Spinning the Moon (52 page)

I swallowed but did not look away. “And what of the father of her child? Would he have had a motive?”

John shrugged, staring off into the distance. “It could have been anyone. Elizabeth traveled to Baton Rouge quite frequently. I was not aware of any one lover in particular. Besides, his secret would have been carefully kept. Elizabeth had too much to lose if the truth were known.”

A stab of guilt assailed me. “Why did you hide this from the authorities? Do you not think they should know?”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “Know for certain that she had killed herself and implicated her husband? I could not do that to Rebecca. I believe the authorities know all they need to.”

Our gazes met, and I am not sure if what he saw in my eyes was a look of accusation or an offer of collaboration. With a sudden movement, he grabbed the evil charm from my lap and threw it far from the buggy. It landed in a patch of dried brown grass, the red silk glaring with reproach.

I stood, but he pulled me down with his arm. “It is foolish nonsense, Catherine, and I will not allow my family to be tainted with it. It had nothing to do with Elizabeth's death, and I will not give it any credence by bringing it to the authorities.” He placed his face so close to mine, I could feel his hot breath on my cheeks. “I have Rebecca's future to consider. I will not let what has happened spoil her chances for a happy life. Her mother is dead. Let us bury her and move on with our lives.”

Shaking off his hold, I shot back at him, my words harsh. “You forget, sir, that Elizabeth was my sister. I shall not bury her and forget her as you would wish me to.”

His voice softened. “That was not my intent. I expect you to grieve. I am merely thinking of Rebecca's happiness. As her father and as her aunt, I believe we both need to do whatever we can to make things go
easily for her. Having it be known that her mother committed suicide would be detrimental. She has not had an easy childhood so far.”

I sat back on the seat, recognizing the truth of his words and wondering, too, how easily he allayed my doubts. He grabbed the reins again, and I found myself mesmerized by his hands and unable to turn away. Beneath the bronzed skin lay a gentleness hidden by incredible strength. I hoped I would never be the recipient of either one.

I stared straight ahead as the buggy made its way back onto the road. “You seem to know my weaknesses, do you not? You know that I would do whatever possible to protect a child. How very clever of you.”

The buggy lurched, and I found myself again pinned to his side. He reached his arm around me, his hand pressing into my shoulder. “I am not trying to be clever. I am merely protecting my interests, my daughter being the primary one.”

I pulled away, strangely reluctant to leave the warmth of his touch. I recalled again the scent on his coat of freshly turned earth, and I wondered at my willingness to so easily place my trust in him.

We rode in silence for a short while before John spoke. “You did not flinch when I showed you the gris-gris. You are not afraid of much, are you?”

Splaying my hands wide on my lap, I stared at the fine leather and perfect seams of Elizabeth's gloves. “Water. I seem to have developed a fear of deep water.”

He turned to me, his face compassionate, and I looked away. “My son, Jamie—he drowned, you see. I was with him, painting on the beach. He was not supposed to go into the water. He was too young and not yet a strong swimmer.” Closing my eyes, I could almost feel the sand beneath my feet and hear the gentle lap of the ocean. “I had taught him to swim, against Robert's wishes, and Jamie thought he could go by himself.” I forced a smile, recalling my beautiful boy with dark hair and vivid blue eyes, so much like Rebecca's. “He was so strong-willed. He thought he would show me himself what a good swimmer he was.” I stopped speaking, trying to find my breath, my lungs constricting tightly.

John placed a hand gently on top of mine. The reassurance restored my voice, and I continued. “He was so far out when I heard him shout. I dove in as quickly as I could, but my skirts were so heavy and I could
not move. He shouted for me one more time, and then I heard nothing else.” I clenched my eyes shut, willing the tears to go away. I wanted to be through with them. They stole my soul and sapped my will for living. John squeezed my hand, and I continued. “We never found his body. The currents can be so strong and . . .” My voice disappeared, caught in the dark undertow of my haunted memory. I focused on the creak and groan of the buggy, waiting to find my voice again.

Quietly, I said, “All I have to remind me of him is a small marker in Christ Church Cemetery in Saint Simons.”

I pulled my hand away from John's and stared out over the unforgiving waters of the Mississippi River. “When Robert returned home from the war and found out what had happened, I think he went slightly mad. I almost felt as if his anger at me for letting it happen was even greater than his grief at losing his son.” I took a deep breath, seeing again the growing red stain on the bedsheets. “He took his own life.”

John swore under his breath, causing me to lift my eyes to his face. It was covered in a dark scowl, and for a moment I believed it to be directed at me. Flicking the reins harshly, he said only one word: “Coward.”

The buggy rumbled at the increased pace, and I found myself clutching John's sleeve until we reached the lane of oaks approaching the house. The suspended bottles in the trees sparkled with new meaning as they tinkled against one another in the humid breeze. We came to a stop under the porte cochere, and Mr. O'Rourke came to fetch the buggy.

I found myself weary down to my bones and craving nothing more than to lie down in my darkened room. I stared up at the house, wanting to feel reassurance or, at least, a welcoming, but felt nothing except an unspoken foreboding as I looked up at the empty windows. We climbed the steps, each one a real effort. As we approached the front door, my arm was jerked back and I found myself pressed against John.

I turned to question his behavior and saw him staring at the floorboards in front of the door. There, glistening in sun filtering between the oak leaves and Spanish moss, lay a cross molded out of what appeared to be salt.

I wanted to take a step back, but John held firmly to my arm. With
an oath, he swiped his booted foot over the cross, scattering the white flakes. The sound of scurrying feet came from beyond the door, and he jerked it open, letting it crash against the wall. We stood in the threshold of the empty foyer, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dimness. It was then that I saw her. I blinked, staring at the mirror in the foyer and into the eyes of my dead sister.

“D
ear God.” John's voice held in check a burning animosity, and I reached for his hand.

He took it, then pulled me close to him, but I pushed away, mesmerized by the frozen image in the mirror. I blinked, marveling at the vivid blue of her eyes—the same shade as the midnight blue of her dress.

Swiveling on my heels, I turned to face the full-length portrait of my sister, now inexplicably leaning against the wall in the foyer and facing the mirror.

John swore under his breath, then moved swiftly across the floor. With both arms he gripped the top of the frame and pulled the portrait from the wall, stepping back to let it fall, facedown, onto the bloodred rug. It landed with such force that thick clouds of dust puffed out of the carpet, rising like a specter in the filtered sun from the open door. A large fissure cut through the gilded wood of the frame, neatly splitting it in half. Yet the canvas seemed undamaged.

“Marguerite!” John's voice bellowed up the stairs and throughout the house, and I prayed that Rebecca was not near to see her father's fury. I had never witnessed such anger, nor did I wish to ever be on the receiving end of it. I thought briefly of Elizabeth and wondered whether she had ever borne the brunt of her husband's wrath. Without being aware of it, I pressed myself against the console, the mirror at my back, as I watched Marguerite approach.

She lowered her eyes as she came to stand in front of John, but not before I noticed those strange green eyes full of knowing and completely without remorse, flouting his anger. Watching him closely, I saw him struggle to curb his emotions. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides while he took deep breaths, his jawbones working furiously.

A deep red stain on his face belied the calmness of his words as he
spoke to her. “I thought I asked you to get Rufus to remove this portrait from the house. Why is it here, of all places?”

Her tone didn't match her apologetic words. “I am sorry, sir. You just told me to get it out of your room, and I did.”

John closed his eyes as if calling his anger in check. “I want it out of the house. In a barn or cellar, I do not care—just get it out of this house!”

“Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.” Marguerite bowed her head, but I could see her lips upturned in a smile.

John took a step closer. “And are you the person responsible for the salt cross on the porch?”

She lifted her head, her proud chin raised, her expression blank. “Yes, sir. To keep the evil out of this house.” With deliberate slowness, she leveled her gaze on me. “Evil is easily disguised sometimes.”

John closed his mouth, his lips a straight, unforgiving line. “You are employed here solely as a favor to the Lewistons. But your refusal to do as you are asked could very well be cause enough to send you packing. Consider this a warning. I will not hesitate to dismiss you should you disregard my orders again.”

Marguerite stayed firm, her voice calm. “I do not think so, Mr. McMahon. You and I know it is in both our best interests that I stay here.”

His long bronzed fingers clenched and unclenched again, his fury so close to the surface as to make the air palpable. “Get out of my sight. Now.”

With a mocking bow, Marguerite left the room.

My fingers hurt, and I realized it was from clutching the edge of the console. Ignoring John, I walked over to the broken portrait and knelt on the floor, my finger tracing the jagged tear in the wood.

“She is not even buried, yet you are erasing her presence already. Have you no compassion?”

I felt his shadow upon me, but I did not look up when he spoke. “I wish I could tell you. . . .”

I looked up then but found his face guarded, the anger dissipating as he regarded me, but his black eyes hid his emotions. “Tell me what? That Marguerite knows something that you do not wish for others to know? You are hiding things from me.”

He lowered himself next to me, and our gazes met. “Whatever you suspect my motives to be, be assured that protecting you and Rebecca is my highest priority. I could not save my wife from the demons that haunted her, but perhaps in you and my daughter I have been given another chance.”

I brushed my finger against the damaged wood again and stabbed my finger on a long golden sliver.

John took my hand and held it close to his face. His skin was still warm, nearly burning my own. He looked at me with the knowledge of what his nearness did to me, and my gaze retreated to my hand.

Gently, he slid the splinter from my finger and we watched as a small circle of blood pooled on the white surface. “This will stop the bleeding.” He raised my finger to his lips and I watched, spellbound, as he placed it on his tongue and sucked. I tried to pull away, but he held fast to my arm.

Slowly, he removed my finger from his mouth and reached in his pocket for a linen handkerchief. With steady hands, he wrapped it around my wound. “Press tightly on it and it will stop bleeding.”

I could not speak. I merely placed my hand in my lap and pressed the handkerchief tightly against my finger, waiting for the throbbing of my pulse to return to normal. He hovered near me, and the desire to ask him about Marguerite's words was strong. But I hesitated. Perhaps there were things that were best left unsaid.

John stood abruptly at the sound of the front-door knocker. I stood, too, on shaky legs, while he opened the door to let in a large gentleman who oddly resembled a pear in shape, and who wore green pants and a green jacket to complete the image. When he was introduced as the mortician, I was sure I had misunderstood. The man who had seen to the removal and burial of my parents and of Robert had worn solid black, with a dour countenance to match.

Mr. Cumming greeted me warmly and with genuine sympathy in his eyes. I welcomed his presence and his intrusion. The atmosphere in the foyer had become charged with unseen energy. His gaze raked over the fallen portrait, but he refrained from comment.

I excused myself and went to find Rebecca. The child had just lost her mother and would need comfort. I found her on the back porch
with Samantha, having a pretend tea party. I sat on the steps, smoothed my skirts, and watched.

Rebecca didn't acknowledge my presence at first, and I remained quiet, waiting until she was ready. As she poured the tea she began humming the old familiar tune, and the sound teased at the hairs at the back of my neck. I leaned forward on my elbows, feeling the old, familiar sadness as I noted the odd similarity she had to my Jamie. They even had the same hands, small and square, and so unlike mine or Elizabeth's. I wondered absently which ancestor had given them their unique trait.

She stopped suddenly and looked at me, her dark blue eyes wide. “Why do you not like my song, Aunt Cat?”

I drew up, surprised at her astuteness. “Why do you think that?”

She picked up Samantha and held her on her lap. “Because your face looks all sad.”

“It is not the song, child. It is just that you remind me so much of . . . of someone. Someone I miss very much.” I brushed long strands of blond hair off her face.

Rebecca resumed her tea party, holding a pretend cup to Samantha's mouth. “I do not miss my mama. I am glad she is gone.”

I moved closer, wondering at the vehemence in such a small child. “You do not mean that, Rebecca. I know I miss her.”

She looked at me with those innocent eyes again, and said, “Maybe you did not really know her.”

I straightened, unsure how to respond, and searched for something else to say. “What is that song that you hum so beautifully? It sounds so familiar to me but I cannot quite give it a name.”

She said nothing, but began to hum the tune again. I watched as she methodically placed a girl and boy doll next to each other on the small blanket that was being used as a tea table. Abruptly, she stopped singing. “Mama liked it, too. But she told me not to tell.”

I moved closer to her. “Told you not to tell what?”

She shook her head, her blond hair flying. “It is a secret. Mama would be angry if I told you.”

Gently, I lifted her onto my lap, and she did not resist. “Rebecca, your mama has gone to heaven. There is no anger in heaven.” I held her
tightly, wishing briefly for the respite of heaven instead of the residual anger and hurt living in those left behind.

“My mama is still here. Marguerite told me so.” She stuck her thumb in her mouth and rested her head on my shoulder.

I would deal with Marguerite later. No matter what secret she held over John's head, surely its revelation would pale in comparison to the torment she inflicted on his beloved daughter.

I brushed her silky hair with my hand, feeling the soft slope of her skull, so small and perfect—like Jamie's. I closed my eyes and buried my face in her sweet-smelling hair. “I would like to take you back home with me sometime to Saint Simons. Your mama and I grew up there, you know. It is so beautiful there.” I could almost smell the salty air and the incessant rhythm of the waves on the sandy shore. I made no mention of the water. It was no longer a refuge for me, but the sounds and the memories of it were.

“Maybe, when I have found a home to live in again, you can come stay with me for a while. I will show you how to open an oyster shell and where to find the beautiful great blue heron. He is very shy, you know, but I know where he likes to hide.” I smiled at the memory of lying in a shallow-bottomed boat on the edge of the marsh with my Jamie and seeing his eyes widen in wonder at the glorious bird.

A footstep sounded on the bottom step, and I jerked my eyes open to see our visitor.

“I beg your pardon, but my daughter is not leaving this plantation. She is mine, and nobody will be taking her anywhere.”

Without further preamble, John lifted Rebecca from my lap and held her close to him. She reached in my direction and I took heart, until I realized she was reaching for Samantha. I handed it to her and stood.

“I would never take her without your consent, of course. I simply thought that a visit to her mother's home could be healing. . . .” I stopped, the cold expression in his eyes halting my words.

“It does not seem to me that you found Saint Simons healing in the least. When you arrived here, you were as pale and skittish as a rabbit.”

I sucked in my breath at his cruel words, and his eyes softened with remorse. “I am sorry,” he choked out. “I did not mean . . .” He closed
his eyes briefly. “I should not have been so harsh with you. But when you spoke of taking Rebecca . . .”

I stepped back, feeling the pinpricks of tears. “I . . .” I could not think of a thing to say. He knew of my circumstances, yet he could slap me in the face with them. I slipped past him off the porch steps and ran across the yard toward the orange grove, intent on getting as far away from John McMahon as possible.

*   *   *

Elizabeth's funeral was held on a wet Saturday morning. The family mausoleum was unsealed, waiting with gaping mouth to receive its next inhabitant. I had been inside of it once when I was eleven, during one of our summer visits, on a dare from Elizabeth. It had been opened to inter the remains of a distant cousin who had died overseas. It was cousin Peter's wish to be buried at Whispering Oaks, and so his coffin had been shipped across the Atlantic and down the Mississippi toward its final resting place. Cousin Peter had died in Egypt, and it was rumored that he had been mummified to preserve his body on its long trip home. Elizabeth had had a wonderful time wrapping herself in strips of sheets and frightening me and our friends. She had made amends by allowing me to dress as the mummy while she transformed herself into Cleopatra. That was so very much like her; she always made sure that everyone had what they thought they wanted.

The mausoleum had been built into a sloping hill, covered on three sides by grass and the opening sealed with a heavy metal door and a locked gate. The door had been opened and the gate unlocked in preparation for cousin Peter's burial, and the dark opening seemed to beckon to my sister with a call to mischief.

Elizabeth had given me a small stub of a candle to light my way and then told me to stay inside until the candle burned out. She had shut the door behind me, and I had sat shivering inside the oddly cool cavity, staring at the flickering candle, watching each undulation with breathless fear. When it began to fizzle and burn my fingers, I had dropped it, finding myself suddenly swallowed in suffocating blackness. I waited for Elizabeth to call for me, to congratulate me on my bravery, and to let me wear her red cape to church as she had promised.

But no one had come for me. After waiting for countless minutes, I had dropped to my hands and knees, praying I wouldn't bump a shelf with a dusty coffin, and crawled out of the enclosure. The sunshine blinded me momentarily. When I could see again, I saw Elizabeth and Philip Herndon, from nearby Bellevue plantation, sitting on the ground behind the grassy slope of the mausoleum, and he was holding her very close. When he spotted me, he pulled away and stood, yanking Elizabeth with him. Her clothes were rumpled and covered with grass, and her lips red and swollen. Philip flushed with embarrassment, but Elizabeth gave me only a crooked smile and then merrily announced that I had earned her red cape—an object I had been craving—but only if I promised not to mention that Philip had been by for a visit. I agreed, too excited to have the lovely cape and not realizing the precarious position in which I could have put my sister had I told Grandmother.