Spinning the Moon (45 page)

A subtle change flickered over the doctor's expression. “Really? Clara has never mentioned it to me.”

Lids lowered over pale green eyes. “You were most likely too busy tending to your doctoring to notice such things.” She reached for the door handle. “I must see to my duties. It was good seeing you, Dr. Lewiston.”

With a small swish of her skirts, she disappeared inside.

The doctor leaned against a column, his arms crossed over his chest. “She raised my wife from birth. Clara considers her almost her mother.” He pulled a gold watch out of his watered-silk waistcoat and looked at it for a moment before replacing it. “Had to sell her during the war—needed the money—and Elizabeth certainly needed the help. Your sister was not as . . . strong as she would have liked to be, and she needed another female here at Whispering Oaks. Soon after purchasing Marguerite, John freed her.” He took a deep breath, his face sad. “I suppose she will stay on for Rebecca's sake. Until Elizabeth returns,” he added hastily.

I rubbed my temples with the pads of my fingers, the start of a headache beginning to pound behind my eyes.

The doctor's voice was soothing. “Will your husband be joining you?”

I blinked at him in the sun, unable to find the words. Finally, I managed, “He will not be. I am . . . I am in mourning.” I took a deep breath, needing sympathy from a kind soul. “For my son, too. He drowned.”

He stood, swallowing, and I saw the kindness in his pale gray eyes. “I am sorry, Mrs. Reed. You, well . . .” He looked down at the celery green gown I had borrowed from my sister. “You are not dressed in mourning.”

“My clothes were ruined in an accident. This is Elizabeth's dress.”

“Yes, I just realized.” He stood near me. “I am sorry for your loss.” I looked into his eyes and saw that he meant it. He took my hands and squeezed them.

“Yes, well . . .” I dropped my gaze and stared at his pale hands covering mine, the skin as soft and smooth as a girl's. Gently, he let go.

“I must be leaving. Would you please do me a favor?” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a short rope of licorice. “Rebecca loves these. I always give her one when I see her. Would you be so kind as to pass this along to her?”

I did not want to, but I realized I could not avoid the child forever. Perhaps this would serve as a sort of peace offering. I nodded and took the piece of candy.

“Thank you, Mrs. Reed. It is greatly appreciated.” He bowed, placed his hat over his head, and descended the steps. As an afterthought, he turned toward me as he reached the bottom. “Do call on us soon. My Clara would love to meet you. She and Elizabeth were great friends. We are straight down River Road in Saint Francisville. Barely thirty minutes by horse.”

I smiled, ignoring his past-tense reference to my sister. “I will. Thank you.”

He waved as he walked toward the stables, and I turned back to the house.

I paused in the dim doorway, hearing the strange humming again. The tune vibrated against my own lips, so taunting in its familiarity, yet its identity still beyond my grasp. With the licorice held tightly in one hand, I slowly ascended the stairs, following the haunting melody hummed with such sadness by a young voice.

The door to Elizabeth's room stood open and I approached it with caution. Quietly, I peered in, not sure what I would see.

Rebecca sat on a small chair in front of a dressing mirror, wearing nothing but her camisole and bloomers, her large doll leaning against her legs. I remembered that she was supposed to be napping, and wondered what she was doing in her mother's room.

She sat brushing her fingers through her long, fair hair as she stared transfixed into the mirror. The lingering scent of lavender made me turn my head, as if my sister had just walked through the room. Only dark corners and rose-colored satin bed linens met my gaze.

The humming ceased, and I focused back on the little girl. Her blue eyes widened with fear as she spotted me, and she scrunched her
shoulders as if trying to disappear into the dressing table.
Oh, Jamie,
I thought, and breathed, the crushing sadness upon me again. I turned to leave, then stopped. She was only an innocent child, my sister's child. Perhaps she needed comfort now as much as I did.

Slowly, I turned to face her. Not quite managing a smile, I approached, the licorice held in front of me. When I stood before her, I knelt, remembering her father's action.

“Dr. Lewiston asked me to bring this to you. He says it is your favorite.”

Her head was down, dimpled hands folded on her lap. I touched the back of a hand with the piece of candy. Without looking up, pudgy fingers opened up and took it.

I was so close, I could smell the sweetness of her. My heart broke again as I remembered holding Jamie and burying my face in his little neck and crying with the joy that he was mine.

My voice faltered but I swallowed, clearing my throat. “Do you know who I am?”

She shook her head, still looking down.

“I am your aunt Cat. Your mama and I are sisters.”

That brought her head up as two piercing blue eyes stared at me intently. I forced myself not to look away.

I patted the yellow yarn hair of her cloth doll. “What is her name?”

“Samantha.” Her voice was clear and high-pitched. So much like Jamie's.

“She is beautiful. Where did you get her?” I lifted the doll to get a better look and noticed the painted-on bright blue eyes.

“My papa. She is my friend.” She grabbed the doll and hugged her close.

Abruptly, she slid from the chair and ran past me and out of the room.

I stood to follow her, then halted. Turning around, I looked down at the dressing table. Except for a nearly empty bottle of perfume, it was bare. Dust outlined where a hand mirror would have lain, and long, dark strands of hair littered the top. But there was no sign of my sister's comb, brush, or mirror.

I walked toward the large armoire and threw it open. Ruffles and
flounces of every type of silk, satin, and linen filled the entire space, hiding the back of the armoire. It would have been impossible to determine if something were missing. I pushed two dresses aside and peered into the back of the armoire. An empty brass hook, made to hang a dressing gown, winked at me. I looked on the floor of the armoire to see if it might have fallen, but there was nothing there except a pair of evening shoes. The scent of stale lavender permeated the small space, almost gagging me.

The humming commenced again, so I closed the armoire behind me and followed Rebecca to her room down the hall. She stood before a tall chest and was tugging on a bottom drawer. I knelt next to her and helped her open it. She looked at me with grateful eyes, imparting a tender thread of trust in me.

I gasped in surprise as I looked at the contents of the drawer. It was filled with licorice ropes identical to the one I had just given her. With little aplomb, she dumped her latest addition to her collection.

“Are you saving them?” I asked, curious.

She shook her head, blond hair swinging. “No. I do not like them. But Mama says I will hurt Dr. Lewiston's feelings if I say no. So I keep them here.”

“I see,” I said, brushing hair off her face. She didn't flinch.

We both turned at a sound from the door. Marguerite stood there, a frown on her face.

“Mrs. Reed, it is time for Rebecca's nap. It would be much better for the child if you would leave and let her rest.” She came over and took the doll from Rebecca's arms and tossed it on the bed.

I opened my mouth for an explanation, then closed it. She was right: The child needed her rest.

I rose, resisting the impulse to pat the little girl on the head, and left. The door shut abruptly behind me, and as I walked down the hallway to my own room, I heard the haunting melody drift through the house once more.

M
arguerite had laid a deep blue silk gown on the bed for me to wear to the evening meal. I walked past it and opened the armoire, where the cleaned and dried clothes from my trunk had been hung.

I stared in dismay at mended spots and uneven dye color, my gaze straying to the silk gown on the bed. With a sigh, I pulled the faded black cotton from the armoire and called for Marguerite to help me dress before heading down to dinner.

The smell of food drifted into my room, enticing my long-starved appetite. I paused in the gloomy hallway, the dusty lampshades mellowing the yellow flames, breathing shadows onto the walls. I descended the stairs, listening to the tread of my slippers, the only sound in the tomblike silence.

The dining-room table had been set with three places, with Rebecca and her father already seated at one end of the table. Samantha must have been left in the nursery. John's gaze flickered over me, and he frowned as he eyed my dress. He stood and indicated the chair to his right.

He pulled the chair back for me, his presence somehow unnerving to me.

“Was there something wrong with Elizabeth's gown?”

I shook my head, embarrassed that he had noted the condition of my clothing. “No. But I am in mourning.”

He took his seat, then filled my goblet halfway with red wine, a drop staining the white linen tablecloth and spreading like a drop of blood. “I assumed you were in mourning from your clothes. I am sorry for your loss.” He stared at me, unblinking, for a moment. “The dark blue was the closest I could think of. Elizabeth does not own anything black. Or anything very dark, for that matter.”

I looked down at my plate, feeling my face color. It had never occurred to me that he had selected the gown.

Eager to change the subject, I turned my attention toward Rebecca, who sat silently in the chair across from me, thumb in mouth.

“Does Rebecca usually join you at table?” I watched as Rebecca slowly twirled a blond lock around her finger.

“Why do you ask, Mrs. Reed? Do you not like children?”

My host indicated to Mary that she should start serving the food. She came to stand by me with a covered silver dish and lifted the lid. Candied yams, covered in sauce, swam invitingly inside, making my mouth water. I helped myself to a large portion, concealing the fact that his question had stilled my hunger pains.

“That is not what I meant. My husband and I always enjoyed our son's presence at our table. But I know not all parents feel that way.” I took a bite full of yams, savoring the sweet taste.

Strong fingers wrapped around his goblet, obliterating the facets of light. “Elizabeth did not allow it. But she is not here, and I like Rebecca to dine with me.” The same hand that had been grasping the wineglass so tightly now softened and reached for Rebecca's tiny hand. Palm upward, he closed his fingers around hers.

“Did your son remain on Saint Simons, Mrs. Reed?”

The candied yams seemed to stick in my throat, but I forced them down with a swallow of wine. I took another quick gulp, needing the fortitude to find words to describe the loss of my son without communicating the depths of my grief. That was mine, and all I had left. I would not share it. Especially not with this forbidding man, who would offer brittle platitudes that could never compare to the warmth of my son's hand in mine.

“My son is dead, Mr. McMahon. He drowned this past March.”

Ebony lashes lowered over dark eyes. “I am sorry. I cannot fathom the loss of a child.”

His voice caught, giving me a start, and I noticed how his hand closed even tighter over his daughter's.

I took my time cutting a piece of ham and then chewing it. “I am sure you can understand my dedication to finding my sister, sir. She is all I have left.”

His weary gaze brushed my face. “But surely you two were not all that close. We have not seen you since the wedding.”

I pressed my napkin to my lips. After her marriage, Elizabeth had promised to visit, but never had. Even at my wedding, and our parents' funerals, followed so closely one after the other, Elizabeth's presence had been conspicuously absent. We assumed the reluctance lay on the part of her husband, which would also have been the reason why I was never invited to visit her here. And then the war came, and Elizabeth was sent to live in Boston, and all contact had ceased. Until her last cryptic note.

“That was not my choosing, sir.” I lifted my gaze to his, expecting to see guilt. But all I saw was confusion and perhaps regret.

A black eyebrow shot up, oddly resembling a crow's wing. “Nor was it mine. You were always welcome in this house, as you are now. Even up North, Mrs. Reed, we are capable of extending hospitality. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.” He took a long drink of his wine, his gaze never leaving my face, the sincerity of his words unclear. “I simply expect you to follow my rules in this house. And that would include staying out of rooms I have told you are off-limits.”

I recalled Elizabeth's dresser empty of toiletries and her missing dressing gown. I wondered if that was what he did not wish me to see.

Mary stood by my side again with sweetened corn bread, and I helped myself to two large pieces, remembering in time to use the serving utensil instead of my fingers. Starvation had been my companion for so long, I could hope only that my table manners would not desert me completely.

“Take all you want, Mrs. Reed. There is plenty more in the kitchen.”

I dropped the serving utensil ungraciously onto the platter, feeling the flush rise in my cheeks.

“I apologize. I did not mean it unkindly. I only meant to imply that we have plenty of food and I would like you to avail yourself of it.”

I looked down at my hands resting on the snowy white napkin in my lap, the nails brittle and broken but mercifully now free of dirt. Humiliation simmered under my skin at the need to take this man's charity. He had worn the dreaded blue, and it was his ilk who had brought me so low.

I raised my napkin to the table in an indication that I was through
with the meal, but my host appeared not to notice as he cut up meat for Rebecca. The child had sat silently since I had been seated, slowly chewing food her father cut and put on her plate. Her almond-shaped eyes seemed to miss nothing as her gaze shifted between her father and me.

Mary stood behind John with the bowl of yams and took the lid off the dish. He waved her away, and she returned it to the server.

“Do you not care for candied yams, sir?”

His gaze met mine slowly, as if embarrassed about something. “No, actually. I do not.”

“Then why have them at your table? Surely, as the master of the plantation, you can dictate what is served?”

He took a long drink of wine, then offered a smile to Rebecca before answering me.

“Elizabeth told me once they were a favorite of yours. I thought they might help you feel not so far from home.”

I carefully studied my plate, unsure of my response. I was humbled, but at the same time could not help but think he had an ulterior motive for showing such concern. Finally I said, simply, “Thank you.”

Slowly, I slid my napkin back to my lap, lifted my fork, and speared a bite of sliced ham. “Any news of Elizabeth?”

He took his time chewing and swallowing and I wondered if he were stalling for an answer. When it came it was short and abrupt. “No. I am afraid not.”

I leaned forward. “Should you not be the one traveling to Baton Rouge and New Orleans to search for her? Why leave such an important detail to others?”

His face appeared set in stone as his eyes narrowed. “I am needed here. If she chooses to return, this is where she will find me.”

I slapped my fist on the table, making the wine dance in the glasses. “But what if she is in danger? What if she needs you?”

His face relaxed as heavy-lidded eyes regarded me. “That, my dear Mrs. Reed, is highly unlikely.”

I sat back in my chair, stunned. I remembered Elizabeth's letter.
I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid.
What had she been so afraid of? And was it enough to send her away without a word to anybody?

Too late, I remembered Rebecca's presence. She had been quietly eating, but now I realized she had dropped her fork and was listening intently. My heart sank as I tried to recall what we had said and if she would find any of it hurtful.

John picked up a silver bell at the end of the table and rang it. His hands were so gentle when he touched his child, but their breadth and strong tendons told of their hidden strength. I could not help but wonder what those hands were truly capable of. Within moments, Mary rushed in, her freckles prominent in her flushed face. “Yes, sir?”

“Tell Marguerite that Rebecca is done with her dinner and is ready to be put to bed.” Mary left as the child slid from her chair and moved to put her head on her father's arm. He reached a hand around her shoulders as she stuck her thumb in her mouth and continued to regard me closely.

“Mama?” she said. I watched as she ducked under her father's arm and came to stand near me.

A warm, sticky hand reached up, hesitated a moment, then touched my cheek. Pain chilled my veins. I wanted so much to comfort this motherless child, to smooth away her fears. But I could not. When I looked into those cursed eyes I was reminded again of what I had lost. I averted my head, afraid she would see the tears welling in my eyes.

Marguerite came and took the child, and only then did I look up. My brother-in-law was looking at me coolly, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “I see you have more in common with your sister than mere looks, Mrs. Reed.”

Without explanation, he excused himself and stood, leaving me alone at the table.

Having no more appetite, I, too, slid back my chair and left the room.

Dusk had settled over the plantation, casting more shadows inside the dimly lit house. I wandered the downstairs, curious as to the obvious lack of house staff. A cloudy chandelier suspended on a velvet rope in the foyer swayed gently in the hot breeze from the open windows. The candles flickered briefly, undulating like lovers in the sticky heat.

I drifted into the front parlor, where a lone hurricane glass offered the only illumination. Long shadows followed me as I sat down at the
piano in the corner, an old friend from the days I visited my grandmother. Sighing softly, I pressed down a few keys. I was surprised to find it in tune. My fingers touched each key, sliding up a chromatic scale and then down again. I began playing a tune with just my right hand, plucking out each note from memory. I realized I was playing the song I had heard Rebecca humming and stopped, the last note echoing in the dark room.

A movement in the corner twisted me around. The tall form of my brother-in-law stepped forward. The light was behind him, casting his eyes into dark circles of shadow. “Please do not stop. This house has not heard music in a very long time.” He stepped around me and lit three arms of a candelabra atop the piano. The breeze from his movement brushed my skin, making it tingle with what seemed a thousand pinpricks.

I turned around on the bench, self-conscious. “I am not that good. Elizabeth was the one with all the musical talent, I am afraid.”

“I would not know. She has never played for me. I made sure to keep it tuned, but she never showed any interest.”

He stood behind me, and the room began to feel incredibly small. Gingerly, I stroked the keys, my hands finding their homes, and started a Brahms waltz. His presence unnerved me, causing my fingers to stumble like a small child learning to walk. I lifted my hands from the keyboard but did not turn around. “I am a bit out of practice, I am afraid. My piano was demolished by the butt of a Yankee rifle. It made it quite difficult to play.”

I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth, but my anger still burned fresh. I let my hands fall to my sides. “Why was Elizabeth so unhappy?”

Only his soft breathing answered me. Then, after a moment, “She alone could tell you that. She did not make me privy to her thoughts. And I eventually grew tired of asking.” He remained behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath on the top of my head. I did not turn around.

“Was it your decision to keep the birth of Rebecca a secret? I cannot believe that was my sister's wish.” I kept my gaze focused on the keys, watching the light dance with the shadows upon their surface.

He shifted away from me. I turned and watched as he walked to the window and stared out through the murky glass. “You were not the only one she kept in the dark. I did not know I was a father until my first furlough during the war. Rebecca was already five months old.”

The sadness in his voice was palpable, tugging at my compassion. But I held back, wondering if this man was responsible for Elizabeth's actions. I smoothed the fabric of my dress. “This woman you describe is not the sister I remember.”

He stared at me a moment, the house utterly quiet except for the breeze moving through the darkened rooms. “Perhaps. People do change. Or maybe you never knew the real Elizabeth.”