The Wish Collector, Page 2

  “Angelina?”

  “Mm-hmm. You’ve been in New Orleans for a couple of months now. You haven’t heard of the weeping wall?”

  The weeping wall. A strange tremble went down Clara’s spine. “No. Where is it?”

  “Why, it’s at Windisle Plantation.”

  Windisle Plantation. Clara took the duffle bag from her lap and placed it on the ground next to her chair, leaning forward slightly. “Will you tell me about it, Mrs. Guillot?”

  Mrs. Guillot’s gaze moved away from Clara, out to the ancient magnolia tree that grew in the yard next door, its giant white blossoms and glossy green leaves shimmering in the last rays of the summer sun.

  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.”

  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 who
m 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.

  She got lost in her search, lost in the history on the screen in front of her, and before she knew it, the large clock on the wall told her several hours had passed, while her stomach told her—loudly—she’d missed lunch.

  Ms. Dupre was speaking to a library patron on the other side of the room and Clara gave her a small wave before heading outside where the sky lay soft and blue against a fiery sun.

  As she walked home, she admired the old, quaint homes along the street, painted in bright hues, embellished with ornate architectural details: scrolling corbels, hand-carved columns, formal molding, and large transom windows. Many of them had fallen to disrepair, the railings loose and sagging, flowering vines and bushes mixed with weeds overtaking the tiny yards, grand wooden doors cracked and faded. But even those homes still held beauty, and Clara felt a tug at her heart for all things in the great wide world that had been loved before and waited patiently to be loved again.