Blood Is Thicker than Water - Draft

Chapter 7 - A Not So Pleasant Home

I flatten the papers carefully on my lap. Marc holds the browned edges open so they won't roll.

"Where did we leave off?" Marc asks, scanning to the spot where we stopped our reading the night before.

"She just met her 'vampire' uncle-"

"He's not a vampire, Hailey."

"You're the one who suggested it," I remind him.

Marc half-smiles, the corner of his mouth curling into a playful taunt, and shrugs. "I was kidding."

"Well, anyway..." I continue, "she just met her vampire-like uncle, and they got into a coach to go to his place."

I examine the page with my finger, trying to read the fine script. "Here it is."

            __________________________

Clara

            We rode for approximately twenty minutes. I had not been able to talk to my father about the slave ship during that short ride and had no idea when I would be able to do so in the future. I was certainly not going to mention it inside that cramped carriage with everyone around. Papa remained melancholy but offered a weak smile when he saw me staring.

The carriage reflected his mood, dark with the curtains drawn, and when it came to a halt, I had little idea of which direction from the port we came.

The Monsieur Bellamonte drew one of the curtains back and poked his head out to have a word with the driver.

"We have arrived." His mouth curved into a smirk, sliding his head back into the carriage.

A different footman, other than the one who loaded our luggage, opened the door for us. He, too, was of color.

When I stepped out onto the paved road, a large colonial house loomed before me. We were on a quiet street. The area was urban, with similar large homes in view. It appeared to be a more rural part of New Orleans, away from the hustle and flow of the center. The large houses stood a great deal apart from one another, unlike the close, colorful townhomes we passed by the port.

The Monsieur Bellamonte sauntered up towards one of the grandest houses on the street. Its square columns towered twice his height, leading the eye to the second floor; paneled windows and a small balcony facade decorated the exterior- much larger than our house back home by the sea.

"Welcome to my humble dwelling." He ushered us into the grand house as another dark-skinned man opened the door.

We trailed in a line, following the Monsieur Bellamonte through the entry. My whole family gasped, mouths agape, as we entered.

The entry alone was so decadent and lavishly decorated, it was difficult to believe one could find even more luxury further into the house: floral patterned rugs in maroon matched my uncle's vest, and dark wallpapered walls covered in accents of gold and burgundy velvet. A large stone cantilevered staircase swooped in a curving gesture, up, leading from the ground floor to the first. Glorious riches filled each of the rooms we passed; vases with etched designs and finely printed china urns, paintings of proud men in well-dressed clothes with their dogs nipping at their heels, edged with gold plated frames. However, the house was as dark as the carriage and, despite the rich objects that occupied it, had a feeling of vast emptiness. It lacked homeliness and care. Even so, I felt the plainness of my dark green travel dress against the luxuries of the manor.

"It appears we have arrived just in time for supper. Superbe!" The Monsieur Bellamonte harped as he led us to the dining area, rubbing his hands together. The dining room was equally decadent.