Spinning the Moon (59 page)

I felt his fingers beginning to undo the buttons on the back of my dress and I pressed myself against him. Unbidden came Daniel's words to me about John's temper and his penchant for violence.

As John's hands found my bare skin, Daniel's words faded into nothingness, lost as I was in my husband's gentle touch, thoughts of his anger easily forgotten.

M
y days passed serenely as I settled in as the new mistress of Whispering Oaks. I felt proud of my ability to organize the household and to understand the ebb and flow of the workload on a sugar plantation. John took great pride in taking me for long rides and showing me the lay of the land. He showed respect for my intelligence and took pains to explain the problems of the encroaching Mississippi River and the never-ending battle to shore up the levee.

John spent a great portion of his day out of the house, and I came to know in time that it had nothing to do with me but, rather, the house. As much as he loved the rich, fertile earth and the things he was able to coax from it, the house held no appeal for him at all. I had brought a measure of brightness to it with new draperies and furnishings, but for all the sunshine that now lapped at the creamy white walls, a pervasive darkness lingered over the old rooms, like a nightmare that followed one into the waking hours.

I had begun to paint again, and it was not until I first put my brush to canvas that I realized how much I had changed in the last years. Whereas before all I had painted had been flora and fauna and the blue ocean of Saint Simons, now I wanted to paint people. I wanted to study these new inhabitants of my life, examine each feature separately, as if they were puzzle pieces that might add up to the sum of this new existence of mine.

My first subject had been, remarkably, Rebecca. Perhaps it was the desire to capture Jamie's eyes on canvas, but her pixielike face called to me, insisting that I paint it. I hoped that one day I might find the strength to paint Jamie from memory, but for now I reveled in capturing his endearing little cousin on canvas. I looked forward to our painting sessions on those early-fall mornings, which I can remember with a
vividness of thought and color that are foreign to most of my memories. Perhaps it is with the knowledge of hindsight now that I recall those happy times with such clarity. I cling to the memory so as to block out the events that would soon change our lives forever.

*   *   *

On a bright October morning, I sat painting Rebecca. It was still warm, as fall in the Delta rarely brought cold weather, but the heavy humidity had lifted. Rebecca sat on a blanket with Samantha by the pond, the sunlight spinning her hair into gold. I was not comfortable being this close to the water, but the child had insisted, and I knew she was right. The sun reflecting off the water and the big house in the background were perfect for a portrait.

Still, I felt unease, as if the restless spirits of the Indian woman and her child were watching us. The breeze teased at my neck, making my skin prick like little breaths of warning, and I found it hard to focus on my task.

As I mixed my paints for her hair, I realized with a start what I was doing. It was the same combination of gold and yellows I had once used when painting a miniature portrait of Robert. It seemed as if he were mocking me now, calling to mind his beautiful hair and the thick red river of blood running through it. As if that one gunshot had not ended his life but merely perpetuated his existence to haunt me forever.

I realized my hand was shaking, and I went to sit next to Rebecca until I could calm myself. I sat with my back to the water, and the little girl laid her head in my lap, her small arms clutching her doll. I ran my hands through her glorious hair, reveling in the thick texture of it. It was not baby-fine, as most children's hair, but more like that of an adult. My hand stilled, an unbidden memory assaulting me. A memory of Robert and me on the beach for a picnic, with his head in my lap and me stroking his hair, so full and rich and gold.

I let my hand fall to my side, clutching at the grass and dirt as if to ground my thoughts. I had come to a place in my mind where I could almost bear the memories of Jamie. Even though they were still tinged with great sadness, his conjured image could sometimes make me smile with remembered joy.

But memories of Robert were not allowed. John had helped me
banish Robert from the marriage bed, but at other times thoughts of him caught me unaware. And each time it brought back the terrifying memory of a gunshot and red blood on white sheets. I closed my eyes, trying my best to focus on the smell of the earth and grass and the feel of the beautiful child in my lap.

Rebecca began to hum the strange, haunting melody, her eyes transfixed on the still waters of the pond.

I listened for a while, still trying to identify where I had heard the music before. It was so familiar, yet so elusive. Despite receiving no answer to my question before, I thought I would try again. “Rebecca, where did you learn that song? I feel I should know it, but I cannot seem to recall where I have heard it before.”

She turned her head in my lap to face me, her eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. “It is a secret and I am not supposed to tell.”

I leaned forward to block the sun from her face. “Who told you that you were not supposed to tell?”

She faced the pond again and didn't answer.

“Was it Marguerite?”

She shook her head vigorously.

I prodded again. “Was it your mama?”

“You are my mama now.”

My heart lurched at this declaration, but I restrained myself from lifting this child high in the air and swinging her about. The thought was obviously as new to her as it was to me, and I wanted us both to get used to the idea.

Gently, I continued. “It is such a beautiful song and I would like to learn it, too. I promise I will not tell anybody you told me.”

She furrowed her pale brows for a moment, as if in deep thought. Then she turned back to me, her face stricken. “But then I would not get any more candy.”

I looked down at the cherubic face of my niece and wondered momentarily if her mother's neglect had had any negative effect on her developing person. Leaning over, I kissed her forehead, determined not to press the matter further for the time being.

We sat in silence for a long time, enjoying the soft breeze and the crisp smell of the approaching autumn. Our fickle climate would allow
for the heat and humidity to return for brief periods of time, but for now the clear air was a welcome respite.

Rebecca continued to gaze out at the pond, her brows puckered. Finally, she said, “I think they are down there.”

I sat up with alarm. “Who is down there?”

“The Indian mama and her baby. They buried them under the house, but when their bones were found, the people threw them into the pond.”

I kept my voice calm. “Who told you this, Rebecca?”

She did not speak for a moment but eventually turned her face to stare up at me. “They did. And they want me to get them out.”

A frigid finger of dread slipped down my spine as I stared at the wide-eyed innocence of this child. I continued stroking her hair. “Who do you mean by ‘they,' Rebecca?”

“They come to talk to me at night—after my lamps are turned down and it is all dark. Sometimes they scare me, but not a lot.” She turned away from me and sighed, her fingers restlessly plucking at her dress. “It is the Indian lady and her baby. The mama does all of the talking. She tells me how lonely they are and how much they want me to come with them.”

My hand stilled on her hair. “Where do they want you to go?”

I watched her profile as her long golden lashes closed over her eyes. “To the bottom of the pond. Then they will be free.”

Dread gripped at my heart. I reached down and lifted her, sitting her on my lap to face me. “Rebecca, you must listen to me. These voices are not your friends—do you hear me? They are in your imagination and you must not listen to them. The pond is a dangerous place for you to go alone and you must never, ever go there without me or another grown person. Do you understand me? Do you understand?”

The child's bottom lip began to quiver, and I realized how harsh my voice must have sounded to her. I felt ashamed at having scared her, but the heaviness in my heart would not dissipate. I clutched her closely to my chest, not hearing her cries of protest. It was only when her hands began to push me away that I let go.

She sat on my lap, gazing at me, her blue eyes questioning. I touched her soft cheek, brushing away fat tears. “I am so sorry. I did not mean
to make you cry, but you scared me so. Can you understand that I do not want anything to happen to you? You mean so much to me and to your papa, and I just want to keep you safe from harm. I did not mean to frighten you.”

Rebecca touched my face. “You are crying.”

I reached up and pressed my fingers to my own cheek and realized she was right.

As quickly as this child had lodged herself in my heart, she leapt at me, throwing her small arms around me and burying her face into my neck. “I do not want to make you cry. My old mama would cry and say it was my fault and that she was going to leave. And then she went away. Does this mean you are going away, too?”

I cradled her head on my shoulder, my heart breaking for this motherless child. “Oh no. I will never leave you. If you make me cry, they will be tears of happiness, for there is nothing that you can ever do that would make me go away. You bring so much joy to my life, Rebecca, and I will always want you in it.” I realized with a start that I had meant every word.

She pulled back to contemplate me, her puckered brows telling me she had not understood everything I'd said, but perhaps enough. “You are not leaving?”

I shook my head vigorously. “Not ever.”

She threw her arms around me again and squeezed tightly. Then she laid her head on my shoulder, putting her thumb in her mouth, and I felt her pat my back, just as I had done to comfort her. We sat like that for a long while, watching the sun slide lazily across the pond. Then, very softly, her voice heavy with drowsiness, she said, “I love you, Mama.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. It seemed like an eternity and more since I had last heard those words. I began to cry in earnest now, recalling how I had emotionally pushed this child away, thinking of her only as a reminder of the child I had lost. Instead she had become a large piece of my salvation, warming a corner of my heart that I had considered forever dead. I placed my cheek against hers and whispered, “I love you too, Rebecca.”

She fell asleep in my arms and I held her closely, reveling in the joy
of being a mother again and vowing to myself that the bond would never be broken.

*   *   *

After I put the sleeping Rebecca into her bed for a nap, I passed Marguerite in the hallway outside my room. I was still unsure of her position in the household and unsettled about her seemingly permanent place in it. I knew John would balk at my suggestion to dismiss her, so I tried my best to assert my authority.

“Marguerite, I need to speak to you for a moment.”

She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of my request, but her expression lacked any semblance of servitude.

“I am enjoying my art room very much and I wanted to thank you for helping Mr. McMahon surprise me with it.”

She regarded me evenly. “I always do what I am asked.”

I was taken aback by her response but tried not to show it. Instead I said, “Yes, well, thank you anyway. The room has proven to be a real pleasure to me.”

Bobbing her head, she moved to pass me, but I called out to her. “I also wanted to speak to you about Rebecca.”

She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing. “She is not my responsibility anymore.”

“That is true, but I thought you might know who has been putting ideas into her head. She has told me that she hears the voices of an Indian lady at night after she goes to bed. I know it is all in her imagination, but somebody has to be planting the seeds for her to be thinking such things.”

Her odd green eyes widened. “And what makes you think that it is not real?”

I was at a loss for words. Finally, I said, “Well, of course they are not real. The story of the Indian woman and her child is only a legend. And I do not want Rebecca to hear any more of those stories—they will only frighten her.”

“There are things you do not understand, but that does not mean they do not exist.”

I tried to remain calm. “They are irrational and frightening, and I
do not want Rebecca hearing any more about it. I will speak to the other servants and make sure my wishes are clear, and I expect you to help me enforce my orders.”

Her eyes regarded me calmly. “If that is what you want.”

“That is what I want, and I expect my orders obeyed. If you find that you cannot, then you will be dismissed.”

She lifted her chin. “You will have to talk to Mr. McMahon about that.”

I squared my shoulders. “Do not be too sure of that, Marguerite. I am in charge of the household staff.”

“Maybe with the others. But Mr. McMahon hired me, and only he can fire me.”

Bristling, I walked past her. “We will see about that. If you cannot accept my authority, then I do not feel you should be working here.”