Spinning the Moon (43 page)

“Help me! I cannot swim!” Mr. O'Rourke's voice sounded stronger.

My blood stilled. It was as if I were hearing my Jamie's voice again, crying for help from the water. I remembered jumping in to save him, feeling the pull of the water on my skirts, my arms cutting through the waves, strong and sure. But I could not save my son. And now the water taunted me, daring me to try again and surely fail.

The two horses whinnied, stamping their feet in the water and trying to pull away from the waterlogged coach. Something was out there. Something they did not like. I willed myself to move. I had to get to Mr. O'Rourke. With trembling fingers I removed my cloak and hat, then tore at my skirts.

Relieved of my cumbersome clothes and wearing only my underpinnings, I slipped easily through the window and found myself in water up to my knees. Tall grass reached up to my shoulders, brushing against me with deceptive sweetness. A faint light shone above me, and I looked up what appeared to be an embankment. The light seemed to be coming from one of the coach's lanterns that had fallen during our plunge downward.

The plaintive cry of the driver came again. “Help me!”

I struggled through the tall grass, the blades tearing at my skin,
then up the embankment. I used my hands to claw my way to the top, the dirt caking under my nails. “Mr. O'Rourke, where are you?”

The rain had slackened, and I listened closely for his voice. Something moved behind me, and a large splash broke the silence. I ran for the lantern and held it high over my head. The light picked up something white in the darkness, and I realized it was a leg waving from a scrubby tree high on the other side of the flooded road.

I clamped down on my teeth to cease their chattering, then spoke. “I will come get you—do not move.” My confident voice almost deceived me.

The earth reverberated with a muffled thudding coming up from the ground, racing up my legs, and matching the pounding of my heart. I strained my eyes in the darkness, my mind tricking me into seeing would-be rescuers.

Rushing water and swishing reeds sounded from below the embankment to where the carriage lay upside down. The horses screamed, stamping up and down in the water. Thundering hoofbeats bore down on me as something slithered outside the realm of my lantern. A movement skittered past me and I startled, dropping the lantern, the light disappearing as suddenly as if a hand had closed on the flame. The water tugged at me, pulling at me, rendering me useless, just as it had once before. The water had beaten me yet again and I could not save Mr. O'Rourke.

The rain lessened as heavy clouds shifted above, uncovering a three-quarter moon and lending the tall reeds and scrubby oaks a blue cast. Bobbing lights attached to the thundering hooves grew larger, and I forced my legs to move, my feet slipping in the mud and mire as I ran toward the sound and lights.

“Elizabeth!” a man's deep voice called out as the large form of a horse and rider took shape.

I reached toward him and felt strong hands grab me under the arms and lift me onto the saddle in front of my rescuer. The horse snorted and reared as other men on horseback arrived. A gunshot and then another rent the air. I struggled against the hard chest that seemed intent on smothering me.

“We must get the coachman—he is in a tree. He cannot swim.” I
pointed to where the white of Mr. O'Rourke's shirt shone in the darkness.

The man stiffened, then pulled me against his chest again and began barking orders. More shots were fired up in the air as a horseman rode across the submerged road to rescue Mr. O'Rourke.

His voice was hard and deep, as if used to delivering orders. The men followed his directive without question. My face was pressed against a smooth linen shirt, the smell of starch mingling with cigar smoke, leather, and the smell of a man—a smell I had once enjoyed and now pulled away from like a skittish horse. But muscled arms held me fast, and I sat rigid, trying to limit the contact between our bodies. He twisted in his saddle and I found myself enveloped in a large wool cloak.

Another horseman pulled alongside. “It does not seem to be robbery. The coachman is our Mr. O'Rourke. Is the woman Elizabeth?”

My rescuer grunted. “No.” His fingers worked their way around my jawbone and tilted my face to his. He raised a lantern and his breath hissed as he sucked it in, his face wearing the shock of a man who had seen a ghost. “Who are you?”

I recognized him then, the coal black eyes glittering in the lamplight. John McMahon, my brother-in-law. A small tremor passed through me. “I am Catherine, Elizabeth's sister. Where is she?” Running water moved under us, the small rippling teasing my ears as I waited for his answer.

He lowered the light, casting his face in shadow. “She is gone.”

I gathered the cloak under my chin. “What do you mean, gone?”

His warm breath brushed my cheek, making me shiver, and I felt those dark eyes on me again. “She has disappeared, with no indications as to where she might be. No one has seen her for four days. She is simply . . . gone.”

He reined in his horse and turned it around. Holding me tightly against him, he urged on his mount, the thundering hoofbeats resonating like a distant nightmare.

E
ither the chill of the humid night or the slowing of the horse woke me from a brief doze. The rain had stopped, leaving a pungent scent of wet mud and grass in the air. I jerked awake with a start, aware of the hushed feel to the air. My grandmother's house loomed ahead like a brilliant ghost through the alley of live oaks. The eight Doric columns along the front of the structure gleamed in the moonlight. Long fingers of Spanish moss reached down toward us, the storm-born breeze causing them to undulate like a hand beckoning us onward.

The darkness came alive as we neared the house, torches on poles illuminating the night and making it as bright as day. Despite the late hour, small groups of men approached on horseback, and small campfires brought the smells of coffee and food to us.

“Are they searching for Elizabeth?”

My brother-in-law said nothing, but continued to move toward the house, coming to a halt at the foot of the wide steps. A young boy appeared and took the reins of the horse as my captor slid to the ground with me in his arms. As if I were a baby, he effortlessly carried me up the stairs and through the wide set of mahogany double doors and into the foyer I had not seen since I had been a young girl in plaits.

But I was no longer a helpless girl. Life had certainly stamped her out of existence, and I refused to be treated as one. I struggled against him. “Please put me down. I am more than capable of walking.”

Without a word, he approached the wide, elegant staircase and proceeded to carry me up the stairs two at a time. With a booted foot, he pushed open a door at the top of the stairs and unceremoniously dumped me in the middle of the bed. I recognized this room—along with the tall four-poster with red velvet hangings—as the one I had stayed in as a child.

I scrambled off the side of the bed. “How dare you, sir! I am not a child. And I demand to know what has happened to my sister.”

He stood in the doorway, the breadth of his shoulders nearly filling the space. “I will send Marguerite for you.”

With that, he closed the door neatly behind him.

I flew to the door, flung it open, and stifled a scream.

A woman, perhaps twenty years my senior, stood close enough that I could smell the cooking smoke in her hair. Pale green eyes stared out of a face of light brown skin. Hair the color and texture of dried moss was pulled off her face and wrapped in a scarf, showing a cluster of gray at the temples. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw me, as if she recognized me.

I did not know this woman, nor did I expect to. In letters from my sister, she had explained that her husband had freed our grandmother's slaves and brought in hired Irish help from Boston, and a few local, freed slaves to work the sugar plantation.

“I am Marguerite,” she said. “Mr. McMahon has asked that I see to you.”

Her voice, low and soothing, surprised me. It was not the voice of a servant, but rather that of an educated white woman.

I tried to see past her, but she gently led me back into the room and closed the door. “We need to get you cleaned up and fed. After a good rest, Mr. McMahon will see you.”

For the first time I became aware of the heaviness of John McMahon's cloak around my shoulders. Looking down, I saw with dismay the muddy condition it was in and the unmistakable white of my undergarments showing beneath.

Reluctantly, I allowed Marguerite to help me bathe. She brought in a white cotton nightgown for me to wear, and I caught the familiar scent of lavender on the robe as I put it on. It was my sister's scent, and I felt a stab of panic and worry course through me.
Where is Elizabeth?

A steaming tray of food was brought to me, and I ate from hunger. I should have refused it on principle. My brother-in-law had been a major in the Federal Army, his rank no doubt protecting his land and property from the marauding armies of the North. But I had survived far worse than starvation thus far, and I was not about to succumb to
something as unworldly and impractical as principle. I speared a steaming forkful of ham and stuck it in my mouth.

Marguerite reappeared as soon as I was finished and whisked the tray away with a promise that Mr. McMahon would be in to see me as soon as he could. I crawled under the sheets and lay against the white linen pillowcases, a luxury I had not indulged in within recent memory. I closed my eyes to rest and soon sank into peaceful oblivion.

When I awoke, I blinked in confusion. The candle by the bed was barely more than a wick, the sputtering flame wreaking havoc on the walls in the forms of shadowed beasts. I sat up suddenly, aware that I was not alone.

John McMahon sat in the wooden rocker by the fire, his coat gone and his white shirt lying opened at his neck. His black hair, just brushing his collar, was swept off his forehead, as if by agitated hands. Long legs encased in knee-length black boots were braced on the floor, and in his hand he held a glass of spirits. He stared at me with something akin to revulsion. An unseen energy seemed to hum around him, crossing the room to where I lay. My skin tightened, and I pulled the covers up to my neck.

“This is not acceptable, sir, for you to be in my bedchamber. Please leave. I will speak to you in the library after I have properly dressed.”

“Why are you here?” He acted as if he had not heard me speak, his eyes never leaving my face.

“My sister sent for me.” I almost mentioned to him about her fear and the sense of urgency I had felt, but I did not. Something about his demeanor alarmed me, and if there had been something for Elizabeth to fear, I had the suspicion that it very well could have been the man sitting across from me. “Did she not mention it to you?”

He took a long sip from his glass, his eyes glittering in the faint light under stark brows. “No. She did not. That is why when I saw you I thought . . .” He lowered his gaze to stare into his glass, his brow furrowed. He turned to stare into the flickering flame. “Do you realize how much you resemble Elizabeth?”

Despite our four-year difference in age, people who did not know us well would mistake us for twins when we were children. But as we grew, our faces and demeanors seemed to evolve into that of two quite
distinct people: Elizabeth, the otherworldy beauty excited by new dresses and parties, and me, the reserved sister, the one satisfied to sit on a beach for hours, her bare feet stuck contentedly under warm sand. As we had reached womanhood, people no longer considered us to be quite so similar.

“Not anymore,” I said. “I have not seen Elizabeth in nearly seven years. Perhaps we have grown alike again.”

He tilted his head back against the rocker, staring at the undulating images on the ceiling. “You could be one and the same.” He took another sip and in the still room I heard him swallow.

“Do you have any idea where she could have gone? Did she leave a note?”

He stood abruptly, the chair rocking in his wake. “No. We have searched the area and questioned our neighbors. Nobody has seen her.” He strode to the door. “As for a note, there were none. At least none for me.”

He opened the door, but I held him back with a question.

“How did you know I was not Elizabeth when you found me on the road in the dark?”

He contemplated me for a moment, then took another swallow of spirits. “Because you showed kindness and concern for Mr. O'Rourke's welfare.” He paused. “My wife would have shown neither.”

As he closed the door, the draft extinguished the small flame on my candle, throwing me into complete darkness. I lay back on the pillows, listening to his footsteps disappearing down the stairs and wondering at his words.

*   *   *

Brittle morning sunshine crept through the windows when I next opened my eyes. The sound of jangling horse harnesses and the low murmur of male voices brought me out of bed and to the window.

I looked out at the expanse of front lawn leading toward the alley of oaks and saw several men and horses milling about, tin cups grasped in hands. John McMahon stood in the middle of one group, and my gaze was irrepressibly drawn to him. He struck an imposing figure even from a distance. He stood a good head taller than the next man, his form solid and lean but pulled taut like well-honed leather. As if sensing an
unseen audience, he stopped speaking and twisted around, looking directly at my window. A current moved through me like a flash of light, filching the wetness from my mouth. I stepped back, aware that I was not only staring, but also wearing only a thin nightgown. I held tightly to the curtain panel, willing it not to swing and hoping I had not been spotted.

A dress had been laid out for me, and the pitcher filled with clean water. The dress was a soft blue silk, and I felt a guilty spark of pleasure at wearing something other than black cotton. I wondered whether this meant they had not been able to recover my bag from the submerged coach. I could not deny that I would not miss any of its contents overly much.

I picked up the gown, wondering if any scent of my sister might still linger. It was faint but still there, and I closed my eyes, remembering the times of our childhood we had spent in this house. It had been one of the first plantation houses built on the River Road. Despite the threat of the ever-encroaching Mississippi River, it had remained intact since its original construction in 1800.

Our mother had been born here, as had our grandmother. But deaths outweighed the births at Whispering Oaks, and I always wondered what we had done to be so cursed. Yellow fever had taken my mother's five brothers and then returned for another visit two years later, taking my grandfather when it left. The names on the mausoleum in the small cemetery in the woods behind the house were all that remained of my aunts and uncles. When we were children, Elizabeth told me stories of how the dead would rise from the crypt and come into the house to watch the living. I would lie awake, far into the night, never doubting the veracity of her story.

Grandmother Delacroix had faced the withering sun of her grief, the petals of her strength refusing to shrivel and die. My mother said that I reminded her a lot of her mother, but I had my doubts. Grandmother's heart had remained soft and loving, a constant in my and Elizabeth's lives until the day she died. But my own grief had turned my heart into a cold, hard orb in the center of my chest, and I doubted I would ever find the warmth to nourish it back to health.

I laid the dress back on the bed and went to the washstand to clean
my face. As I poured the water into the basin, a peculiar sound reached my ears. I held the pitcher tightly, listening closely. It sounded as if a small child were humming a tune—a tune that was hauntingly familiar to me. I knew it yet I did not. Perhaps it was a song from my distant past, long since forgotten.

I walked to the door and opened it a crack. There it was again—that humming. It was definitely a child and it was coming from the L-shaped corridor to my right. I stepped out into the hallway, my bare feet padding gently against the wood floors, and followed the sound. The low murmur of a female voice accompanied the humming, and I followed the sound until I stopped at a closed door at the end of the corridor.

Curious, I pressed my ear against the door and listened. The humming became more frantic now, faster and higher-pitched. I recognized Marguerite's voice, soft and soothing, as if attempting to comfort a child. A sudden crash came from inside the room, and the humming turned into a loud and piercing scream. I jumped back and found myself pressed against a warm, firm body.

I jerked around and stared into the unreadable eyes of John McMahon.

His voice was gruff. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . . I heard a sound. I wanted to see what it was.”

He released his hold on me. “This was Elizabeth's room. There is nothing in there that might interest you.” I noticed his use of the past tense, and I took a step backward.

Straightening my shoulders, I attempted to still the shaking in my voice. “But perhaps there is. I am Elizabeth's sister, and I ask that you allow me to help find her. There might be letters or a journal or something that might give us a clue as to where she might be.” I turned toward the door, my hand on the knob. “And there is somebody in there with Marguerite, and it sounds like a child.”

His hand closed over mine, and again I felt the current ripple from my fingertips and surge through my blood. “Please let go of me.” My voice shook.

His gaze flickered over me and I was made aware once again of my undressed state.

“Go get dressed. I will send Marguerite to help you. Breakfast is
waiting for you in the dining room.” His eyes were hard, making it clear that opposition to his wishes was not recommended.

Slowly, his hand slid away and I dropped mine from the doorknob. Being in a somewhat precarious situation, I decided not to press the matter. Not yet. I began to walk away, but turned back when I heard the door open without a knock. Inside I spied Marguerite on her knees, picking up small porcelain fragments, and a blond, wide-eyed child staring up at the man in the threshold. The door quickly shut, blocking the scene from my view.