

The shouting man had just come out of the house and was walking toward the car, mercilessly upbraiding the driver with every step. Ellen rose up cautiously, clutching her purse to her chest and peered skittishly out of the open car door. There was no horse or carriage in sight, just the two men bickering outside the car. Although still weak, Ellen was relieved to note that at least the nausea had subsided. She smoothed the front of her navy slacks with a trembling hand to reassure herself that the heavy skirts were gone as well.

Okay Ellen, get a grip, she said to herself, releasing the breath she had not realized she was holding.

Miss Rutledge, I apologize for this inconvenience. Let me assist you, said the angry man, barely hiding his annoyance beneath the hospitable words. Ellen accepted his extended hand and stood shakily to her feet. Why, Miss Rutledge, are you ill? he asked blandly. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.

How she wished he had not used those words. She felt her knees buckle just a bit.

Without waiting for a response, he continued in a thick Southern accent, Allow me to introduce myself. I am Trevor Terrebonne, solicitor and companion to Mrs. Lila Chaddoux-Foxx. Now, let’s get you inside before...

Ellen did not hear the last part of his sentence. A huge clap of thunder completely drowned out whatever he had said, and then the heavens opened up and released a deluge that soaked all three of them to the skin before they could make it to the front door, a mere twenty feet away.

Once inside, Trevor Terrebonne railed on the driver again, You idiot! You should have known to have taken her around back, now just look at us!

The driver mumbled a sincere apology to Ellen, picked up her bags and sloshed away.

She stood dripping wet from the cold rain, and shivering violently—not entirely from the rain—in the expansive entrance hall, which was even more impressive than the exterior of the house had been. She was extremely upset and Trevor Terrebonne’s shouting was not at all helping matters. Pacing the entire length of the castle-like hall (oblivious to the trail of water he was leaving on the worn flagstone floor) he bellowed out orders to people Ellen could not see. Within minutes, however, a matronly woman and a younger girl, both wearing black uniforms, came hurrying in with stacks of towels and blankets.

The girl set to work drying Mr. Terrebonne, dabbing timidly at his face and shoulders with the towel, as he ranted uproariously about the incompetence of the driver. Apparently, he held no higher regard for the poor girl, whom he roughly dismissed after snatching the towel from her hands. By this time, however, the older woman had Ellen completely cocooned in a blanket and was shuttling her towards the stairs.

Terrebonne, now making no effort to mask his agitation demanded, Martha! Just where do you think you are taking her? We have business matters to discuss, you bring her right back here!

Without backing down an inch, the woman turned and said, Trevor, this poor child is soaked to the bone and shaking like a leaf. She’s not going anywhere except up to a hot bath. Do I make myself clear?

Well...alright. Fine, he grudgingly conceded. But, Miss Rutledge, he said to Ellen, glaring over the rim of the half-frame reading glasses he had just dried and replaced on his nose, I will see you in my office after dinner. I was only apprised of your visit this morning and there are a few matters I need to set straight about this little ‘inventory’ you are to conduct.

The condescension in his tone grated against every nerve in Ellen’s body. Especially the manner in which he stressed the word inventory, as if the task were nothing more than an annoying child’s game that he was obliged to tolerate. She knew his type and had dealt with any number of Trevor Terrebonne’s in the past. But, fortunately for him, she was too tired and shaken up at this moment to take the bait. She felt certain she would be given many other such opportunities to share her opinions with Mr. Terrebonne, but for now reaching the promised bath was the focus of all her energies, both physical and mental.

As Martha hurried her up the stairs, Ellen’s trained eye could not help but identify countless antique pieces scattered about in spite of her present state of mind. In fact, there seemed to be no modern furnishing at all. One piece in particular caught her attention. It was a table-chest set in a shadowy alcove of the second-floor hallway. In the dim light it was impossible to be certain, but the rich carving and style of the chest suggested it was Italian in origin. But the most interesting thing about the piece was the intricate motif on the front panel. Done in pietre dure, an ancient Roman technique revived in the16th century, the panel depicted a rather disturbing scene of a sea monster terrorizing a dark-haired maiden. Pietre dure, as it was known, involved the cutting of hard stones, such as lapis lazuli and agate and forming them into designs, often grotesque in nature.

Ellen allowed the tips of her fingers to gently brush the surface of the relief as she passed. A tingle of excitement ran through her from head to toe as she felt the coolness of the smooth stones. If this chest were the genuine article, it could easily be over four hundred years old. As Ellen made a mental note to get a closer look as soon as possible, the prospect of the house harboring many more such treasures lifted her spirits immensely.

This is the east wing, Martha said as she flung open a walnut paneled door. And these are your rooms. I hope you don’t mind the morning sun.

Ellen was taken aback not only by the beauty of the room before her, but by the amount of activity taking place inside. The driver (still soaking wet) was building a fire in the fireplace. The young girl whom Terrebonne had dismissed was unpacking her luggage and yet another woman she had not seen before had just come from the bathroom where she was undoubtedly drawing Ellen’s bath.

Giving Ellen a gentle shove in the direction of the bathroom, Martha, unmistakably the senior staff-member, took over immediate supervision of the assignments. Leaving her to commandeer the ranks, Ellen made her way into the bathroom, which was connected to the bedroom via a lavish sitting room. She felt a little guilty about all the fuss being made over her, but when she saw the steam rising from the old porcelain tub in the center of the room and smelled the lavender-scented bubbles, she was immediately unaware of anyone or anything else in the world.

Her revelry didn’t last long, however. Before she could even remove her water-logged shoes Martha had joined her again. She had come to provide her assistance in peeling off Ellen’s soggy clothing (a luxury Ellen would have preferred to have done without).

As she reached the bottom layer, Martha could hold her tongue no longer. Child, I have never seen such a little bit of rain have this kind of effect on a soul, she said as Ellen, convulsing wildly, struggled to keep her teeth from chattering.

I hope you don’t come down with pneumonia, Martha continued. And when is the last time you had a solid meal, or slept for that matter, Martha queried as she disapprovingly surveyed Ellen’s thin frame and the puffy black circles under her eyes.

There, I’ve said too much, Martha said apologetically before Ellen could even offer a response. It’s just my way.

Ellen did not take offense at Martha’s mothering. It was true. She had hardly eaten enough to exist over the past few weeks, and rarely slept more than a few hours a night.

Well, not to worry, we’ll get you fixed up, Martha said. I’ll have Gertie make a big pot of potato soup and send a tray up to your room.

That sounds wonderful Martha, but I’m afraid Mr. Terrebonne is expecting me downstairs for dinner, Ellen said, trying to sound more optimistic about the meeting than she felt.

Humph! Martha exclaimed disdainfully. You just leave Trevor Terrebonne to me missy. I’ll take care of him.

A light tap on the door announced the arrival of the pot of tea Martha had obviously ordered. Here, this will help your chill, Martha said pouring Ellen a cup, so drink every drop of it.

Ellen nodded obediently as Martha gathered up the saturated clothing and left the room muttering something to herself about having to launder the wool pantsuit right away.

As she slipped off the last of her clothing and stepped into the tub, Ellen could not help but get the feeling that Martha was almost giddy at the prospect of having someone as needy as she must appear to be, to take care of.

She took a sip of the scalding tea and felt its warmth travel all the way to her empty stomach. Then she sank down into fragrant bubbles up to her chin. She was bone weary. But slowly, the hot water began to relax her aching muscles, soothing away all the stress from the long, long day. She could feel the tension starting to leave her tired body so taking a deep breath she closed her eyes—but the instant her eyes closed, her mind involuntarily jolted her back to the dramatic experience she had had in the car upon her arrival at Chaddoux House.

She would like to believe the whole ordeal had been a dream or a vision of sorts, or maybe some bizarre reaction to the chicken she had eaten earlier in the day, but something in her psyche would not allow her to dismiss it that easily. The details had been so vivid—the hot sultry air, the night sounds, the paralyzing fear. She could still feel the terror that had gripped her as she tried to free herself from the stiff fabric of the heavy skirts that trapped her legs. She had always felt a unique connection with the past, but only as an observer of the artifacts left behind, never a participant.

With a start she sat straight up in the tub. She would have to get a grip on herself. There had to be a logical explanation. But Ellen knew, even as she admonished herself, that sometimes there simply was no logical explanation. A lifetime of working with objects hundreds of years old had taught her that the past often made an indelible mark on the present in ways that were not always discernible to the five senses or to the rational, left-side of the brain. She fully believed that it was her sensitivity to this truth that had set her apart from her colleagues.

For though Ellen had received a Master’s Degree in Art History and been formally trained as an antiquities authenticator, she had always felt it was a certain intuition she possessed that was primarily responsible for her success. She had discovered at an early age the ability to sense when an article was genuinely old. How this worked was something she had never been able to communicate fully to another living soul—except Davin. Somehow, he had understood.

With the thought of Davin she suddenly realized that the lovely fragrant bubbles had long since vanished and the bath water had grown uncomfortably cold. Beginning to shiver again, she dried off quickly, wrapping her shoulder-length auburn hair in one of the fluffy towels. A little embarrassed, she realized that one of the maids had laid her faded flannel robe out for her. It had definitely seen better days, but had become a sort of security blanket for her over the past few years, and she could not bear to part with it.

She resisted the childish urge to pour the unfinished pot of tea down the sink to hide the fact that she had not drank it all as Martha had instructed, and walked towards the bedroom.

The floors, which were probably hardwood or possibly even stone, depending on when this wing was constructed, were covered with plush carpeting. But that was the only modern feature (other than the plumbing) apparent in the rooms. The color scheme seemed to center around the deep burgundy used in the curtains and the bed-hangings. The decorator had done an excellent job of replicating color and upholstery patterns used in the era represented by the furniture, which Ellen surmised at first glance to be circa 1830.

As she reached the entranceway of the bedroom from the sitting room, she stopped dead still. The hair on