Spinning the Moon (42 page)

I had to clutch the phone with both hands, I was shaking so hard. “I see,” I whispered. “And do you happen to remember your great-grandfather's name?”

“I certainly do. It was Stuart. Stuart Elliott. But I don't remember what his middle name was.”

“Couper,” I choked into the phone.

“Yes, dear, I do believe that was it. As a matter of fact, were you aware that Stuart and Laura's son is a direct ancestor of our last president?”

“No. I wasn't.” I was finding it very difficult to talk. “Mrs. Cudahy, thank you so much for your information. But I'm not feeling well at the moment and I think I'll need to call you back later.”

I dropped the phone on the floor and lay on my bed for what seemed like hours, listening to the ceiling fan whir and the incessant beeping of the phone off the hook. The elephant that had been sitting in the middle of my room since the day I returned finally stared me in the eye. This was my house, but it wasn't my home. My home was with my husband and the people who loved me. This realization strangled my mind, bringing with it as much anticipation as it did apprehension. My travels through time were not yet over.

Journeys end in lovers meeting.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

M
y son, Couper, was born on a cold January morning. He came into the world kicking and screaming, convincing me that he was ready for whatever life would bring him. I knew without looking that he would carry the identical birthmark on his forearm—like his mother and sister. The doctor asked me if I wanted it removed. I shook my head fiercely and told the doctor it was part of my son's heritage and that he would keep it for life.

I spent most of his first two years preparing. I diligently took Couper to the pediatrician for his checkups and vaccinations, and spent a good portion of my afternoons in the library in the astronomy section, charting the different comets in their orbital time periods until I found the right one.

I prepared my parents as best I could, telling them that my son and I would be going on a long trip and not to worry about us. They were instructed to keep Phoenix Hall in good shape, always in readiness for our immediate return. Just in case.

By the autumn of his third year, I was ready. I left Sarah's sprig of dried rosemary on the dressing table in my room for my mother. I carried with me two bottles of Children's Tylenol and a recent edition of the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
. But that was all. Everything else I needed was there, waiting for me on the other side of time.

We found Stuart outside the barn, brushing Endy's gleaming dark coat. We stood in the shadow of an old oak tree, our feet crunching on fallen acorns. The horse whinnied in greeting, and I put my finger to my lips. The sound of children's laughter and a dog barking carried to
us on the crisp air, and I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the tug of the wind on my hair and smelling a wood fire burning in the distance. I shivered with cold, the air seeping through my cotton sweater and jeans.

Stuart didn't look up but bent over the horse's legs, examining the shoes. A brisk wind struck us, making Stuart's hair dance and scattering leaves about our feet. I stared at the mass of dark hair, realizing how much like Couper's it was.

Couper slid down off my back and stood beside me. He looked up at me with piercing blue eyes and I nodded. Slowly, he walked toward Stuart and stood directly behind him. My heart skipped a beat as I saw them next to each other for the first time, father and son.

Stuart picked up a bucket of water and began emptying it into the grass.

“Excuse me.” Couper's little face looked up at Stuart as Stuart swung around, splashing his boots and pants with the water.

I stepped back behind the tree, leaning out only enough to see.

Not expecting to find anybody behind him, Stuart nearly tripped over the little boy. He caught himself and looked at the child, his brows knitted tightly together. “Who are you?”

“I'm Couper.” He peered out from around Stuart's legs. “Is that your horsie?”

Stuart's eyebrows lifted. “Couper?”

“Yeah. Can I pet your horsie?”

Stuart kneeled in front of the child, a hand on each shoulder. “Couper, who are you?”

He wouldn't take his eyes off the big black horse. “I told you. I'm Couper. Now can I pet your horsie?”

Stuart lifted him up in his arms and approached Endy. “Be very gentle. You can pat him right here,” he said, and indicated the neck with the mane blowing in the breeze.

Stuart moved his head back to get a better view of Couper's face. “Where are your mother and father?”

Couper's pudgy fingers were busily entwining themselves in the thick horse's mane. He tilted his head as if he didn't quite understand
the question. “I don't know about my daddy, but my mommy's over there.” He stuck out a sturdy arm in the direction of the oak tree.

I stepped out from my hiding place as Stuart turned, his son in his arms. I saw the color drain from his face, and then he started to shake.

I rushed forward to take Couper, afraid Stuart might drop him. Stuart moved away, shaking his head, clutching the child tightly.

“Laura.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Hello, Stuart. It's been a while.” My voice was barely stronger than his.

His eyes widened, but I saw a ghost of a smile around his pale lips. “Yes, you could certainly say that.” He looked at Couper and his expression changed suddenly. It was as if he were looking in a mirror for the first time. “Are you this handsome young man's mother?”

I gave a small laugh. “Yes. I'd like you to meet your son, Stuart Couper Elliott the Second.”

Stuart glanced from me to Couper and back. His face was still handsome, but there were deep creases in his cheeks that hadn't been there before. “I can't believe this.”

I walked closer to him, my eyes searching his. “Believe it. We're here to stay.”

He opened his arms to me and I walked into his embrace, smelling the autumn air in his clothes and feeling the beloved scratchiness of his cheek.

Couper squealed, his active three-year-old body rebelling at being hugged so tightly. “Hey, stop! You're mushing me!”

Stuart squeezed us even harder as I felt his tears on my head.

The wind picked up momentum, whipping my hair around my husband and my son and sending the fallen leaves airborne once again in the direction of the beautiful white house. It stood, strong and silent, still beckoning me. The sun made shadows of the front columns on the lawn, like arms welcoming me back.

I had come
home.

G
rief cannot be apportioned as if measuring flour for a cake. But when Jamie died, my husband claimed the lion's share of it, leaving me with only a handful to mull over and sift through my fingers. I was not entitled, he insisted, because I had killed our beloved son.

What was left of my husband after the war was quickly destroyed by Jamie's death, and I watched the destruction with pitied frustration until his final act of obliteration and revenge. I found him in his gray uniform, his sword still in its scabbard, his revolver lying next to him on the pillow in the bedroom. The blood seeped crimson into the white sheets of the bed, hiding their purity in a gruesome display. I gathered the sands of my grief and held them close to me, tucking them inside, where I would never allow anyone in to see.

My anger and the gnawing of hunger pulled me from my bed each morning. My fields, where the finest-quality Sea Island cotton had once grown, now lay as barren and trampled as my soul. The old house, the house in which I had lived first with my parents and then with my husband and son, lay in heaps of ashes. The odd fragment of brick or china shone like bone in the scorched earth, the only remains of my once-happy life.

There were fewer friends and neighbors huddled around Robert's casket at Christ Church Cemetery than had been at Jamie's memorial service. I supposed that many, facing the same devastation as I, had left our beloved island of Saint Simons to seek refuge inland. Even as the pastor's words droned on to their inevitable conclusion, I knew I could not leave. My anger was as fresh as the newly turned dirt, and my leaving would be like forgiveness—and anger was something with which I was not yet ready to part. But the hunger pains gnawed on.

I thought often of joining Jamie in the surf off our island, of feeling
the shifting sand beneath my bare feet as I walked slowly into the dark depths of the ocean. But, perhaps akin to the stubbornness of my fellow countrymen who would not recognize defeat, I held firm to life. I would stare out over the ocean, the salty air stinging my cheeks, and refuse to look behind me. Whatever lay ahead did not frighten me. I had nothing left to fear.

I had sought shelter in the overseer's cottage. Mr. Rafferty had abandoned it in the first year of the war, leaving in the middle of the night. The Yankees who had encamped on Saint Simons had left it intact, finding the simple furnishings not valuable enough to steal. But to me, it was a roof over my head and a place to lie down at the end of each day.

Two weeks after Robert's funeral, while scrounging around the overgrown vegetable garden for a forgotten or only half-rotten potato or onion, I heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats pounding down the road.

Will Benton took off his sweat-soaked hat when he saw me, then gingerly slid from the saddle, his wooden leg not seeming to hamper him overly much. His gaze flickered over me, and I was surprised to see sadness instead of the pity I was used to. Perhaps he, too, was remembering the old days, when we were not too much younger, days when we danced in the ballroom of the old house; he with two legs, and I in a satin gown with ribbons in my hair.

I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, realizing too late that dirt had crusted on my knuckles. “Hello, Will. This is a pleasant surprise.”

A ghost of a smile haunted his face, an apparition of the boisterous smiles of his carefree youth. The youth he'd had before the war had come and robbed us all. “Hello, Cat. That is nice of you to say.”

Will looked behind me at the crude structure of the tabby cottage and then back at me, his eyes focusing on the faded black cotton of my dress. “I brought you a letter. I did not know the next time you would come to our side of the island, and I thought it might be important. It is from Louisiana.”

My heart constricted slightly. I had not heard from my elder sister, Elizabeth, during the long four years of the war. Three months after the
firing at Fort Sumter, she had been bundled and packed away to her husband's home state of Massachusetts, leaving behind the beautiful home on the Mississippi that had been left to her and her new husband by our grandmother. I had not even sent news of Jamie and Robert, not knowing if my words would ever reach her.

I tried not to look at my dirty hands as I opened the envelope, too starved for news of my sister to worry about my bad manners in making Will wait.

My dearest Cat,

My situation here is intolerable, and I have no one with whom I can share my thoughts and feelings. There is something evil here that I do not understand, something heavy in the air.

Oh, Cat, you have always been my constant, the one who helped steer me from trouble. It is hard to imagine sometimes that I am the eldest! I am afraid I may have made quite a mess out of things, and I need your guidance.

Please, if it is at all possible, do come to me. You can have your old room, and I will grant you as many favors as you request if you will just come. If your Robert is back from the war, I would welcome his presence, too. He has always given a feeling of strength and security, as have you, and I need that now, more than you can know.

I have taken the liberty of sending a coach and funds for your journey. It should arrive within a week or so of this letter. I know how you hate to leave your precious island, but I have nowhere else to turn.

I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid.

Affectionately,

Elizabeth deClaire McMahon

My gaze met the concern in Will's. “Everything all right, Cat? You look like you have been spooked by a ghost.”

I shook my head. “Yes, I am fine. It is from Elizabeth. She wants me to come for a visit.”

Will's face was grim. “About time, if you ask me. No offense to your sister, but it is just not right for you to be living out here alone like this. Not right at all.” He turned toward his horse, then vigorously closed up the mailbag. “I am sure that Yankee husband of hers has been holding her back from asking you to visit.”

I did not know much about John McMahon other than that he was the second son of a wealthy Boston merchant. On a business trip to Saint Simons, he had taken one look at my sister and decided that he had to have her, along with the bales of cotton he was purchasing from our father.

Elizabeth had been transfixed by the dark brooding eyes and the tall stature of the Northern stranger. I had caught those eyes watching me several times, an unreadable emotion lingering in their dark depths, but he always turned away whenever I would acknowledge him. I believe I hated him on sight with all the fierceness a fourteen-year-old girl could muster. It was not for anything he had ever done to me directly, but for the simple reason that he had decided that he needed my sister more than I did. It did not matter that his inscrutable face softened and his cold ebony eyes warmed when he gazed upon her. She was as much a part of me as the island, yet John McMahon separated us for the first time in our young lives when he married Elizabeth and took her to Louisiana.

Too hungry and tired to disagree with Will, I said goodbye and watched him ride off in the late-afternoon sun. Buttery light pierced the trees and the veils of Spanish moss, and I sighed heavily. How could I ever leave this place? I stilled for a moment, straining to hear the quiet murmur of the ocean. I began walking toward it, needing to feel its tranquillity and contemplate whether my sister's letter would be my salvation or my ruin.

*   *   *

Puffs of dirt sailed out from under the wheels of the coach like little whispers of goodbye. I stared down at my hands, not wanting to watch my life pass by outside the window. My mother had once told me that if you stared after somebody until they disappeared, you would never
see them again. I refused to think of this parting as permanent, and so I kept my gaze fastened on the worn black leather gloves.

My sister's words traveled with me each day of the long, arduous journey. I knew in my bones that something was dreadfully wrong, and I had to reach Elizabeth as soon as possible. The driver, a Mr. O'Rourke, deferred to my comfort, frequently asking whether I needed to stop. But I urged him on, conceding to stop and rest only when the horses were near exhaustion. My aching bones and muscles protested each mile, but my sense of urgency pressed us on. If I were not worried about the driver needing his sleep, I would have demanded that we drive day and night, not stopping until we reached the welcoming arms of my sister.

My mother would have been scandalized by my lack of a chaperone, but my circumstances had changed. I simply did not have the resources left to worry about social niceties. Patrick O'Rourke, a ruddy Bostonian, was courteous and protective, and I felt quite safe in his presence.

As we drove farther and farther inland, the heat and humidity pressed in on us, and I found myself missing the cool breezes of the ocean. The prick of tears began behind my eyelids, but I willed them away by pulling at my anger like an old wound, making it swell again inside me.

Twilight fell on us as we neared the outskirts of New Orleans and the final leg of our long journey. A spattering of rain slapped the roof of the coach, as if small hands urging us on. The coachman pulled up on the reins and stopped on the road near a muddy swamp visible in the dim light. He climbed down from his seat and opened the door of the coach to speak with me. Something screeched high in a tree.

“The road is very wet, and I do not want to risk going farther in the darkness. If it has been raining for a while, the river could have overflowed its banks and washed out the road. We would do best to find a place in town to stay and start off again tomorrow morning.”

I sat on the edge of my seat, listening to the croaking tree frogs and creatures of the night. I sniffed deeply but raised my hand to my nose when I smelled the murky miasma of the muddy river instead of the salty air of home. It had seemed so familiar for a brief, heartbreaking moment.

The rain fell harder as something screeched again, beseeching, pleading, crying. My skin tingled with the sound of it, hearing in it a spoken plea for help.
I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid.
It was as if Elizabeth spoke to me through the wild animal, begging me to continue on.

Facing Mr. O'Rourke, I said, “No, we must go on. I am afraid this is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

His face, mottled with dark shadows and yellow light from the coach's lanterns, looked down at me. “No, madam. We are turning back.”

I grabbed at his sleeve and leaned toward him, not caring about the rain soaking my traveling gown and cloak. “No. It is urgent I see my sister—tonight. And if you will not take me, then I shall rent a hack and complete the journey on my own.”

He stepped back as if to gauge my seriousness. I grabbed my carpetbag from the seat across from me and stepped out of the carriage, nearly tripping on my skirts.

“Please be so kind as to tell me the way to the city.”

The rain pelted on my bonnet and dripped onto my face, but I stood resolute.

The man shook his head. “Mr. McMahon will have my skin if I let you do such a thing. Please, madam, it is for your own good. Please get back into the coach.”

I jerked my arm away from him, the night sounds pressing close, the pulsing beat a rhythm of urgency. “I will only get back in if you promise to take me to Whispering Oaks. Otherwise I am walking.”

He turned around to face the darkness that eluded the small circle of lantern light. A guttural growl echoed in the distant swamp, pressing an unseen finger of fear at the base of my skull.
I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid.
I made a move toward a lantern to remove it from its hitch.

Mr. O'Rourke stared at me, then pressed his lips together. “Fine, then. But do not say I did not warn you if we get stuck on the road.”

“Thank you, Mr. O'Rourke.” Without waiting for his assistance, I stepped back into the carriage, afraid he would see the abject relief on my face.

The rain continued its steady pace, making the carriage sway to and fro more violently than before as the mud greedily sucked at the wheels.
I closed my eyes in a futile attempt at rest and to still the chattering of my teeth. The humidity weighed on my person like a log, but my body shivered uncontrollably. From what, I could not say.

It happened before I had time to realize I was in danger. Mr. O'Rourke shouted, but before the sound had even reached my ears, a sickening
thud
came from the front left of the coach, followed quickly by the splintering of wood. The coach lurched to the side as the lantern light disappeared, sending me in a spiral through total darkness. I hit my head, disorienting myself momentarily, and then realized I was lying on the roof of the carriage, my skirts and feet under about a foot of water.

I shouted for Mr. O'Rourke, but only the incessant patter of rain and the interminable night sounds of the river answered me. Something splashed in the water outside the half-submerged carriage, and I called for Mr. O'Rourke again. This time, I heard his voice very faintly. I struggled to the side of the coach and fumbled with the upside-down door handle. It turned, but the door could not be opened.