Spinning the Moon (49 page)

I nodded and stood with her. She offered me a tight smile. “I hope that you will do us the honor of a visit. Since the war, we do not get very many visitors, and it would be lovely to have a friend to chat with. Perhaps you and John would care to join us for dinner soon?” Her gaze dropped to my black dress. “My husband has told me you are in mourning, but I think it would be acceptable to a have a small dinner among friends, do you not?”

I wanted to tell her no, that I could not bear the thought of sitting alone in a carriage with John for the distance it would take to reach their plantation. But I could not turn down her invitation without seeming rude. “Yes, I would like that. I will mention it to John.”

“Wonderful. Daniel will be so pleased to hear it. He has developed quite a fondness for you, you know.”

“That is very kind. It will be nice having friends close by. It can get rather isolated here during the day.”

The light changed in her eyes. “Yes. I believe it can.”

I watched as she was helped into her carriage, and waved goodbye from the porch as she took off down the oak lane. I felt incredibly lonely all of a sudden.

The sky darkened, swallowing the shadows on the ground. The air reeked of rain, of summer grass, and of the pungent scent of the river. I looked up at the sky to see fat, billowing black clouds moving quickly toward us.

I heard a footfall behind me and I stiffened, knowing instinctively who it was. My skin tingled, betraying me, but I did not turn around.

His voice was close to my ear. “Do not believe everything she tells you. She is a horrible gossip.”

“Really?” I said, pressing myself against the front railing in an attempt to move away from him. “Do you give any credence to what she tells us about her father seeing Elizabeth?”

He sighed. “Her father is quite old and very senile. It is anybody's guess as to what he really did or did not see. But I am compelled to find out for myself.”

Fat drops of rain began to fall from the sky, exploding in the dry dust of the ground below us. “Then you will be leaving?”

“Yes. I feel I must.” He paused for a moment, then: “I am sorry for last night. I should not have touched you as I did.”

Heat flamed my cheeks as I recalled every last detail—the feel of his body against mine, the coarseness of his shirt under my hands. It was wrong, and I wanted to be sorry for it. But I could not.

“Turn around.”

Reluctantly, I faced him. His eyes mirrored the storm clouds above, dark and roiling and full of pent-up energy. I could not speak.

“Will you accept my apology?”

I nodded, unable to find my voice.

He took a step closer. “I want you to know what I am sorry about. I am sorry that what I did was inappropriate. I am not sorry that I wanted to kiss you.”

I gasped, swallowing my breath.

He touched my arm, then dropped his hand as if realizing we were in full view of anybody who chose to look. I lowered my gaze, no longer able to see the lit fire in his eyes. “I can understand how you must miss your wife, and our resemblance must have confused you.”

Leaning down, he whispered, “No. I knew exactly who you were the moment you fell into my arms.”

“You are my sister's husband.” My voice was barely audible.

“There is much you do not know.” He stepped back then and walked down the porch steps, his legs lean and powerful in the formfitting pants. He strode all the way to the barn without turning around once.

The sky erupted in a torrent of rain as I went back into the house, echoing the turbulence in my heart.

*   *   *

I stood in the middle of the foyer amid the gathering gloom. I turned this way and that, restless, wondering what I should do. Suddenly, I remembered.
The key!

I dashed up the stairs, into the darkened hallway to my room. The wind blew the rain at the window with force, the trees outside bowing to its strength. I threw open the armoire, my hands hungrily grasping each fabric, looking for the riding habit. My fingers recognized the soft wool and I snatched it from the armoire and threw it on the bed.

A loud clap of thunder shook the window, making me jump. I lit the lamp with shaking hands, eager to get on with my search. I found the pocket and reached my hand inside, only to come up empty. I stuck my hand inside again, stretching my fingers into every corner, but nothing. It was simply not there.

I remembered Marguerite on the day of my accident, helping me out of my clothes and into my nightgown. She must have found it and put it elsewhere. I would just ask her where it was.

A door slammed downstairs, followed by the distant wail of a child. I ran back down the stairs, looking for the source of the cry. Lamps had been lit in the foyer, casting a yellow light and reflecting off something on the floor. I stooped to look and saw it was water.

Clinking silverware brought me to the dining room and I found Marguerite, her black hair shimmering with raindrops, dropping plates and silverware on the table with force.

“What is wrong?” I asked, still hearing the distant wailing. “Where is Rebecca?”

Marguerite braced her long, slender fingers on the back of a chair. Her green eyes coolly appraised me. “She is being punished. For stealing.”

“But she is only a small child. Surely there has been some misunderstanding. What did she take?”

She continued to regard me with brittle eyes. “Something of mine. Something she had no business touching.”

I wanted desperately to let the matter rest. This child might be part of my blood, but she did not claim my heart. I would not allow the
attachment. I moved to leave the room and had reached the threshold when a flash of lightning threw an eerie blue light into the dim foyer, quickly followed by a loud crash of thunder.

The wailing became a shriek, and I stopped. Jamie had been petrified of storms and would without fail run to my bed at the first crack of thunder. I could almost feel his small shivering body in my arms as I attempted to soothe him. If Rebecca were frightened and alone, I could not ignore it.

I turned back to Marguerite with alarm. “Where is she? She sounds petrified.”

She had resumed setting the table. “Leave her be. I will see to her discipline.”

I rushed forward, the impulse to strike someone stronger than I had ever felt it. “Tell me where she is!”

The woman looked at me with an insolent smile. “It is no concern of yours.” She turned a china plate on the table, making sure the pattern matched the one next to it.

I ran out of the room, listening to the crying to orient myself. It sounded so far away, almost as if it were outside.

I headed toward the back door, then raced off the back porch and into the rain, my ears picking up the sound of the shrieking, this time louder. I ran past the kitchen garden and into the grassy field behind the house and toward the pond.

I saw her then, a forlorn waif in sodden pale yellow, a withered buttercup felled by the rain. She was humped over in the grass, her small hands over her ears, and by the time I reached her, the shrieking had stopped.

I called her name and she jerked her face up. Like a drowning soul, she reached her arms up to me and I lifted her, holding her tightly against my body. She pointed back to the ground and I spotted Samantha, as sodden as Rebecca. I leaned over and handed her to Rebecca. The child hardly weighed more than a puppy, and I easily carried her through the grass and back toward the house, my skirts heavy with rain.

We met John at the back door, his expression questioning. I walked past him into the house and waited for him to shut the door. “Marguerite left her out in the storm as a punishment for stealing. She is just a
child.” I hissed my words at him, thinking he had somehow condoned Marguerite's behavior.

“Good God,” he said, his voice breaking. He stepped toward us and reached for his daughter.

The little girl lifted her head from my shoulder and peered at her father. “Papa,” she said, then buried her face again.

“She is still scared. Let me bring her upstairs and put her in some dry clothes and I will bring her to you.”

His face darkened. “No. I want her now. I am her father.”

I looked at him coldly. “And I am her aunt. She has just had a terrible fright and she wants to stay with me. Unless you want to terrify her further, I would suggest you leave her with me.”

He looked taken aback, but did not stop me as I carried Rebecca upstairs and into her room.

I pulled a blanket off the bed and dried her and Samantha with it as best I could before wrapping it around Rebecca's small body. It took a while to calm her, but I sat in the small rocker and sang to her all the songs that I had used to calm Jamie. They were hard to force out at first, but after a few stumbles, the words came more easily.

Eventually, I dried her hair and changed her clothes, hiding my tears from her as I touched her sweet white skin and thought of my son. About the same age as Rebecca, he had just begun to grow out of his babyhood, his bones pushing through the layer of baby fat on his arms and legs, giving him a new angular look. The image of that emerging boy was the only thing I had left.

As I brushed out her hair, I marveled at its silkiness and its blond paleness, so different from Jamie's black hair, but similar, too. It had the same thickness and even the same wave at the back of the head that forced the hair to stick up regardless of what I did with the brush. I impulsively bent and kissed that little part of my son, causing Rebecca to turn around quickly, looking at me with those eyes. It was almost as if she knew I wasn't seeing her, but wishing that perhaps I would.

A nagging question forced itself into my head and I knew I had to voice it. “Rebecca, remember in the attic, how you showed me that letterbox and then you ran away? Were you the one who locked me inside?”

Again, those bright blue eyes studied me carefully, an
understanding far beyond her years clearly visible in their depths. She shook her head.

“Do you know who did?”

She shook her head again and buried her face into Samantha's hair, which now smelled like wet wool.

I held Rebecca's hand and led her to the door, preparing to bring her down to supper with her father. She slid her hand from mine and ran back into her room. I watched as she took a china doll off the bed. Instead of bringing it to me, she turned the doll upside down and shook it.

Something clattered on the floor and Rebecca stooped to pick it up. With a mischievous grin on her face, she walked back to me, her arm poised as if she wanted to give me something.

I opened my palm toward her, my curiosity aroused. The small brass key bounced into my hand, the bright metal winking at me again in the lamplight.

I
knelt in the foyer, my sleeves rolled up, my hands covered in beeswax. I had been working for nearly an hour and had yet to cover even a quarter of the floor with wax. My back ached at the thought of then going back over it with a buffing cloth, but it felt good to be busy again, to be doing something useful. It was much more desirable than worrying about Elizabeth or letting my thoughts settle on her husband. Rebecca sat on the bottom stair, mimicking my silly alphabet song. Every once in a while she would stop, and I would look up at her and find those blue eyes watching me intently.

I bent my head back to my task, only to jerk it up suddenly as the child began to hum the old, haunting tune again. I listened for a while, then resumed my task, the little voice repeating the simple melody over and over. Although I still could not put a name to it, I found it strangely comforting, as if I had heard it as a child, during a period of my life where all was well and safe.

The night before I had sat down at the table with John, glad of Rebecca's presence. He had informed us that Marguerite would continue with her household duties and assisting me, but that she would no longer be serving as Rebecca's nanny. That responsibility was being handed over to me. I resented being told rather than asked. Then, peering at Rebecca's waiflike face, I realized the good judgment behind his decision. Anything would be better than leaving her in the care of someone who would put a small child out in a thunderstorm as punishment for a minor infraction.

I questioned him as to why he did not let Marguerite go. He had regarded me with hooded eyes before explaining that Elizabeth was very attached to Marguerite and that they would decide what to do with her once Elizabeth returned. There was also an obligation to the
Lewistons. Marguerite was like a member of the family to Clara, but Clara, like most of the families in the county, could not afford to rehire her if she ceased working at Whispering Oaks. She would have no place to go.

I looked up at the sound of the doors to John's study sliding open and Rebecca's joyful cry of “Papa.” John, dressed for traveling and carrying a valise, approached, his dark eyes distracted. He dropped the valise and bent to pick up his daughter, his hand absently stroking her blond plaits.

I stood suddenly, the blood rushing from my head. Dizzy, I put out my hand to steady myself and clutched John's coat sleeve. His strong fingers gripped my arm. “Are you all right?”

Nodding, I pulled away. “I must have stood too quickly.”

He and Rebecca stared at me with the same penetrating gaze, one dark blue and one obsidian. “Did you eat enough at breakfast? I have noticed how very thin you are, and I feel it is my duty to see that you get enough to eat while you are here.”

“I can take care of myself. I do not need a nursemaid.”

“Perhaps you do.” He looked at the smudge of wax I had left on his sleeve. I did not apologize.

He glanced at the wadded rags and thick paste congealed on the wood floor. “And Mary or Delphine should be doing this—not you.”

“I am used to keeping busy, and this needed to be done. I want the house to be in order when Elizabeth returns.”

We shared a moment of silence as I watched his face. He seemed unsure of a response. Finally, he said, “I doubt your sister would want you cleaning floors. Do you not have a hobby or some other ladylike pursuit to occupy your time?”

I crossed my arms. “I did. I used to paint. Before the war. Before the Yankees burned my house and my studio and all my paints and canvases. Besides.” I looked down at my hand and scraped a clump of wax out of a fingernail. “There was nothing left to paint.”

Patrick O'Rourke appeared at the door, a hat crumpled in his hands. “If your bag is ready, sir, I will pack your horse.” His gaze flickered uncomfortably to me, then moved to Rebecca. Slowly, he raised his eyes to John.

“Thank you, Patrick. I believe I have everything . . . except for my pipe. I cannot seem to find it, and I am starting to think somebody may have made off with it.” He patted his coat as if hoping it might appear, then handed his carpetbag to the coachman. The man, with a look that was almost like relief, tipped his forelock and left, sliding his hat back over dirty hair.

John kissed his daughter on the cheek and let her slide from his grasp. Addressing me, he said, “I am going to Baton Rouge. I plan to be back with or without Elizabeth in three days. I expect you to keep an eye on Rebecca and see to her well-being.”

“That is something I need not be told. She will be well cared for, I assure you.”

His mouth turned upward in a smile, and I was amazed at the transformation. John McMahon was a handsome man, despite his brooding, dark nature. But when he smiled, he was devastating. “I am quite sure she is in capable hands.”

He picked up his hat from a hall table, then turned to leave.

I squared my shoulders, snatches of my conversation with Clara coming back to me with full lucidity. “But was my sister in capable hands?”

He turned slowly to face me, his black eyes glittering in the morning light streaming from the windows. “That would depend.”

I waited for him to continue. Rebecca moved to my side and wrapped her fist in my skirt. I broke the silence. “On what?”

“On whose hands she put her trust in.” He placed his hat on his head and opened the door. “Goodbye, Catherine. I will see you in three days. Perhaps Elizabeth can answer your questions better than I can. I am afraid she is as much a mystery to me as she is to you.”

He strode across the porch, and I followed.

“Why were you so near the attic the night I was locked inside?”

A dark eyebrow arched over an eye. “My daughter is wont to wander the house at night when she should be in bed.” He glanced briefly at the child, who stood as if attached to my skirts. “I went to check on her, and when I found her bed empty, I went in search of her. I heard the noise in the attic, which brought me to the door. If you are asking me if I locked it, no, I did not.” His eyes sparked. “If you are done with this interrogation, I must be leaving.”

I stepped forward. “What if you do not find Elizabeth? Then what?”

He looked down at his daughter and his face softened. Then a deep scowl covered his features. “Then my daughter and I will resume our lives. I daresay the absence of her mother will not have a detrimental effect on either one of us.”

Without another word, he strode down the steps and toward his waiting horse.

I stood, watching him walk away, wondering once again at his words. But the one person who could answer my questions had disappeared. I stopped my thoughts, realizing that I needed her presence more to reassure me that her husband had not harmed her than to be assured that she was safe. I bit my lip, ashamed, then looked down at the little girl who was tugging at my skirts. I wiped my hands as best I could with a clean cloth, then lifted her in my arms. “Come on, little peanut. Let us go find that box in the attic.”

I walked up the stairs slowly, trying to get Rebecca to talk to me. She rarely spoke, but I suspected she saw everything that went on in the house. I needed to earn her trust so that she would be more willing to share confidences.

“How did you know that box was in the attic? Did your mama show you?”

Those incredible eyes stared back at me, and she popped her thumb in her mouth.

I reached the landing and headed down the corridor. I recalled the sound of stealthy footsteps in the hall and her confession about how she liked to watch people without their knowing.

“Did you use to see your mother in the attic? And she did not know you were there?”

Without removing her thumb, she gave me an impish smile.

We reached the attic door and I stopped. I put Rebecca down on the floor and knelt in front of her. “I need you to stay here while I go up, just in case there are still bats. I do not think so. Mr. O'Rourke promised me he had chased them all out and mended the window. But I want to make sure you are safe, all right?”

She nodded, her luminous eyes wide.

I opened the door slowly, feeling the ghost of the apprehension I
had felt the previous night. Pushing the door as far as it would go, I headed up the stairs.

The new boards in the window had darkened the attic considerably, and I had not thought to bring a light. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust, then moved to the spot I recalled seeing the letterbox.

It was not there.

I moved forward, my gaze searching the dusty floor, sure I was in the right spot. I saw the trunk it had fallen from and my extinguished lamp—even the dust appeared disturbed on the floor in front of it—but the letterbox was conspicuously absent.

I lowered myself to my hands and knees, determined to find it and refusing to accept the implication if, indeed, it were missing. I crawled among the trunks and old furniture, disturbing years of accumulated dust, making it rise from the floor like a cloudy phoenix, sparkling in the sliver of light from the boarded window.

Worry and a nagging fear tugged at me. I knew where the box had been, and it simply was not there. I stood, ready to give up, when a small object caught my attention. It lay not three feet away from where I searched, its obvious position in the middle of the floor indicating that perhaps it had been dropped rather than hidden. Stooping, I picked it up and held it between my fingers. It was a gentleman's pipe.

I tapped the bowl against my palm and let the tobacco sprinkle into my hand. The scent rose to my nose—a pungent, leaflike smell that suddenly reminded me of my father. A pang of homesickness engulfed me for a moment, weighing heavily on my spirit. I shrugged it off and let the tobacco fall to the floor.

Somewhere in the house a door shut, the sound reaching me almost like a jolt of air. Putting the pipe in my pocket with the key, I walked toward the top of the steps and called down. “Rebecca? Are you still there?”

After hearing no answer, I walked down the steps to the hallway, looking for my niece.

“Hello? Is anybody home?” a female voice called from the foyer. I was quite certain I recognized the voice.

“Clara? Is that you? I will be down in a moment.”

I closed the attic door behind me, then brushed the dust off my
dress before heading for the stairway. I patted my pocket and felt the outlines of the key and pipe as I descended the stairs.

Clara Lewiston waited for me in the foyer, breathing heavily, as if she had just walked a great distance. She dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief, blotting away perspiration. Her eyebrows lifted as she caught sight of me with my sleeves rolled up on my forearms like a cleaning woman. Her gaze moved to the wax and rags pushed against the wall and the half-waxed floor. Like any well-bred Southerner, she ignored the implication completely.

I had to still my breath so I could hear her quiet voice. “I apologize for letting myself in, but there does not seem to be anybody here to answer the door. And it is so hot outside.” She snapped open a fan and fluttered it in front of her face.

I flushed, taking her comment as an insult directed toward my sister. Before I could stammer out an excuse, she continued.

“Please, you need not apologize for Elizabeth. She told me all about her problems with the servants. Their superstitions are quite silly, but they do take them seriously.”

“What do you mean?” I recalled Marguerite mentioning the servants and their beliefs in the supernatural and wanted to hear more.

Her pale eyes shifted as she surveyed the room as if to ascertain we were alone. “Perhaps we should take a walk outside. These walls might have ears.”

My curiosity piqued, I excused myself for a moment to find Rebecca. She was in the kitchen, being plied with sweets by Rose. Her doll, Samantha, was conspicuously absent. “Where did you go, peanut? You were supposed to wait for me in the hallway.”

Her wide blue eyes stared up at me, a hint of mischief making them sparkle. “It is a secret,” she said, taking another bite of peanut brittle.

I felt Rose's gaze on me and dropped the subject. I gave Rose instructions to keep my niece occupied and within her sight until I returned.

I found my visitor on the porch. As we walked, she slipped her hand companionably into the crook of my elbow. Watching her from the corner of my eye, I studied her appearance. Again she was awash in an unflattering, monochromatic beige. She did have beautifully smooth
skin, but the sallow color was even further emphasized by the shade of her clothing. Pale eyebrows nearly disappeared into her forehead, and her lashes were almost nonexistent, lending an appearance of a blank canvas on which the artist had yet to apply color.

Again I wondered what had sparked the attraction of love at first sight for Dr. Lewiston. Even Clara's personality seemed timid and droll against his warmth and charm. But I was no expert on what lay inside a man's heart. I had been married for four years to a man I later learned I had not known at all.