Spinning the Moon (56 page)

Growing impatient, I pulled away. “It is none of your concern, Philip, and I would appreciate it if you would not be intent on spreading unfounded rumors. I have Rebecca to think of.”

His eyes softened. “Yes, Elizabeth's child. Thank God you are here to see to her upbringing.” Somber again, he said, “If you are intent on marrying him, just remember that I am only a short ride from you. Do not hesitate to call on me if you should need anything. Anything.”

I wondered at his words as he bowed again and replaced his hat. “It is best that I leave now. Good day, Cat.” To my surprise, he reached for my hand and held it to his mouth, his lips lingering longer than necessary. Jezebel stepped back, and I pulled away. His eyes darkened as he regarded me, but there was something in them that told me he was not seeing me but some distant vision from his memory. I wondered if it had anything to do with Elizabeth. He looked past my shoulder and then, without another word, he bowed again and took off at a canter.

In a contemplative mood, I stared after him until he was out of sight, oblivious to the pounding of hooves approaching me from the rear. At the last moment, I turned to see John approaching, his face a mask of fury. He drew up his horse quickly, making it rear.

“So, we are not yet married and you are already having assignations. If you are to meet with men other than your husband, at least have the decency to choose a more worthy adversary. That fop is not even worth the energy of pulling out my pistol.”

I was dumbfounded for a minute as I contemplated his implication. In an unaccustomed rage, borne of weariness and anxiety over the recent and dramatic turns in my life, I raised my hand to strike out at him. He leaned back, avoiding the blow, and I lost my balance, tumbling over the neck of my horse and down the embankment toward the swirling river below.

The abject terror of touching the water consumed me, and I acted as a wild woman, scraping and clawing at the grassy mud, trying to find something of which to grab hold. My struggles were rewarded when I managed to grasp a withered root, its frizzled ends reaching out
from the dark mud like a groping hand. With desperation I hung on with all my strength.

“Catherine!”

It was then that I remembered I was not alone, and I clung to John's voice with hope. The relief nearly weakened me, but I dared not let go.

“Hold on—I think I can reach you and pull you up. Just do not let go.” I saw his gaze travel to the slurp and splash of the river below me. He disappeared for a moment and then returned.

“I have tied myself to my horse so there is no danger of me falling in and taking you with me.” He lay on his stomach and inched himself slightly over the precipice, his hands reaching toward me, his fingertips nearly touching mine.

“Give me your hand.”

I hesitated, thinking back on Philip's words. Could I trust this man?

“Cat, give me your hand.”

His dark eyes bored into mine. With a deep breath, I let go with my right hand and placed it into John's strong palm. His fingers closed about mine in a firm grip, and I had no more doubt. Without waiting for him to ask, I let go with my other hand and placed it into his other palm.

His face contorted in strain and concentration as he began to pull me up. I used my feet to find footholds, using them for leverage as John slid back toward his horse. Slowly but surely, I inched my way up to the top, and when we were both safe, we lay on our backs, panting.

John sat up and reached for me, pulling me into his lap. I did not resist and allowed him to cradle me in his arms, much the same way I had seen him holding Rebecca, and I felt him tremble. I was warm and safe in his care, and my doubts of marrying him began to fade. “You called me Cat,” I said foolishly. Only my family and those who had known me since childhood called me by that name, and I found his use of it oddly comforting and familiar.

“Yes. I did.”

I felt his lips on my hair as we huddled together, his arms tight around me.

We rode back together on his horse, leading Jezebel, as John would
not be separated from me. When we arrived, Mr. O'Rourke took the horses and John insisted on carrying me up to my bedroom.

Despite my assertions that I was quite all right, I was still surprised that John did not suggest we call for Dr. Lewiston. As he settled me on the bed, he said, “There is no need to send for Daniel. I am quite capable of taking care of you, and he would only look upon your accident as another reason for you to stay at Belle Meade.” He tried to force a grin but failed. “It would not do to have the neighbors thinking that you might be in some sort of danger from me.”

I found his words odd, especially after having spoken with Philip and Judge Patterson. But John had saved my life, and I now knew their concerns to be unfounded.

Marguerite helped me undress and settled me into bed with an herbal tea to help me sleep. I felt like a child but acquiesced, realizing that the afternoon had taken a toll on my nerves. The soothing brew settled in my brain like a warm blanket, and I was soon fast asleep.

It was near dark when I awoke, and I knew that I was not alone. John sat on the edge of my bed, watching me. His expression was grim, his face pale.

“I came close to losing you today, and know I am partially to blame.” He took a deep breath, and it almost sounded like a sigh. “I wanted to offer you an apology.”

I sat up, pulling the blankets along with me to cover my nightgown. I was all too aware that I was barely dressed and alone in my bedroom with this disturbing man. “I met with Philip today simply by accident. It was not planned.” I took a deep breath. “John, I am learning to trust you, and you should be doing the same with me. I do not know if I can marry you if you are going to interpret every innocent action or remark as something circumspect. A marriage without trust is like a prison for the soul.”

My heart clenched as I recalled the painful weeks following Robert's return from the war when he had learned that our Jamie had drowned. Robert had gone to his grave believing that the woman to whom he had entrusted the care of his only son had betrayed him. And his harsh words had me almost believing him. I met John's troubled
gaze. “I would rather have my destitution on Saint Simons than live in such a prison again.”

He took my hand and held it to his lips. My pulse leapt through my veins at his gesture, my breath quickening. “There are reasons for my behavior, some of which you understand and some of which I hope you never try to fathom. But I swear to you that I will do my best to be more trusting.” His dark eyes bored into mine. “And you must do the same. I am not the evil man that some are eager to make me appear.” His thumb stroked the top of my hand, and I wondered if he could hear the scattered beating of my heart. “I can be quite gentle, if given the chance.”

Reluctantly, I pulled my hand away. “Do not try to seduce me with your words. I will pack my bags and return to Saint Simons tomorrow if you have no intention of building trust into our marriage.”

“Then I give you my word.”

I bowed my head so he could not see the hope I knew must be shimmering in my eyes. “Then I will marry you as we planned.”

He took my hand again and squeezed it. Bending close to me, he kissed me chastely on the cheek. My skin burned where his lips had been, and I looked up as he stood. “I will have a tray sent up for you. I think you should remain in bed until morning.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“For saving my life.”

“Then I must thank you for the same reason. Sometimes I think that you may have saved my own as well.”

With a brief bow, he left. My hand went to my night table, where I had placed the lodestone when getting undressed. I rubbed its cool, smooth hardness as I contemplated his words, until Marguerite arrived with my tray.

Halfway through my meal, I looked up to see the door of my room slowly being pushed open.

“Hello?” I called.

I saw Samantha's head first, shortly followed by Rebecca's blond head, her face covered by her doll. Without answering or waiting to be invited in, Rebecca climbed up on the footstool by the side of my bed and plopped herself down at the foot, Samantha in her lap.

I stopped chewing, noticing the doll's face. It was completely covered in dirt, and the yellow yarn of her hair had fared no better. Rebecca's hand rested in Samantha's lap and her nails were caked with dark earth. When the child peeked around her doll's head, it was hard to tell the two apart, so filthy were the usually rosy cheeks.

“Rebecca, what has happened to you?”

She giggled, that high, appealing child sound that I had come to love. I tried to look stern and admonishing, but it was so difficult when faced with so much guileless charm. I pressed my napkin to my mouth to hide my smile.

She pretended to pout. “Samantha is all dirty. She made me get dirty, too.”

I nodded solemnly. “I see. And how did she make you get dirty?”

Rebecca pursed her lips into a perfect rosebud shape and placed her little finger against them. “Sshh. It is a secret.”

I tilted my head. “I promise not to tell.”

She shrugged, her gaze wandering around the room, apparently losing interest in the direction of our conversation.

I continued. “Well, whether or not you tell me your secret, you should not be getting yourself and Samantha so dirty. Where was Delphine?”

She shook her head, her blond curls bouncing, a mischievous smile on her lips. “I ran away from her when she was not looking.”

I put down my fork, feeling anxious. I remembered the cottonmouth snake and knew that dangers lurked everywhere for small children. Even under the serene waters of the ocean—or a pond. “Promise me, Rebecca, that you will never do that again. I do not care that you are all dirty, but I do care if you get hurt. That is why you must never run off by yourself. Do you understand?”

She looked at me as if she were about to cry, and I realized that my tone had taken on a sense of urgency. I reached out and took her hand. “I care about you, Rebecca, and I do not want anything to happen to you. Can you understand that? And can you promise me that you won't run off again?”

With a small sniff, she nodded. I patted her hand, noticing again the dirt-encrusted nails. Gently, I asked, “Are you sure you won't tell me where you and Samantha have been?”

She looked up at me with those clear blue eyes, and my heart skipped a beat. I fleetingly wondered if I would ever be able to look at this child and not see the one I had lost. “Somebody is buried under the orange trees, and me and Samantha were trying to dig it up.”

Something hit the floor, and it took me a moment to realize that it was the lodestone that had slipped from my hand onto the wood floor and now lay cold and still. I thought I saw a movement by the door and imagined the sound of stealthy footsteps walking down the passageway outside. I hastily moved aside the tray and slid from the bed. When I stepped outside my bedroom door, all was still and quiet in the darkening house.

I walked down the passageway, not caring who might see me in my nightdress. I continued down the corridor toward John's room but saw no one. I returned and peered down the hallway toward the attic door, but nothing stirred.

I returned to my room to find Rebecca gone. I had not heard her leave, nor had she passed me on the way to her room. When I bent to look for the child under my bed, I noticed that the lodestone was missing from my floor. Looking up, I spotted it on my night table, a diminutive statue full of secrets and hidden meaning, surrounded with a sprinkling kiss of dirt.

I
had no time to pursue the absurdities of Rebecca's claims, as the preparations for the wedding consumed my time and energy. She was apparently a child with a rich imagination, and I did not want to discourage it. To assuage my curiosity, I would soon have to take her with me to investigate her mysterious place in the orange grove. Then, perhaps, I could put it out of my mind. But for now, the child's secretive smile and earnest words made sure it was never far from my thoughts.

John's work on the plantation and at the sugar mill kept him out of the house from sunrise to sunset. But I always knew when he was near, as if something about him had heightened all my senses, creating an awareness of his presence.

Despite his long absences during the day, he would join us for supper in the evenings. I enjoyed his company, his intelligent conversation, and even his smoldering looks. But I was also glad of Rebecca's presence. The days in which I could make the excuse to retire to the privacy of my own room alone were dwindling, and I mourned the passing of each one. I had been my own person for a long time, and the thought of answering to a man again was not appealing. Especially this man, whose mere touch could make me forget all reason and agree to anything he wished. I hated myself for this one weakness, while at the same time I enjoyed the tiny flashes of heat I felt every time our eyes met.

Our relationship seemed to have progressed since my accident at the levee. We no longer spoke of Elizabeth, and he seemed to have stopped making comparisons. It was as if Elizabeth were truly gone and buried, leaving us alone to start a new life together. I had no illusions as to our marriage. It was not a love match, but perhaps in time the bond between us could grow into something even longer lasting than that elusive emotion. If not, I would at least have the comfort of food and
shelter and old memories. My bargain with John still made me feel at times like a compromised woman, but I had done what I did for mere survival. I had not made it this far past the war and loss to die of starvation.

My one consolation was that I would have Rebecca—and any other children I might bear through our union. The thought always made me flush like a virginal bride. But I was hardly that, and chastised myself for my foolish notions and weak knees that appeared every time he entered the room.

We were married on the last Friday in September. In addition to the new clothes that John had ordered for me shortly after my arrival at Whispering Oaks, I had had several new dresses made, including a wedding gown of dove gray silk, as I could not imagine wearing either one of my own or one of Elizabeth's. The dresses John had ordered for me were brightly colored reds, blues, and yellows, making a travesty of my mourning. I had thanked him, then had them put away in an armoire in one of the guest rooms.

At the dressmaker's, I had felt like a child in a candy store, choosing between the multihued bolts of cloth. Still clinging to my mourning, I picked out only muted colors of gray and brown, but when I looked at my reflection I felt almost beautiful.

The clouds dripped halfheartedly on the small wedding party, anointing our hair with tiny kisses of rain. I stood on the church steps and smiled at my groom, intent on casting off any dark thoughts brought about by the weather. Marguerite, pausing earlier while helping me dress, had clucked her tongue as she looked out the window of my bedroom. “It is a bad sign for it to rain on your wedding day.”

I had shrugged, determined not to let her words sour my wedding, but a little shiver of apprehension crept down my spine, settling in my stomach. I had stared at the reflection of the pearl necklace about my neck and could not help but remember Elizabeth's wedding day, when the clouds had blackened, unleashing a torrent of rain that had saturated the earth and turned the roads into muddy creeks.

Whenever I smell the odor of wet leaves and moist earth, I remember that day as I stood at the altar of Grace Episcopal Church in Saint
Francisville next to John and exchanged vows to last until death did us part. His kiss burned my lips, as if branding me his.

We were to honeymoon in New Orleans, and after extracting promises from Delphine and Mary not to let Rebecca out of their sight, we set off in a closed carriage driven by Mr. O'Rourke.

John sat next to me and took my hand. Slowly, he drew off my glove and moved my fingers to his lips. “So. It is done.”

I looked into those dark, unfathomable eyes and wondered what he meant. “I would not say it is done, but, rather, that this is the beginning.”

He gripped my hand tightly. “But all endings are the beginnings of something new.”

I nodded, then leaned against the back of the seat, suddenly tired. He moved my head to his shoulder, and I must have slept, for when I awoke, we were on the outskirts of the city.

I had always loved New Orleans, with its brash mixture of French and American customs and the grand mansions of the Garden District and Vieux Carré. The intricate iron balconies and balustrades delighted me with their foreign appeal, and I had thought as a child that they always made the buildings appear gift-wrapped.

We checked into a small hotel on Royal Street, the accommodations intimate yet exquisitely furnished. Our suite consisted of two main rooms, a sitting room and bedroom, and I paused with trepidation in the threshold of the room with the large rice poster bed with heavy silk drapes.

After the porter had delivered our bags, John came to stand behind me and kissed me on the neck. “All in good time, my dear,” he said. “But, alas, I have reservations at Antoine's for a late supper. Shall I help you dress?” He removed my traveling cloak while I tried to breathe calmly.

All of my senses seemed sharpened somehow; every color, every sound, every touch seemed brighter, louder, and more sensitive. “No.” My voice shook. “I would like a maid sent up, please. I need help unpacking and selecting a gown.”

He nodded, his eyes once again hiding his thoughts from me. I turned away, thankful for his compliance. I needed time to fortify my mind before he touched me and all rational thought deserted me.

We sat in the glow of the candlelight at Antoine's, eating and drinking and talking intimately. I do not recall what was said or what we ate, but I do remember how I felt. The way he looked at me and the way he held my hand made me feel more whole than I had since I had lost my son. The grieving mother and destitute widow was not the woman in the dark amber silk gown with her hair piled high on her head and pearls glowing at her throat. This woman was new to me; she was a woman desired by the man across the snowy white table linens from her, and a woman equally capable of the same desires.

The ride back to the hotel was quiet, but the darkness inside the coach was filled with a heady anticipation that was thick enough to fill my lungs. John lifted me out of the carriage in front of our hotel, his touch solicitous and chaste, but my response was the same as if he had touched my naked flesh.

He opened the door to our room and allowed me to enter first. Before I could turn around, his hands were on me, the pins from my hair pulled out and scattered on the plush rug at our feet. With quick hands he expertly undid the myriad buttons of my gown, leaving it in a pool of silk at my feet.

His lips ravaged mine as his hands efficiently disrobed me, his fingers adept at every nuance of a woman's clothing. I stood trembling, wearing only my chemise, as he knelt in front of me to remove my stockings. Strong fingers slid up my nearly bare legs, coming to rest on my exposed thighs. We said nothing, but each of us knew the steps to this primal dance; no words were needed. Slowly, he slid the stockings down one leg, then the other, his eyes never leaving my face.

He stood, bringing the hem of my chemise with him, carefully lifting it over my head. He reached his hand out to my neck and I realized that I still wore the pearls. “Yes,” he whispered. “This is how I saw you.”

He bent his head toward me, his lips brushing my neck. I had never felt this wanting before, this need. It frightened me yet it exhilarated me, too, awakening the woman in me that had lain dormant for so long. I shed the skin of the grieving widow and became John McMahon's wife: cherished and desired, a woman of passion.

John lifted me and carried me to the bed, laying me down on the turned-back covers. He began to undress and I sat up to watch him, a
craving rising within me like I had never known. The lamps burned low, casting deep shadows on the walls. But instead of being foreboding, they warmed the room, creating the impression of being in a cocoon. My bare feet sank deeply into the sheets on the bed and I arched my spine in a luxurious stretch, feeling his eyes upon me.

I lay back, my arms reaching for him, and he came to me, pressing his warm flesh against mine. There was no tenderness between us in our hunger. It was as if we knew we would have a lifetime for discovery, but this first time would be to claim each other.

Afterward he rolled to my side but held me close. His eyes shone from the streetlamp outside the window, and the look in them made me catch my breath. He had claimed my body, and now he seemed intent on claiming my very soul.
Had he ever looked at Elizabeth in the same way? And is that what drove her away?

He must have felt my slight withdrawal, for he reached for me, pulling me on top of him. “I knew it would be this way between us.”

I turned my face away, my cheek against his bare chest, embarrassment at my wantonness flooding over me.

Lifting my chin, he raised my face to his. “Do not be ashamed, Cat. This is the way it is supposed to be between man and wife. What has gone before no longer matters. It is just you and me now.”

His hands slid down my bare body, coming to rest on the dip of my waist. Raising his head, he ran his tongue along the sensitive skin of my neck, making me shudder. I fought to keep my voice steady. “I do not want this to be all there is between you and me.” My skin shivered as his hands caressed my bare back while his eyes continued to glitter in the darkness.

His hands moved behind my neck, brushing the pearls and lifting my hair, bringing my face closer to his. “My dear, there was never any question of that.” He pressed his lips against mine, and I soon forgot all of my questions and concerns, lost as I was in the riptide of his lovemaking. I was not sure whether I was drowning or swimming, and as the hours of that first night together ticked on, I simply did not care.

*   *   *

Ours was an idyllic honeymoon. We ate in wonderful restaurants, strolled along the river, and spent hours in the shops, purchasing things
for the house and gifts for Rebecca. I still had the suspicion that there were things John preferred to keep hidden from me, but in our time together, I learned that he was capable of great thought and feeling. He made me laugh again, a sound that had become foreign to my ears. For that, I was grateful.

He expressed concern over my thinness and questioned me closely over the condition of my home in Saint Simons. He seemed to be storing away the information for future use, but when questioned about it, he only smiled and diverted my attention to a street vendor selling pralines.

I no longer feared the night, but instead looked forward to the sunset with breathless anticipation. John had awakened a passion in me I had not known existed but which he insisted he had known had always dwelled within. We would make love through the long hours of the night, then sleep in each other's arms until late morning. The hotel maids instinctively knew not to disturb us and let us sleep. It was terribly decadent, but John's touch consumed me, erasing all other concerns.

Throughout my days and nights with John on our honeymoon, I would think back to that girl I had once been: Robert's wife and Jamie's mother. When I looked at myself in the mirror, it seemed she was no longer there. I still bore my grief for my son, but I could now regard Robert's absence in my life as a gift of freedom, and felt very little remorse at the thought.

On our last night in New Orleans we dined at the St. Charles, and we were both surprised when we looked up during the main course and saw Philip Herndon approaching.

John did not stand to greet his neighbor, but placed his fork deliberately on the white tablecloth with a snap.

Philip bowed to me, then turned to John. “Allow me to congratulate you both on your recent nuptials. I have been in town for a while and I missed the big celebration.”

I thanked him, while John merely stared at him with barely concealed dislike.

Philip continued. “I can only hope that this marriage has a much happier ending. I have a great fondness for Cat, and I would hate to have her dead, too.”

John stood suddenly, his chair wobbling but, blessedly, not falling
over. Heads had already begun to turn. “I demand an apology for that remark, Herndon.”

Philip stared at him insolently. “So you can call me out and kill me, too? Everyone knows you are a crack shot, John. But what is one more murder on your hands?”