Page 3 of One Last Regret

Another piece of evidence that proves there must be some such thing as fate is the fact that I choose the career of governess. That career somehow affords me opportunities to help others solve mysteries much like my own mystery while also leading me closer and closer to the truth of my sister’s disappearance.

All of this is to say that being offered a position here in New Orleans confirms in my mind that I am meant to be here.

And today, I am here, in the famed Garden District, staring in awe at the ornate mansions draped with Spanish moss and protected with forbidding wrought-iron gates.

The gates remind me of another wrought-iron gate, this one in the garden of a home in Savannah Georgia. That mansion is the site of a double mystery that I solved to the satisfaction of far fewer than I would like, least of all myself.

Still, I don’t regret my time there. The lessons I learned at that home inspired me to take the next step in searching for my sister. That next step was to hire Sean, so if nothing else, I’ve gained the love of a wonderful man.

I hope to gain a little more than that here.

I step through the gate and walk toward the mansion. It is a glorious house in the unique style of the neighborhood, two stories tall with ornate Corinthian pillars covering the ubiquitous covered porch and supporting the equally ubiquitous balcony. Unlike many other homes of such design, it is not the centerpiece of a plantation and lacks the typical wings which would house servants’ quarters.

That’s not to say the house or the property are small. On the contrary, the house sits on twelve acres of luxuriously sculped gardens and is itself thirteen thousand square feet. Or soJosephine tells me when I speak with her over the phone about this position.

Speaking of Josephine, the door opens before I reach the porch, and the woman herself comes out, arms outstretched, a beaming smile on her face. She walks with the natural poise of a woman who’s spent her life in high society and carries the enviable figure of a woman renowned in her youth for her surpassing beauty. Even at sixty years old, she is still breathtaking, at least in my opinion.

“Mary! Oh, how delightful!”

She speaks with a cultured accent that reminds me more of the Ivy League graduates of the Northeast than of the Southern debutantes of New Orleans. Not that I'm one to draw conclusions based on a person's accent. I've lived in the United States since I was eleven years old, but still speak with a British accent.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. Lacroix.”

“Oh, please, it’s Josephine. We’re friends now, you and I.”

As though to emphasize the point, she greets me in the European manner with kisses on either side of my cheek. Strange that this is considered European, as I’ve only rarely encountered it outside of America.

She takes my arm and leads me up the stairs. “The twins are on an outing with their father, but I know they’ll be just as overjoyed to meet you as I am. In the meantime, let me show you around the house. I trust Henri has taken your bags.”

“Yes, he was kind enough to retrieve them this morning.”

“Oh that’s right, I remember now. You had business to take care of in the city so you had to arrive later.”

“Yes, that’s right.” My business was to call Sean and ask him to find any possibility of a connection between my sister and New Orleans, but I don’t want to share that with Josephine at the moment.

Sheasks.“You should have had Henri chauffeur you. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

We enter the house, and I am not surprised to find it as grand inside as it is outside. The flooring is of polished marble tile, and the furniture all of maple and very luxurious.

The foyer is dominated by a massive seven-foot-tall grandfather clock with a shining mother of pearl face inlaid with gold filigree and a heavy bronze pendulum that swings regally back and forth with the passage of the seconds. Three exquisitely designed brass chimes hang near the pendulum, silent at the moment.

“My grandfather’s,” Josephine informs me when she notices my interest. “My favorite keepsake of his. Marcel was kind enough to allow me to place it in the foyer.”

“It’s stunning.”

“It’s a Howard Miller original,” she tells me proudly. “Grandfather purchased it from him the day his company opened. Between the two of us, we’ve resisted several offers to sell for truly exorbitant amounts of money.” She leans closer as though sharing a deep secret. “I’ll never sell. I’m too fond of it.”

It chimes then, four deep, resonating tones to signify the hour. The sound is pleasant but somehow ominous as well. It’s as though the clock is warning me that I have left the outside world behind. Like it or not, I am a member of this household.

Perhaps it’s warning me that I should have been careful what I wished for.

Josephine leads me through the grand dining room. It contains an enormous table for twenty lit by two equally impressive chandeliers that I am quite sure are real crystal. “My son, Etienne, has begged me foryearsto replace them with electric lights, but to what purpose? These are elegant. They aretimeless.”

She says that word in a slight hiss. I am reminded of the grandfather clock, the symbol of time’s inevitability. I wonder if perhaps a part of Josephine resents that inevitability.

Then I wonder if I’m just reading too much into things. After all, I’ve only spent a few minutes around her. I chuckle at myself and follow her from the dining room into the parlor.

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