He'd been sick of the bitter, extreme cold and snowfall; he'd missed Louisiana's unpredictable weather. He'd seen the Brooklyn Bridge, the Vanderbilt Mansion on Fifth Avenue, and the Statue of Liberty, but those sights hadn't compared to the elated smiles and tight hugs that met him when he returned to the St. Charles Avenue mansion. During his welcome home dinner, Yves had proudly showed off a photograph of his first grandnephew, the reason for the trip to New York, and informed them the boy had been named for him and his brother. He'd given them descriptions of Brooklyn Heights and its many brownstone rowhouses.
As he sat in the parlor with a full glass of Bordeaux wine and heard of all he'd missed, Yves closed his eyes as he remembered times he hadn't thought about in years. He'd been young, beginning to learn how to be the chief servant of the Broussard household from his father. He'd been full of ambition and promise, dreaming of his future. He wondered what the children's dreams were. He'd always known Henri's dreams. He'd wanted to raise Thoroughbreds when he was a boy, but that dream had disappeared after François's death from yellow fever. With the way his father had grieved, Henri had sworn he'd never fall in love and marry, but that wish had evaporated after he met an auburn-haired beauty. Yves realized how many dreams had faded or changed entirely over his years of serving the Broussard family.
With a heavy sigh, he gazed at the pairs of anxious blue eyes. "Octavia was incorrect. Henri and Casimir were born the same year…several months apart. Casimir was competitive with Henri. Jealous," he added, taking a sip of the wine.
"He made an offer on The Seraphine," Kitty said from the bar cabinet, noticing Yves wasn't surprised by the information.
"As a boy, Casimir always wanted what Henri had."
Matt glanced at his wife while she handed him a tumbler of whiskey, remembering the way the Frenchman had looked at her. He eased his arm around her shoulders as she reclaimed her spot next to him. He felt her elbow in his ribs, silently urging him to ask Yves all the questions he had. "What caused the partnership to end?"
"It had been crumbling for years. Christophe gambled too much. He was too much in every way. He spent more time in brothels than in the fields. Isabel Archambeau's death ended the partnership." Yves somberly bowed his head, staring into the red wine as he recalled the Spanish woman. "Isabel était une belle femme. Petite…fine, thin features. Delicate. Dark hair and eyes," he paused, taking a sip from the glass. "Monsieur Archambeau traveled to Cuba. He had the idea to try to grow coffee plants here, but he returned with her. She was eighteen. Her family's wealth came from coffee plantations in Cuba, and her dowry saved him from ruin."
"Did she commit suicide?" Kitty asked.
The sixty-year-old swallowed hard, rising from his seat. He poured a generous amount of whiskey into a glass and quickly downed the libation, repeating the process a second time. He needed the courage to reveal the long-kept secrets.
Matt exchanged a look with Kitty, thinking the worst since the butler rarely imbibed. "Did Alexandre poison her?"
Yves spun on his heel, enraged by the accusation. "No," he barked.
The big man felt the anger in Yves' stare. He shifted in his seat, smoothing his hand down his thigh. He'd maintained a precarious relationship with the butler. Matt understood that Yves was still loyal to Henri, but he respected the man's unwavering loyalty. "Yves, I didn't mean any harm."
He refilled his whiskey glass. "Alexandre Broussard was capable of many things but not murder. He loved Isabel Archambeau. She put the light back in his eyes after Josephine died. Christophe didn't love her…not the way she needed to be loved," he sighed, dropping into the armchair.
"What happened?" Kitty asked gently.
"Monsieur made a plan for him and Isabel, but her maid delivered a letter."
"The plan needed to happen that night," Matt correctly assumed.
Yves nodded. "In the letter, Isabel assured she would meet Monsieur at midnight in the glasshouse," he noticed the redhead's curious expression. "The glasshouse was in the back corner of the property. He destroyed it after. Isabel never came. Only the maid. She told him of a fight between Christophe and Isabel. There was no proof if he'd murdered her. Monsieur always believed he had."
"What happened to Casimir?"
"Christophe sent him away to Cuba. He took over the plantations. Christophe squandered all he had. Casimir supported him until his death."
Matt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers under his chin as he met Yves' green eyes. "Do you think Casimir believes Alexandre murdered his mother?"
"C'est possible," Yves murmured, finishing his whiskey. He turned his head as the parlor doors slid open to reveal the three-and-a-half-foot-tall redhead.
"Maman, I'm scared," Josie proclaimed, clutching her violet blanket to her chest while toddling further into the room.
"Matt, you gotta remember to cut that branch outside her window," Kitty admonished, slipping off the sofa. "C'mere, Baby," she lifted the toddler into her arms and held her close against her chest, kissing her unruly curls. "There's nothing to be scared of, Quatre," she whispered as she rubbed her back. "It's just that old branch scrapin' on your window."
Matt grumbled under his breath, hating he'd forgotten about the branches. He'd been too preoccupied with the escalating issues with the businesses. Each day, he'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop. As Kitty carried their frightened daughter out of the room, he realized it would be another night of Josephine being in their bed. He reclined into the sofa cushions and lifted his glass to finish his drink. He focused on Yves, deciding to ask the one question he hadn't asked since Kitty had been in the room. "Do you believe our bad luck has been Casimir Archambeau?"
The older man rubbed his lips together and inhaled deeply. "I believe so."
For the umpteenth time, the big man planted his head against the door, furrowing his brow. He could have sworn he heard a quack followed by muffled giggles and lively chatter from the depths of the library. Matt wondered what the group was doing, but he heard Cadeau's bark, alerting him that Lark was on the move. He hurried into the parlor to find the moppet tumbling head first into the toy box. He smirked as Lark hurled several toys out while the silver poodle dutifully picked them up with his mouth. Sometimes, Matt thought he was crazy for thinking the poodle was a wonderful nanny for the eighteen-month-old. He dropped into his oversized chair, propping his feet on the ottoman. He crossed his legs at the ankles while opening the newspaper to read about cotton futures.
Minutes later, Matt heard his wife's slipper-covered feet padding into the room. "Morning, Sleepyhead."
"Why'd you let me sleep so late?" she grumbled. Kitty was grateful to catch up on sleep since she'd managed a handful of hours over the last couple of nights. Lark had been irritable and restless, pulling at her infected ear while screaming at the top of her lungs.
"You were up half the night with Lark."
"So were you," she countered, yawning as she swayed toward his armchair.
"One of us needed to be well rested," Matt tilted his head, accepting her sweet good morning kiss.
"You need to shave." She stroked his stubbled cheek before stealing a sip of his coffee, setting her eyes on Lark. "How's my baby this morning?" Kitty asked, lifting the tot out of the toy box and kissing her chubby cheek. Her fever had broken shortly before the sun came up. "Oh, those eyes are brighter," she smiled as Lark cuddled into her. "Yes, they are."
"She ate all her breakfast, too."
"Thank goodness," Kitty smoothed the hair off Lark's forehead while making a silly face to get a sweet giggle out of her girl. "Matt, where are the others?"
"In the library."
Her brow arched at the children's unusual weekend behavior. At this hour of the day, the boys were usually in the backyard, and the girls were usually in the sunroom. "All four?"
"Yeah."
"What are all four doing in the library on a Saturday morning?"
"Well, Honey, I don't know. I'm not allowed in there."
"What?" Her mind ran wild with what her unsupervised children could be up to. Kitty plopped Lark into his lap. "I'm gonna go see."
"Hold on a minute," Matt tugged on the sleeve of her dressing gown. "You aren't allowed in there either."
"Excuse me?" she softly rumbled.
"Kitty, I don't know what's going on in there, but I do know Vivi's in charge."
Kitty sighed softly, comforted by that simple fact. She stepped into the foyer at the sound of the front door opening. "Doc," she greeted, pursing her lips while her friend waved at her and knocked on the library door. Her curiosity was piqued even more since he had several bags from Hansell's in his arms. The store on Canal Street sold a multitude of items, kodaks and supplies, sporting goods, souvenirs, stationery, and office supplies. She marched to the library, knocking furiously once she discovered the door was locked.
Doc scrubbed his hand over his face at the noise of Kitty's knocking. His blue eyes roamed over the jars of buttons, mass of ribbons and lace, paper doilies, and fabric. He noticed that the girls' work area was much neater than the boys' zone. "I hope you're not leaving all this mess for Delia," he warned, surveying his grandchildren's handiwork.
"Of course not, Pépère," Vivienne answered, helping Josephine put the finishing touch on her homemade card. She'd helped her sister cut the cardstock into a heart shape, line the edges with lacy ribbon, and layered paper to fashion a beautiful birthday card for their mother. "What do you think, Quatre?"
The nearly four-year-old decided it was time to use the French word she'd recently learned. "Parfaite," she crooned with a sparkling grin.
"It is perfect. Your Maman will love it," Doc agreed, pulling the items out of the bags. He handed over the large, thick Bristol board to the ring leader. The children had made individual cards for Kitty, but the group had decided to make one from all of them to include Lark.
"It's cattywampus!" Luc declared in frustration.
Doc tugged on his earlobe as he turned his head to view his youngest grandson's creation, knowing the boy had picked up that term from the hillman. The brown paper he'd cut for ice cream cones was indeed crooked. "Lemme see here, Luc," he said, settling on the floor next to him. "Ice cream cones, huh?"
"Gelato," Luc corrected, scooting closer to his grandfather. "I saved my allowance to take Maman to Brocato's," he whispered.
Doc approvingly clapped the seven-year-old on the back. Luc had taken his older sister's words to heart. He'd quacked without Josephine prompting him, and he'd hadn't been so brutally honest lately. "That's a fine gesture, Luc. Now, you have to be slow and steady with the scissors. Watch," Doc instructed, cutting a perfectly angled line to the paper. "You try. Slow and steady." He glanced at Alexandre's card, decorated with different colored candles and happy birthday in his scrawl. The birthday card reminded Doc of how much Alexandre was like his father, no frills and simple. Doc supervised and assisted the group until the individual cards were finished. He let Delia into the library, smiling at her as she brought in snacks and refreshments.
Delia stepped over to the Bristol board, glancing at Vivienne. The girl tapped the paint brush against her freckled cheek as she gnawed on her lip. "Miss Vivi," Delia whispered, crouching to her level.
"I had an idea, but now it seems…" the ten-year-old trailed off, waving the brush.
"What was it?"
"I wanted to paint our hands and put them on there. Have 'Happy Birthday, Maman' at the top."
"Make 'em look like balloons."
Vivienne jerked her head, staring at Delia with a quizzical look.
"I can paint the strings of the balloons. You all choose different colors. Put your prints at the end of the string."
"Oh," she gasped. "Our hands will be the balloons!"
"That's right," Delia grinned.
"And we can all sign it with our names at the bottom."
The pair started to work while the others munched on pretzels and drank lemonade. For the handprints, Vivienne chose pink, Alexandre selected blue, Luc picked green, and Josephine decided on purple. Delia settled on yellow to be the color for Lark. Vivienne rose to her feet, exiting the library and striding to the parlor. She said hello to her mother and plucked Lark out of her lap, ignoring her perplexed expression.
Kitty arched a brow, watching her daughters leave. "Vivienne, where are you going with Lark?"
The girl stopped as she adjusted her squirming sibling on her hip. "To the library. We need her help," she proclaimed, hurrying off with Cadeau on her heels.
"They need the baby's help," Kitty mumbled, glancing over her shoulder at her unfazed husband. She smirked as he shrugged his shoulders and returned to reading The Daily Picayune.
In the sprawling urban park, the Irishman spotted the redhead on a bench as delighted giggles surrounded him. He drew in the last puff of his Turkish cigarette, letting it settle into his lungs while he navigated through the flock of children. He dropped onto the bench, glimpsing at the woman's fine dress of silk twill. "Looks like you got leg-of-mutton on your shoulders, Fionnuala," he teased, grazing the fabric of the navy sleeve.
She twirled her parasol in her slender fingers, smirking at her brother. "I didn't think you could come out before the night fell," she remarked. She'd barely seen him since he'd unexpectedly come to Louisiana. She certainly didn't understand the odd hours he kept.
He let her jab fall between them, knowing she hadn't meant it to be harsh. She only wanted him to stop roaming the country and settle down again. He lit another cigarette and leisurely puffed, thinking back over the sacrifices he'd made for his younger sister to have a better life. She'd come a long way from the 325-square-foot apartment in New York's Lower East Side. He slipped his arm along the back of the bench.
"But I am glad you're here, Dev," she murmured, lacing her fingers into his. She'd left him a note, sweetly ordering him to come to City Park to spend time with his niece.
"Where's Caoimhe?"
Fionnuala pointed to the mule-driven carousel, smiling as she waved to her daughter.
"I thought she liked Audubon Park better."
"She does."
"Why'd you bring her here?" he grumbled, gazing at the centuries-old oak trees. "Audubon's closer."
"Her friend doesn't like that park."
"A park's a park, Nuala."
"Dev," she sighed.
"It looks the same as Audubon to me."
She scooted closer to her brother, lowering her voice, "Your niece's best friend doesn't ever go to Audubon. Her father was murdered there."
His burning cigarette fell from his fingers. "Nuala, what's Caoimhe's friend's name?"
"Vivienne. Vivienne Broussard-Dillon."
Devlin O'Connell slumped on the wooden bench, spotting the freckle-faced redhead with his niece on the carousel. As he watched the cheerful pair, he felt disgust seeping into his skin over the choices he'd have to soon make.