A History Mystery: Day Five / Part Two

The Personal Journals of Morgan Victoria Beauchamp

Tuesday, October 28,

Dearest Papa,

The day after my birthday finds me groggy, restless, itchy, and de-energized… and alone again, it seems.

Apparently I had more to drink than I thought. When Mattias woke me by pounding on my door, I was in no mood be awakened. With a pounding head and body that ached, and didn’t want to move, I barely managed to pull on an oversized T-shirt before answering the door. At Mattias’ stare, I put my hand to my throat and discovered the necklace still in place. No time to explain on my part, or gawk on his, he shooed me into a fast shower and then threw jeans, a turtleneck and a sweater through the bathroom door. In short order, we were in his Toyota and somehow he managed to avoid a speeding ticket getting back to campus. Later, he explained, my pale appearance worried him which was why, after shoving me into the lecture hall, he came back with a quart of hot coffee and sat off to the side. Normally he doesn’t attend the seminars, but it was sweet he watched over me. Unnecessary, but sweet, nonetheless.

Also thanks to Mattias’ foresight, I was able to get the discussion started based on my class notes. A good grad student assistant is certainly worth their weight in gold. I have to find a way to give him a bonus for Christmas. Or the way I feel tonight, possibly my job once he’s completed his doctorate.

I’m not entirely sure where this listlessness is coming from. I didn’t drink that much alcohol last night. And the lovemaking was invigorating, not draining. As I sit here at Café du Monde, hoping Jean Baptiste will find me tonight – can you believe we haven’t exchanged phone numbers or email addys? It seems so surreal to be in a modern relationship without a hot text or two to get me through the day – I feel my energy returning, but I’m also slightly depressed.

I’m still wearing the necklace and in touching it, I can feel the touch of my lover, but I wish for him to be here touching me now. Of course, my sweater is hiding it. It wouldn’t do to advertise such an obscene amount of money around my neck. I love this city, but I’m not fool enough to believe I’m immune to muggers who would attack me for my cell phone let alone a laptop or a valuable piece of jewelry.

And just where is my lover tonight? It’s almost as if I can sense him watching from a distance. Is he hiding behind the bushes? Is he in the shadows? Or is it merely my imagination? Most likely. He stumbled out of my bed so fast as dawn approached, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was half way to New York by now. Is my self-pity clear enough for you, Papa?

So, in order to redirect my thoughts, I’ve turned to the journal of Jean Baptiste the pirate. At least he is still with me, even if his present day counterpart has chosen to do the conquer-and-run routine. Oddly enough, the journal seems easier to read tonight. There’s a bit here I hadn’t discovered before. It seems he had a lady he loved enough to give up the sea for. Constance. Such a romantic my pirate was. I’m able to eke out details of their meeting, at a ball he hosted. The closely cloistered lady managed to escape the watchful eye of her uncle and they met in a most decadent clandestine manner. Most suitable for the pirate he was. So, what went wrong?

I’ve spent most of the night deciphering just the first few pages. My head is pounding and the noise of the café seems so loud tonight. The streets are absolutely teeming with early Halloween celebrants. And my other senses seem over bright tonight. I was actually scrambling for sunglasses this afternoon. Fortunately Mattias was willing to loan me his pair and when I hit the Quarter, I found a shop where I bought huge, super dark, Jackie O sunglasses. The fragrance of the coffee and beignets is keeping the more unglamorous odors of the streets at bay for now. Surely the remaining dregs of my hangover.

I’m distracted again. So, Jean Baptiste of 1761 fell in love. If I’m reading it right, he spent several weeks courting her and working up to the idea of marriage. Which probably led to the idea of breaking it off with the Jamaican mistress. A wise plan. Had he begun courting me, I’d have expected the strumpet on the side to be history in a very fast way. Like, immediately.

As fascinating as this is, and truly, this find is historic and momentous, I hate that I’m distracted by my body’s longing for my lover. I’m also cold, so sitting inside and drinking coffee is helping somewhat, but I want to be outside where I’m more visible should he be looking for me. I can’t believe I didn’t get a phone number, a business card, an email, a website, a MySpace… some way to contact him! Was that his plan all along? Stalk me until I fell into bed with him and then leave me? Is the necklace payment for the night? Am I only a whore to him? Granted, he did me the honor of making me feel very high class about it - I must get this necklace appraised - but still. I’m not a whore and damn him for making me feel like one!

Just the thought makes me want to rip off this collar and toss it into the river. Let some dredger pull it up years from now and wonder at the mystery of where it came from. The thought almost makes me giggle. As a historian, anthropologist, and part time archeologist, I can just imagine what sort of tizzy such a find would stir up. Jewelry is not my forte, but I will get it appraised tomorrow and then find a way to return it to him. At least if he’s going to pay me, I’d like some sort of idea of how much he values me and my services. A disgusting thought, is it not, for an academic like me?

Oh how my mind wanders…

There, I’ve just put another two hours into interpreting this gobbledygook of French, English, Spanish and dialects of several other languages in between. Constance was most important to our buccaneer swain. So much so, that he’s heading out on his ship, the Gilded Lady, tomorrow to make one last run to his mistress. It seems he plans to tell Diabolique things are over between them. And then his crew is next. He’ll proctor an election for a new captain then return to New Orleans to begin life as a gentleman farmer with the proceeds he’s gained from his years of privateering. I wonder, did he tell Constance that he was leaving her for a time and why?

I really must get this journal authenticated. I’ll task Mattias with that chore tomorrow. More than anyone else, he can be trusted, and there are some grad students in that department who would love to do him a favor. Why doesn’t he see how the younger ladies lie in wait for him? I’m old enough to have been his babysitter for crying out loud. Is he one of those men who fantasized about a hot affair with their nubile teen sitters? I suppose I never told you, Papa, how Mr. Milowiki tried to cop a feel each time he drove me home after sitting with those demon twins he and his wife cooed over. You probably would have killed him, I imagine.

And now I circle right back to where I started my evening, wondering where Jean Baptiste is. Does he, too, have a mistress to set free? Or am I the mistress? The endless spirals of speculation are driving me batty. I have research to do and I’ve allowed myself to be distracted by a man who loved me last night and left me alone this night. Was I so terrifying? Does he have a wife who caught him sneaking in the door?

Ah, Papa, I wish you were here to advise me. What goes through a man’s mind at a time like this?

A History Mystery: Day Five / Part One

From the memoirs of Jean Baptiste Morgane

Tuesday, 28 October

I am the devil himself. I wallow in the shame of what I have done, ashamed to show my face unto the light, even that of the moon. All day my dead brain pitched fearfully in my slumber. The taste of her lingers still upon my tongue. Even though it pains my soul, I know to venture forth from my dust cloaked cocoon would only bring further tragedy

So, as the night grows cold toward day, I wallow in my own self pity, letting my hunger grow. Soon I will be forced to slink into the shadowy streets to sustain myself for another day. I will wait until the sky grows pink, taking what I need, leaving myself little time to go to her. What a pitiful spinster of the damned I have become. If laughter came easy to me, I would gladly roll upon the floor at the irony.

Perhaps, the malady would not be so bad if not for her thoughts intruding upon my sorrow. Since waking, her voice has been in my head. It is not a peculiar condition. Many times over the centuries the thoughts of my victims have lingered in my head. Normally I can simply blot them out but this time there is no escaping the thoughts ringing between my ears. With no other explanation available, I can only assume our connection goes deeper than I thought. Could this be more than a simple infatuation on my part? Could I love her?

The concept is frightening to me. I do not deserve the emotion. Everyone I have ever loved has paid the price my weakness. I will not let Morgan be the next in the long line. I would sooner go into the darkness and writhe for eternity with the burning need than see her harmed even for one brief second. When I am more in control, I will retrieve my lost journals and disappear from her life. Without them to back up her theories, she has nothing to substantiate her claims. Her career will be ruined but at least she will be alive to rebuild her life.

Whatever joy this existence holds for me I will exploit this connection and live vicariously through it. If I can not be with her physically, this shallow intrusion will suffice. The guilt involved is not even enough to stop me from invading her privacy. I am already a monster, what is one more piece of blackness upon my dead soul?

Easing past the boundaries, I sense her at her favorite haunt, a cup of smooth creamy coffee in one hand and my journal clasped in the other. Closing my eyes, I allow hers to become mine. The muted twinkle of her voice reading along to the words blurred through the flickering images I see through her mind. I found myself content to be in her presence.

Until she flipped the fragile pages of the journal to linger on Constance’s name. The flowing script from my own hand cursed me from two hundred years ago. Seeing my lost paramour’s name written with such care and love stabbed me. Those fleeting moments of love we shared disappeared in the horror of what had come to pass.

Immortality has done little to erase that night from my head, as much as I prayed that it would. Fresh from Diabloque’s curse, I returned to New Orleans. At the time some small part of me denied what I had become. The man I had been still burned bright inside me. I can remember thinking the beast inside me could be contained by the rational mind of man residing within the soul I no longer owned. The monster knew better. I lurked in the shadows, not daring to approach her openly. Already the story of what had happened on that small island had reached the bustling streets of New Orleans. No one knew for sure what had taken place, but then as now, rumor was a more potent historian than the truth. Tales of my demise circulated partly in thanks to my crew who had seen the island aflame with the inferno I started to hide my infamy.

For weeks I hid in the bayou by day. By night I stalked the streets, my hunger too great to ignore. A few times the hunger abated enough to delude me into venturing to Constance’s home only in the dead of night when I was sure she’d be ensconced in slumber’s hold. Finally I grew bold in my comfort. The clear night befuddled me into thinking I could safely enter the balcony adjacent to her rooms and catch some fleeting glimpse of her through the French doors that opened onto it.

Through the gossamer curtains I saw her, not sleeping but crying in the gloom. I dared not move closer, fearful she would sense my presence. The sight tore through the resolve I held onto by a thread. I collapsed upon the balcony, blood drenched tears marking their way down my face. Her sobs grew louder with every moment. I would have left but found myself paralyzed. Then her voice found words to accentuate her pain and they are forever engraved upon my suffering.

“Jean Baptiste, my love. Even if you be dead, I would gladly join you if it meant an end to this agony I bear from being parted from you.”

I would like to say the monster took over, but the lie would sour upon my lips. Her admission and pain drove not the demon I am, but the man I was. Shrugging off my stupor, I threw open the doors and went to her. Upon seeing me, she stumbled from the bed and threw herself into my arms. I wrapped her into me. There were words of love, but they fell short of the truth. I came into her life then, not as a love, but death. Her statement I took to heart.

Her tear reddened eyes pleaded for some explanation but the thirst had already marked her. In those days it was not the steady need it is now. It was a blanket lust that overrode all else. In those fevered seconds I did not see a lover, I saw a meal. Before my strength reasserted itself, the crimson haze cleared from my eyes and I found misery waiting for them. My dear, sweet, beautiful Constance lay, a broken husk, in my arms. Screaming, I let her fall to the floor. Already to the gallerie doors, I heard footsteps racing toward us. As I leapt through the doors I glanced back to see Constance’s blank eyes glaring after me. It was the last memory I took of her after claiming her life and it will forever condemn me.

Wrenching myself from the memories, I felt tears carving trails down my hollow cheeks. Composing myself, I mentally sought out Morgan. She had moved on, abandoning the journal to dark thoughts of her own. My lack of appearance tonight had placed a blight upon what we’d shared. I saw the inner turmoil she experienced because of it. Her pain was inexcusable for even though I planned to disappear from her life at the soonest possible moment, I would not have her assume the role of mistress in her mind. She was better than some simple courtesan, or Storyville whore, to be tossed away when finished with.

I swear now, when my mind reaches a semblance of calm, I will make the break clean with as little pain involved for her as possible. She deserves closure. I made ready to desert the link between us, when a stray thought stopped me. Tomorrow this associate of hers would take the journals for authentication. I could retrieve the documents without harming her, thus saving me from a situation I dreaded. Closing the connection, I allowed a small smile to grace my face. By Hallows’ Eve I could depart her with due haste. My sorrow would continue, but at least my love would live on.

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PS: Don't you love the cover?? Huge, mega thanks to Renee Rocco from Lyrical Press for designing it for us!!