Spinning the Moon (14 page)

Julia squeezed my shoulders. “We are very much indebted to her.”

The older woman stepped closer to us. “Really. I suppose that I am also in your debt.”

I finally found my voice. “No. I'm indebted to the Elliotts' hospitality. They've opened their home to me.”

“Where are my manners?” Julia gushed. “Laura Truitt, this is my mother, Mrs. Pamela Broderick.”

I was grateful for Julia's intervention. I don't think I could explain my sudden appearance on Moon Mountain to one more person, for I was sure that was the older woman's next question. I smiled. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

She inclined her head slightly. “Likewise.”

“Stuart.” She held out both hands to him, which he grasped, and kissed him on both cheeks. “I am so glad to see you safe. We are so lucky, you know. Most families in the county have lost a son, father or brother. And you and William are still in one piece.”

Julia interrupted. “Mother, have you news of William?”

“Yes. Did I forget to mention that to you in my letter? He has been assigned to General Sherman's staff. He has been in Nashville these last few months. Has he not written?”

Julia's face fell. “No. I have not heard from him since last September.” She pointed her chin at Robbie, who was busy sucking noisily on his fist.

Turning her full attention to Julia, Mrs. Broderick reached for her
and cupped her face in her hands. “Daughter, do not fret. There is a war going on, and William has very important duties to attend to for General Sherman. He would have come with me if he could—you know that.”

Julia kept her eyes down, hidden from her mother, and nodded solemnly. Forcing a smile on her face, she looked up at her mother and added, “You must be exhausted. I had Sukie prepare a room for you so you have a place to rest, if you would like.”

“Yes, thank you. That would be nice.” She slipped her arm through her daughter's and slowly ascended the stairs. Stuart and one of the field hands, Elbert, followed with a large trunk and smaller bags.

Feeling the need for fresh air, I left the children with Sukie and stepped out onto the front porch. I took deep gulps, filling my lungs and wondering why that woman had seemed to take the oxygen out of the room.

The sound of the door shutting behind me and the jangling of keys told me Julia had joined me. I knew her storeroom keys never left her side—being keeper of the food stores of the plantation was one of the myriad duties of the mistress of the house.

She came to stand next to me, looking directly out in front of her toward the front drive. “My mother can be a difficult woman to get to know. I hope she did not offend you.”

I sat down in one of the white wooden rocking chairs. “No, I wasn't offended.”

Julia sat in the chair next to mine and slowly began to rock, her feet gently slapping the wooden boards of the porch floor. “She is from Savannah—that is why her ways are much more formal than they are here. It can be very off-putting to people who do not know her well.” She turned her head to face me. “Pamela is my stepmother, but she is the only mother I have known. My mother died when I was three. My father died when I was five years old, so I did not know him very well. He was born and raised here in Roswell and this is where he brought Pamela after they were married. She and Stuart's mother were the best of friends. Very different people, though. I suppose that is why they got along so well.” She continued her rhythmic rocking, her face and eyes focused on the past. Her rocking was contagious, and I copied her back-and-forth motion.

“What's your mother doing in Nashville?” Somehow, knowing that Julia was not Pamela's flesh and blood made it harder for me to understand the affection she had for a woman whose very name made me so apprehensive.

She looked down at her hands gently folded in her lap. “My mother enjoys a more cosmopolitan lifestyle. She likes to be among the politicians and policy makers. She has even invested in several businesses there and made her home in Nashville to oversee her interests.”

Julia sighed and then pulled herself to her feet. “I do not know what I was thinking, dawdling out here. I have a thousand things to do before dinner. I know this is our day of rest, but I suppose God would understand that we have a guest to entertain. Would you mind, Laura, picking the pole beans from the bean patch?” Her mind already elsewhere, Julia walked toward the door. Stopping, she turned abruptly. “Could you see if you can hunt down Sarah and have her bring in the eggs from the chicken house? I am going to have Sukie make some corn bread with the little bit of cornmeal we have left.” Without waiting for an answer, Julia sailed through the door, her steps making a rapid tapping on the floors inside.

I gave one last leisurely rock and then stood. The first halting notes of “Greensleeves” told me in which direction to go to find Sarah. She was seated on the piano bench, her eyes glued to the black-and-white music in front of her.

She smiled when I walked in the room and hastily scooted over to one side of the bench to make room for me. As soon as I sat down, she started plunking out a new tune I had taught her, “Heart and Soul.” I added the treble accompaniment and struggled to keep up with her as she raced faster and faster through the repetitions. We ended up collapsing in laughter when the music reached an inescapable end.

Julia peeked in, her finger raised to her mouth. “Sshhh. Nana's sleeping.”

I looked up guiltily and nodded. “Sarah, your mother wants you to gather eggs. Come on, I'll go with you. And then you can show me what a pole bean is.”

We stopped in the detached kitchen first to pick up a basket and then went to the chicken house. A pitiful rooster strutted his way across
the backyard, perhaps lamenting the loss of the rest of his harem. The Elliotts were down to three laying hens, courtesy of the Confederate Army. Using the few eggs we could find so extravagantly on the corn bread was a rare treat.

I held the basket for Sarah as she reached into each nest. She counted them out slowly to me as she laid each egg gently into the basket. Five. I hoped it would be enough, as I had my heart set on corn bread, and so did my ever-grumbling stomach.

Studying the girl as she stood on her tiptoes to reach into another nest, I grew curious. “Sarah, how old are you?”

Concentrating on her task, I could see her shrug a shoulder. “Seven.”

“Really? But you're so much taller than Willie and he's eight. When's your birthday?”

She turned around to look at me, clutching one more egg in her hand. “June. It is written in the Bible. I cannot read it, yet, but Mama says it is there.”

I surreptitiously approached a hen, her plump roundness filling the circular cavity she had made to lay her eggs. I attempted to remove her prize and was rewarded with a nasty peck.

“Ouch! That hurt!” With my hands on my hips, I gave mother hen my most threatening look. Her small glassy eyes continued to dart back and forth, as if I were nothing more than a kernel of corn.

“Let me do that one, Miz Laura. She tends to get a bit broody.”

Sarah approached the offended hen by talking softly to it and then silently, stealthily, slid three eggs out of their warm home, one by one.

As we stepped back into the yard, Stuart approached, his ax held tightly in his hand. My eyes widened. “What are you going to do with that ax?”

He looked at me in surprise. “It looks like we are going to have chicken for dinner.” I knew where those neatly wrapped, skinless, boneless chicken breasts came from that I bought at the supermarket, but I had never known the animals personally before consuming them.

He walked past us into the chicken house. The desperate squawkings of the unfortunate victim reached our ears, and Stuart emerged holding up his feathered prize.

“You ladies might not want to watch this.”

Not really sure that I was up to witnessing the rudiments of meal preparation, I turned to Sarah. She rolled her eyes at her uncle's words and put down her basket. “I ain't scairt. Besides, I seen it lots of times.”

“Well, I'm not scared, either, but I don't want it to spoil my dinner.” Seeing the stubborn jut of her little chin, I knew she couldn't be budged. I resigned myself to learning more about nineteenth-century rural life.

He laid the chicken in the dirt, holding the struggling body down with one hand. With the forefinger of his other hand, he drew an imaginary line in the dirt from the chicken's beak out to about a foot. The chicken immediately halted all movement and lay as if hypnotized. The shadow of the ax brought my attention away from the still chicken, and I turned my face away at the last minute. A solid
thunk
ing sound told me it was over.

Glancing at Sarah to make sure her young mind hadn't been damaged in any way, I looked back at the scene of the carnage. The headless body of the chicken busily stumbled its way through the yard, its wings propelling the corpse and blood squirting in neat arcs.

I grabbed Sarah and backed up so we wouldn't get sprayed. She placed her small hand into mine and said, “Mama says the blood's good for keeping the bugs away and making the garden grow.”

Squeezing her hand, I looked down on her blond head. I felt a surge of affection for this child and her sturdy little character.

Stuart scooped up our dinner, who had since run out of steam and had flopped over in the yard. “I hope this hasn't affected your appetite, Laura.”

“Not a chance. I'm so hungry right now, I could eat it with the feathers still attached.”

Sarah looked up at me, wrinkling her nose. “Ewww!”

I rumpled the top of her head. “Oh, Sarah, I was just teasing. I'd at least remove the feathers first. But I might not pause long enough to cook it,” I said, winking.

I hugged her shoulders as she grinned up at me, and my eyes were drawn to a movement from a back bedroom window. A dark shape stepped back out of view while I looked. I didn't see her clearly, but I knew who it was. A cold tremor swept up my spine and I shivered in the hot summer sun.

The moments of the past do not remain still; they retain in our memory the motion which drew them toward the future, toward a future which has itself become the past, and draw us on in their train.

—MARCEL PROUST

T
he sound of approaching hoofbeats made me glance up. I shielded my eyes with a hand to block the glare of the summer sun and watched Stuart approach astride Endy. The sweat ran in rivulets down my back, making my chemise stick to my skin. I adjusted the egg basket on my arm and waited for him to approach.

I had gradually settled into my new life on a nineteenth-century plantation. I never stopped looking for Annie, but I knew I had time. According to my own calculations gleaned from Zeke's astronomy books, the next total lunar eclipse wouldn't occur until September first, 1864. Even then, the possibility of a comet being present, or even needed for my purposes, remained a mystery to me. I could only wait and see—and continue asking everyone I met if they had heard of a lost little girl on Moon Mountain.

The work was hard, but I reveled in the simplicity of it. No background noise of traffic, phones, or televisions. No texts or e-mails to distract me. At the end of each day, I eagerly anticipated the quiet evenings in the parlor spent with Julia and Stuart. Julia's mother joined us most of the time, and we eyed each other warily. Since she never asked about where I was from, I assumed that Julia had filled her in with as much as she knew. Perhaps this was the source of her coldness toward me. There was no overt hostility, but it was clear that she
somehow considered me a threat, and she continued to fill me with apprehension. About what, I couldn't say.

I spent the majority of my days with the three children, either at lessons or assisting them with their chores. And I was learning as much from them as they were from me.

The approaching hoofbeats came louder as Stuart drew near, slowing Endy's pace and finally stopping in front of me. My greeting died on my lips as I looked up and saw his scowl.

“I just came back from town. Matt Kimball's been asking a lot of questions about you.”

“About me? Do you think he knows anything about Annie?”

He shook his head. “No. Those are not the sorts of questions he is asking. He wants to know where you are from and why you are here. Why do you suppose he is so curious about you?”

I put my free hand on my hip. “Why are you asking me? Why don't you ask Mr. Kimball? I think he'd be better able to judge his own motivations. I told you I've never met the man before.” I took a deep breath, my frustration with the situation nearing the tipping point. “What do I have to do to make you trust me?”

He stayed high atop his black stallion, looking like a knight in butternut-stained wool. “You could start by telling me the truth.”

A dull wind stirred the dust around us, sending grit into my eyes. I blinked hard. How could I explain to him that I didn't want to get involved in their lives any more than I had to? That my only goal was to return home with my daughter before I became inextricably immersed in this time and these people? Becoming emotionally attached could only bring me more pain, and I had had enough of that to last me two lifetimes.

“I am here to find Annie and bring her home. That's all you need to know. I would never hurt you or your family. You should know that by now.” My eyes smarted, but I didn't turn away.

Endy snorted loudly in my ear and I involuntarily stepped back. Stuart caught the movement and reined the horse in tightly. He dismounted, then reached into a saddlebag, bringing forth an apple like a peace offering. His face softened, his eyes almost apologetic.

“Perhaps you can gain Endy's trust. He does not need truth, just kind and fair treatment.”

I moved closer to Stuart, trying to get away from Endy. “If you're going to kill me, couldn't you just shoot me? It would be a good sight easier than setting your horse on me.”

Stuart's voice was soothing, close to my ear. “The only reason Endymion would ever hurt you is if you threatened him or something he considered his. Not very far from human nature, is it?”

I shook my head, my anger giving way to fear tinged with curiosity. Besides our trek down Moon Mountain, I had never been this close to a horse in my life.

“Endymion? What kind of a name is that?” I stared warily at the black beast, its huge eye examining me as it shook its massive head.

“William named him after the Greek god Endymion. Are you familiar with the story?”

“I'm afraid not. My Greek mythology is a bit rusty.” I continued to eye the big horse, hoping that Stuart had been joking when he had mentioned me developing some sort of relationship with this animal.

Stuart gave Endy a vigorous scratch behind an ear, making the horse nod with pleasure. “Endymion was the husband of Selene, the goddess of the moon.” A wavering grin split his face. “He was quite the talented fellow.”

I took a step back from the great nodding head. “Oh, really. How so?”

Polishing the apple on his pants leg, Stuart looked away, as if he shouldn't be telling me. “He fathered fifty daughters by Selene, all while he was reportedly asleep.”

I smirked. “You're right. He was pretty talented. Not to mention fertile. I hope your Endymion is equally as prolific.”

Slowly, Stuart shook his head. “No. Endymion's children were all pale like their mother and sleepy like their father. Hopefully, Endy's offspring will be a mite more vigorous.”

Stuart gave the beast a resounding pat on the side of the neck, apparently a gesture of affection. He pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, then handed the apple to me.

I stared at the fruit in my hand, nervously twisting the stem off the
top. “I hope you don't intend for me to feed him this apple. I'm afraid he'll take my whole arm off if I get too near.”

The object of our conversation seemed oblivious to our presence as his thick, bushy tail swooshed back and forth in a vain attempt to rid himself of the nuisance flies that flitted about.

“Endy has never bitten anyone.” Stuart looked down at his feet and kicked sand at a small lizard scurrying about in the cool shadow created by the horse. “Not seriously, anyway,” he added with a twitch of his lips. “Of course, if you are scared . . .”

“I'm just not used to being around horses. Especially not one as big as that . . . that Goliath.” I wanted to take him up on his challenge, but the thought of getting near Endy's numerous, and probably very sharp, teeth or his clublike hooves made me want to crawl away like the coward I was around horses. Even small ones.

“Let me take that.” He took the basket, then gently nudged me toward the horse's mouth.

Stuart's arm went around me, his other hand forcing my own open so that the apple lay flat on my palm. “You do not want him to think your fingers are little carrots. Would not do to get him liking the taste of human blood.”

Darting a quick glance at him, I saw him biting his bottom lip, but he couldn't hide the merriment in his blue eyes.

I stretched my hand out toward the gigantic head, trying to keep my body as far away as possible. The horse seemed to eye me speculatively, determining if I were friend or foe. Then he opened his mouth and took the proffered apple.

I expected to feel the grazing of teeth against the skin of my palm and was surprised with just the gentle touch of soft lips delicately picking up the apple.

The thick jaws worked back and forth, the loud crunching sounding like the crushing of bones. Small bits of apple and a great deal of slobber formed around the horse's mouth, spraying me and the vicinity. Instead of spitting out the core, Endy swallowed the entire thing.

The big head then looked at me, as if waiting for another morsel. Determined not to be the next item on the menu, I looked to Stuart for
help, and was astounded to feel a velvet-soft nose coupled with a few juicy apple bits nuzzling into my cheek. Thoroughly disgusted with the messy show of affection, I jumped backward, only to be stopped suddenly by the force of Stuart's body, almost knocking him over. He reached around my waist to steady me and pulled softly on the reins in his other hand to ease the attentions of my equine suitor.

“See? Look at that. You have made a friend.” His arm remained around me, and when I tilted my head, I could see the little crinkles at the sides of his eyes as he laughed.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Certainly not. Just admiring your bravery. And your appeal to males of all types.”

I turned to look at him, and he slowly dropped his arm. He stood very close as his smile faded, his gaze never wavering from my face.

Without moving back, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “You've got pieces of apple on your cheek.” He gently swiped at my face with the soft linen cloth. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to look into his.

I opened them again when I realized he had stopped wiping but hadn't moved back. The horse snorted to remind us of his presence, but neither one of us seemed to notice. We did, however, notice the small green projectile that suddenly sailed over our heads. Stuart's battle savvy seemed to take over and he quickly forced me down to my haunches.

Before I could ask what was going on, Sarah and Willie emerged running from the side of the house, Willie in the lead. Another green missile landed on the ground in front of me. I reached to pick it up, rolling the hard, verdant bud in my palm.

“Damn!” said Stuart, plucking the object from my hand. “Begging your pardon,” he added absently, extending his hand to me to help me up.

“What is it?”

“It's a cotton bud. They're not supposed to be stripping my crop before they have bloomed.”

Realizing that it was perhaps my negligence that was causing the children to run wild, I grabbed my basket and hastened after them. “Don't worry. I'll talk to them.”

As I approached the rear of the chicken house, I narrowly missed being sideswiped by Willie as he dodged a small projectile.

“Willie, what do you think you're doing?” I asked, picking up the errant missile.

Before he could answer, another torpedo shot through the air. I heard Sarah's giggles before I saw her. She stopped when she spotted me, the avenging hen with arms akimbo.

“Children, stop it! How are we supposed to have a crop when there's nothing left to pick? And, Sarah, don't throw things at your brother. You might poke his eye out.” Approaching the unrepentant child, I added, “And shouldn't you be practicing your piano?”

With a mumbled, “Yes, ma'am,” she walked slowly to the back door, trailing a line of cotton buds on the ground as they dropped from her opened fist. I spotted Willie out of the corner of my eye, trying to sneak off into the woods. “And you, too, young man. I'll be in to check on your progress in half an hour.”

As Willie followed his sister into the house, I turned my head at the sound of hoofbeats and watched Stuart, tall in the saddle, riding out toward the fields. The foot of his injured leg was left out of the stirrup, his well-muscled thighs hugging the saddle. Strong hands held the reins, and I turned away, trying not to remember how they had felt when he touched my face.

With no one looking, I unbuttoned the top three buttons of my dress, pulled the fabric away from my damp skin, and blew inside, hoping to create the slightest cooling breeze. I closed my eyes tightly in a vain attempt to shut out the heat. I succeeded only in stinging my eyes with the salty sweat on my eyelids. Suddenly, an image of plunging into nearby Vickery Creek filled my imagination, and I immediately set off to fetch Willie and Sarah. Surely keeping the children out of Julia's hair would be a big help.

After depositing the basket with Sukie in the kitchen, I walked to the back door. The sound of Sarah's crying greeted me as I stood in the threshold. Hurrying to the parlor, I was horrified by what I saw.

An angry red handprint stained the side of Sarah's face, creeping up her delicate skin like poison ivy. She was crumpled on the floor, but her grandmother held her wrist tight. Willie sat on the piano bench,
his shoulders hunched forward as if to make himself as small as possible.

Without thinking, I rushed to Sarah. “Did you hit her?” I knelt by Sarah and put my arm around her. She buried her head in my shoulder, muffling her sobs.

Pamela let go of Sarah's arm. “This child must learn to respect her elders. I will not take any disrespect from a child.” Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “And how dare you speak that way to me. You both need to be taught some manners.”

I glared up at her. “I don't know how you were raised, but I am quite sure that striking a child is a very ineffective way to teach her anything.”

Fuming and unable, or unwilling, to control the deep flush of anger that rose to her face, she hissed at me, “I do not know who you are or why you are here. But you are out of place in your interfering with the way I discipline my grandchildren.” Her hands shook with fury.