Spinning the Moon (60 page)

“I would think twice about that, Mrs. McMahon. I know what a temper Mr. McMahon has, and I do not like to think how he would like knowing that the doctor has sent you a note and you met in private.”

I froze, my back to her. “That is not your concern.”

“Maybe it is, and maybe it is not, but it is certainly your husband's concern to know that his wife's been meeting with another man.”

I turned quickly, my skirts whirling about my ankles, to face her. “You would not dare.”

She simply raised an eyebrow and silently walked past me.

My heart hammered in my chest as I ran to my room, taking the time to shut the door calmly. With my breath held, I opened my jewelry box and lifted the tray where I had thrown Daniel's note. It was gone. I threw everything out of the box, leaving it in a tangled mess on the dresser, but there was no note.

I shoved everything back in the box, too agitated to take the time to put it away neatly. I tried to force my breathing to slow down, rationalizing to myself that all I needed to do was speak to John and everything would be sorted out.

But I thought with longing of the weeks since our marriage, of the bonds of trust that we had forged, and I thought also of his anger when I had discovered the dirty handkerchief in his drawer. I closed my eyes, clutching the edge of the dresser. Marguerite had to be dealt with—but
I was loath to create any ripples in the river of my new marriage just yet. It could wait.

Slowly, I took everything out of the jewelry box again and replaced it inside neatly and orderly.

A brief tapping on the door made me look up. Marguerite appeared, a knowing smile on her lips when she saw what I was doing. I did not acknowledge it, but simply asked her what she needed.

“Mrs. Lewiston is here to see you. I showed her into the parlor and will ask Rose to bring tea.”

“Thank you, Marguerite.” I stared after her long after she had gone, then smoothed my hair and went downstairs.

When I entered the parlor, Clara stood by one of the windows, her pale hands clutching the draperies, staring out toward the front drive. She did not appear to have heard me come in, so I moved to stand next to her.

“She is a beautiful child.”

Clara's voice startled me. I followed her gaze to where Rebecca played on the front lawn with Delphine. They each had a large wooden hoop with a stick and were racing each other down the drive, seeing who could roll theirs the fastest without making it fall over.

“She is supposed to be napping. But she is beautiful, is she not? I am afraid I cannot take any credit for that. We must thank her parents.”

Clara gave me an odd look, then returned to gaze out the window. “How are you finding the child? Does she seem normal and healthy?”

I stared at Clara's profile, the pale skin and nearly lashless eyes. “She is a wonderful child—unique among most children I have known, but very typical of a girl her age. She is intelligent and loving and very charming—especially when she wants to get her way.” I smiled but it was not returned. “Why do you ask?”

Rose appeared with a tea tray, and we seated ourselves on the sofa. As I poured tea, Clara said, “I am just concerned. There have always been . . . rumors concerning Rebecca, and I was just wondering if you had noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

I thought momentarily of mentioning the voices Rebecca said she had been hearing, but I kept it to myself. I did not want my daughter's name dragged through the rumor mill. Despite any assurances, I doubted
Clara would be able to keep a tidbit like that a secret. Instead I shook my head. “No, I have noticed nothing unusual. What sorts of rumors have you been hearing?”

She concentrated on putting sugar into her tea and stirring it slowly, her eyebrows tightly knit. “Just that she has imaginary friends—that she sees people who are not there and speaks to them. Daniel even mentioned to me that Rebecca has spoken to him of her mother as if she were still seeing her. As if she still lived.”

Tepid brown eyes focused on me, and I returned her stare without blinking. “Clara, having imaginary friends is quite common for children Rebecca's age. My own son had an imaginary friend, too—an old fisherman.” I laughed, trying to add levity to our conversation. “Perhaps it is in our blood, for I know not every child has such an active imagination as Jamie and Rebecca.”

There. I had done it. Used Jamie's name in a sentence and not completely fallen apart. In fact, it was good to hear his name spoken. It was as if I had buried his existence at his memorial service, never to be brought into the light again. How wrong I had been.

Clara smiled warmly. “I am sure you are right—and you would know more of these things than I. After all, you have been a mother and I have not been so blessed. Yet.” She smiled again. “I simply wanted to broach the subject with you so that you would know I am more than happy to discuss it. I can only imagine how hard it must be for you here, far from your true home. It must be so lonely.”

I took a sip of my tea. “We have had so many visitors since we returned from our honeymoon. I feel as if I know the whole parish by now. And Daniel's become a dear friend, too. It is my hope that we can all spend time together.”

She looked down into her cup, hiding her expression. “Yes, I would like that, too. When Elizabeth was alive . . .” She paused, glancing up at me. “John and Elizabeth were our closest friends, and I sorely miss the companionship.”

I placed my hand on hers and squeezed. “As soon as our mourning is over, we can be more social, and I hope to see you and Daniel as frequently as possible.”

“Yes. That would be nice.” She took her hand away and reached for
a tea cookie. “So, how are you adjusting to being the new Mrs. McMahon?”

I chewed on a cookie, trying to will away the flush I felt creeping up my cheeks. “Very well, thank you. John has been nothing but kind in answering all my questions and helping me learn everything there is to know about the plantation. He has been very patient with me.”

Clara put her teacup down in its saucer. “I do not think I have ever heard John McMahon's name and the word ‘patient' used in the same sentence.”

“Really?”

Her lips pulled over her teeth for a moment as she contemplated her next words. “I just recall certain aspects of Elizabeth's behavior that John was not so patient with.”

I held my teacup loosely, afraid that I might snap the fragile handle. “Like what?”

Clara stood and walked back over to the window and stared out. “Elizabeth had . . . friends that she liked to visit. She would just take off without a word, returning when the whim took her. John would go into a fury when she returned—something of which I had never seen the likes of before. He was so insanely jealous. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she turned to face me.

She continued. “He did not even like her visiting Daniel. I knew there was nothing more to their friendship, but John could not be reasoned with when it came to Elizabeth. She infuriated him and he was powerless to do anything about it. I understand she was the same way when she lived in Boston during the war.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “I always wondered why she stayed with him.”

I sat up straight, feeling the heat pervade my cheeks. “Perhaps, like me, she had nowhere else to go.” I heard the acrimony in my voice, but her frivolous gossip regarding my dead sister had raised my ire.

Clara held her hand to her mouth and looked truly chagrined. “Please forgive me, Catherine. I did not mean . . .” She looked down to her lap for a moment, studiously straightening her skirt. “And please do not think that you have no place to go. There is always Belle Meade, and if you need to get farther away, I would see that you returned to Saint Simons.”

My voice was cool. “That will not be necessary. And I must resent the implication that I would have need of leaving my husband.”

Clara's pale eyes blinked rapidly. “I have wounded you, and I am deeply sorry. It is just that Elizabeth and I used to be so frank with each other, and I suppose I forgot you were not her.”

A booming voice sounded from the threshold. “Catherine is most definitely not Elizabeth.” John entered the room and strode toward me, then placed a lingering kiss on my cheek. I was sure it was for Clara's benefit, but his touch thrilled me nonetheless.

John greeted Clara with a deep grin that made her squirm. I supposed he was using a little revenge to repay her for her gossiping.

“My, my. Where does the time go to?” She stood hastily, knocking her teaspoon on the floor in a fluster. “I really need to be going, but I wanted to extend to you both a supper invitation at Belle Meade. I realize you are still in mourning, so it will be a very small affair, but I feel it necessary to introduce you into our society. Of course, many remember you from your grandmother's days, but they need to meet you as the new mistress of Whispering Oaks.” She glanced from me to John, like a child seeking approval. “How about Wednesday evening in two weeks? We will dine at eight.”

My anger toward her lessened somewhat. I knew from John that Belle Meade had suffered greatly during the war and that it would be a struggle to entertain graciously, as Clara would have been used to. Still, she was making the effort to bring me into her social circle, and for that I was grateful.

“Thank you, Clara. We would be delighted to accept. Thank you so much for your kindness.” I took her hand and held it, hoping she would realize it was an apology and an offer of a truce.

She smiled warmly at me. “No, Catherine—thank you. Thank you for putting up with my gossiping, and thank you for accepting my invitation. It will be a real pleasure.” She moved to leave, then turned back to add, “For me and for Daniel, I am sure.”

John and I saw her out. After she had gone, I turned to my husband. During my conversation with Clara, my thoughts had been in turmoil. It had become very clear that my concern for Rebecca far outweighed any anxiety I might suffer at my husband's anger.

I took a deep breath before I spoke. “We must talk about Marguerite. I do not feel as if she should stay here—she is insolent and rude and does not take well to my direction. And somebody has been feeding Rebecca nonsense about the ghosts of the Indian woman and her baby—that they are under the pond and she needs to save them.”

He looked at me intently. “And you think Rebecca believes it?”

I nodded. “She is young and impressionable. But I think I convinced her that it's not true and that she should never go to the pond without an adult. But still . . .”

He spoke gently. “Catherine, I understand how this is all very upsetting to you but, as you said, it is nonsense. We will speak to the servants and make it clear that no one is to mention the legend to Rebecca again, and that she must not be allowed by the pond by herself.”

“But, John, I feel Marguerite is behind it—that she wishes Rebecca ill for some reason. I cannot forget the time when she left Rebecca out in the thunderstorm as punishment. It chills me to the bone.”

I saw him grit his teeth, his jawbone working furiously. “I will speak to her, but I am sure you are mistaken. I have known Marguerite for years. Yes, her ways are strange, but I have never known her to wish evil on anyone.”

I touched his sleeve, fighting to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I do not want her in this house. Please send her away. Give her a large severance and a good reference, if it will make you feel better, but please, John. Dismiss her.”

He looked away, avoiding my eyes. “I said I would speak to her. But I will not dismiss her for ungrounded reasons. I know your concerns are real, but perhaps they are born of being uncertain and in a new situation rather than any solid reasons.” He turned and kissed me on the cheek. “I have to return to the mill.”

I watched his retreating form, bristling at how easily he had dismissed my fears. But maybe he was right and I was being foolish. Maybe I had imagined harmful intentions on Marguerite's part. Perhaps I should trust John and try harder to accept Marguerite's presence in my house, for the sake of harmony.

And then I recalled the note and Marguerite's veiled threat. I shrugged—it did not matter. I could only tell the truth, and the truth had nothing to hide.

I stared after John as he walked toward the mill, finally admitting to myself that the heady rush I felt whenever I saw him was perhaps more than fascination. The soft smiles that he reserved for Rebecca and me belied his stern demeanor, and made them all the more special for their rarity. Our tender bond had taken root in deep hurt and grief, and now I could only wonder if such fragile beginnings could blossom into something more.

I returned to the house, closing the door quietly behind me. The bright afternoon sun had begun its descent into the twilight sky, and I stood in the foyer for a long moment, watching the play of light on the walls.

A shadow caught my attention and I turned, thinking something moved in the mirror. I stared into the murky glass, watching with unblinking eyes. I spun around to see if what I had seen had been a reflection, but found myself staring at the empty wall on the opposite side of the foyer.

I approached the old mirror slowly, marveling at the fear I felt lodged in my throat. Could it be that my new sense of contentment, now that I had something to lose, had resurrected my sense of fear?

Reaching out, I allowed my fingertips to graze the cold glass of the mirror. I dropped my hands, watching them as I slowly lowered them to my sides. I gasped as the top of the hall table came into view, then blinked to clear my eyes in the dim light.

Scattered over the table's surface lay a handful of oleander leaves, their tender corners lifted as if waving goodbye. I stared at them for a long moment before gathering them in my fists, squeezing tightly as if to choke the life out of them. I shoved them into my pockets, obliterating them from my sight, as if they, and the threat they represented to my newfound happiness, had never existed at all.