Spinning the Moon (64 page)

Mr. O'Rourke climbed down from his perch and stood in the empty doorway. Holding a lantern aloft, he said, “The paint is marred—it is like someone tampered with the latch.”

John continued to hold me tightly to him. Softly, he said, “You are shaking. We should go home.”

I shook my head. I felt the need to be with other people besides John. I could not help but remember John gripping my arm before we heard Mr. O'Rourke's shout, and my wild thoughts wondered what his true intent had been had the driver not noticed the open door. His words reverberated again and again in my head, my mind trying to decipher them as plea or threat.
Do not leave me.

John gave Mr. O'Rourke instructions to continue on and, after he had fiddled with the latch to get it to stay, the carriage started again. I stayed close to John and away from the door, wondering for the remainder of the journey if I were truly safer in his arms. I wanted to believe it with all my heart, but I could not stop myself from thinking of Elizabeth.
Had she ever threatened to leave and was that why she now lay buried in the old family mausoleum?

I turned to look at my husband in the dark interior of the carriage and saw no malice. He brushed the hair from my forehead and kissed me gently, then gazed out his window, his thoughts hidden from me.

Daniel met us at the door of Belle Meade, an imposing Greek Revival mansion. I noticed the absence of a servant to greet us and take our cloaks, as well as the faded and peeling wallpaper in the grand foyer—both examples of the demise of a way of life that I acknowledged we would never see again.

As Daniel led us into the front parlor, conversation halted as all eyes turned to us, more specifically to me. I felt a flush steal over my
shoulders as the uncomfortable silence continued, until Daniel took my arm and led me to a chair. As he seated me, he leaned toward my ear and whispered, “You look so much like Elizabeth tonight—it is the way you have done your hair, I think. It is quite stunning.”

Self-consciously, I reached up to touch the coil of hair at the nape of my neck, remembering how Elizabeth, after teasing me about my propensity for wearing my long hair unbound, had taught me how to roll and tuck my hair in a fair imitation of the style she preferred. After securing it, she had quickly pulled it out again, saying it did not suit me. But now, no longer willing to accept Marguerite's help in getting me dressed or fixing my hair, it was the only formal style I knew how to do myself.

Clara greeted me with a kiss on each cheek, her smile cheerful and warm as she played the consummate hostess with a skill that had been bred in her since the cradle. Despite the dingy furniture and dusty drapes, she exuded the same hospitality that she would have when her home shone and sparkled and the paint didn't peel from the massive columns across the front.

She wore a dinner gown in a dated style, but the celery-colored silk lifted the usual pallor of her skin, making her eyes shine. When she smiled, as she invariably did when looking at her husband, she was almost pretty. She seemed to flit among her guests like a moth around an open flame, but always seemed to come to rest by her husband's side. She reminded me of a small child with a favorite toy, afraid to leave it alone too long, lest somebody come along and take it from her.

As Clara had assured me, it was a small gathering. Besides the Lewistons, Clara's elderly father, Mr. Brier, John and me, Judge Patterson, and the elder Herndons completed the party. I was surprised to see the latter until Daniel quietly explained that they were no longer on speaking terms with their son and that he had moved out of their house several weeks prior and they had not seen him since. When Daniel straightened after whispering in my ear, I looked up to see Clara and John watching us closely. Before I could respond, Clara was at Daniel's side, whisking him away to a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Herndon.

At dinner, as one of the guests of honor, I was seated at Daniel's right side, with Judge Patterson on my right and Clara's father across
from me. I remembered Mr. Brier's assertion that he had seen Elizabeth in Baton Rouge before we had found her body, and John's claim that the old man was not in his right mind. I assumed him to be in his late seventies or early eighties, and time would have taken a toll on his mind and body. Stooped and wrinkled, he walked with the assistance of a cane, and one of the servants had to cut his meal into tiny bites. He did not speak, so I assumed he could not, and when he ate, drool fell from the corner of his mouth. But when he looked up, his eyes were bright and clear, and it was obvious that he was following the conversation around him intently.

John sat to Clara's right, putting him diagonally across from me, and every time I looked in his direction, I would see his dark, brooding eyes on me before I quickly looked away.

Conversation at the table seemed strained, as if we were all trying too hard to avoid the obvious topics that would be deemed unsuitable. We talked of the weather and politics and the recent disappearance and murder of a sheriff in a neighboring parish. But the recent war, the dilapidated house, the missing son, and my dead sister seemed to float behind the dining-room chairs like ghosts, unseen but as present in the room as the scarred furniture.

As a young female servant cleared away the dinner dishes and brought out dessert and coffee, Clara addressed me from the other end of the table, ensuring everyone could hear.

“Catherine, is the food to your liking? You look pale.”

It was true that the aromas of food were making my stomach churn, no doubt on account of the baby. I had thought that I had stirred the food up enough on my plate to warrant a pretense of an appetite.

“The food is delicious, thank you. I am just feeling a little tired—that is all.”

“Well, it has been almost two months since your honeymoon. Since we are all close friends, I was wondering if perhaps you had some news for us.”

I tried to give her a warning look as I answered. “I am not quite sure what you mean. If you are speaking of my first completed portrait, yes—Rebecca's has been finished, and I am quite proud of it. When you visit us next, you can see it hanging in the library.”

Her eyes never wavered from my face. “No, dear. I was hoping you and John might have some more exciting news for us.” She lowered her lashes, her composure returned to the reserved Clara I knew. Quietly smoothing her linen napkin in her lap, she said, “I am sorry if I have embarrassed you by speaking out of turn. It is just that I thought—well, I hoped—that we might have something to celebrate this evening. There is precious little good news as it is.”

My gaze slid to John. His eyes had darkened, his face stilled, his hand tightly clutching his wineglass. I turned away and saw Clara, who, remarkably, had her eyes fixed on Daniel, as if to study his reaction.

Clara must have already known the truth—probably from Marguerite. I looked down at my plate, knowing that to lie now would be futile. “Yes, we do have good news. John and I are expecting a child.”

There was a call for a toast, and Daniel immediately stood to refill the wineglasses. I noticed how his hand shook as he poured my wine. The sound of broken glass brought our attention to John. The glass in his hand had shattered, leaving spilled wine, shards of crystal, and blood from his cut hand on the crisp white tablecloth.

Daniel placed the wine bottle on the table and hesitated a moment before approaching John. “Let me take you to my office, where I can make sure there is no glass left in your hand and wrap it properly.”

John glanced up at his old friend with darkened eyes and, after a long pause, accepted Daniel's offer. With a bow and an apology, he excused himself, his gaze carefully avoiding mine.

I felt sick to my stomach and was grateful for Judge Patterson's assistance in helping me out of my chair and escorting me back to the parlor. Because of the small group and the absence of John and Daniel, the ladies and gentlemen convened in the same room. I assumed the three remaining men were waiting for the return of the other two before retiring to the library for port and cigars.

Mr. Brier sat next to me on a horsehair sofa. To my surprise, he reached for my hand and patted it solicitously. His skin was surprisingly soft and warm, and I found comfort in his gesture. Still, I felt hot and clammy, almost as if I were suffocating, the need to see John all-consuming. His anger at the table had been palpable and certainly understandable, and I needed to be with him to explain.

The old man leaned toward me, then surprised me by speaking. “Do not pay any mind to my Clara.” He pointed to his wrinkled and age-spotted forehead. “Her own lack of children has become an obsession with her. Almost as much as her obsession with Daniel.”

After speaking, he immediately sat back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and began to snore softly.

I was soon joined by Judge Patterson. I struggled to stand, but he urged me back. “You are pale and need to rest.” He fixed a knowing gaze on me. “You let the men work on their own problems—it has nothing to do with you, you understand?”

Numbly, I nodded, not sure I did understand.

He moved closer, so that his words would be heard only by me. “So, it would seem that you and John are finding marriage to each other quite suitable.”

I flushed and looked down at my hands.

“No need to be embarrassed, child. A good and fruitful marriage is something to be rejoiced over. I know his first marriage was difficult, and it was my greatest hope that you both would find happiness.” He sat down next to me, peering at me with a gentle smile. “But I also understand that a new marriage in an unfamiliar place may have bumps in the road. If you ever have need of a friend, please remember that my old ears are still good for listening. You know where to find me.”

I looked into his kind eyes and knew I was not alone.

“Thank you,” was all I said.

He leaned toward me, speaking quietly. “The old man isn't as senile as some would like you to believe.”

“What do you mean?”

Before he could answer, there was a loud pounding on the front door. The judge held out his hand, holding Clara back. “You stay here. I will go see who it is.”

As soon as he had opened the door, the sound of a high-pitched, excited voice reached us. With panic tearing at my heart, I raced toward the foyer, recognizing the voice.

“Delphine! What is wrong?”

Her dark skin was streaked with sweat, her clothes damp and
disheveled. Rufus hovered in the background, Jezebel flicking her tail behind him, sweat glistening on her flank. It appeared that they had run all the way from Whispering Oaks.

Delphine took several deep breaths before filling her lungs enough to be able to answer. “She be gone, Miz McMahon. Miss Rebecca—she be gone!”

S
pots swam before my eyes, but I held on, convincing myself that I could not help Rebecca if I did not remain strong. I felt a familiar touch on my shoulder, and I melded into John's side, drawing strength from him.

John spoke, his words clipped, his anger and fear held in tight control. “What do you mean she is gone? Your instructions were to stay with her after she went to bed.”

Delphine began sobbing, her words unintelligible. I went to her and brought her inside, asking for a drink of water. A glass was soon pressed into her shaking hands. As soon as she took a sip, I asked her, “What happened, Delphine? Tell us everything so that we might find her as quickly as possible.”

She took another sip and nodded. “I did as I was told, Miz McMahon. She be in my sight the whole time. And I sat in that chair by her bed until she falls asleep.”

I pressed on, the urge to bolt out the door and run to Whispering Oaks nearly overpowering my calm. “Then what happened?”

“I thought she was asleep, but as I stood to go, she asks for drink of water.” She sniffed and brought the back of her hand across her nose. “So I went down the stairs and I passed Marguerite. She asks what I doin' and I tells her. Marguerite say I works hard enough and that she bring the water to Miss Rebecca.”

She started sobbing harder, and I felt the claw of fear take hold of my heart with sharp talons.

Through sniffs, Delphine managed to continue. “Later, I starts to worry, since I's suppose to be in charge. So I went back to her room, and her bed be empty.” Tears leaked out of her dark eyes as she stared
up at me with fear and remorse. “I shouted for her, and I looks all over, but she not in the house.”

“What about Marguerite? Where is she?” The panic clawed through my words.

Delphine sobbed louder. “Nowhere. She and Miss Rebecca just be gone!”

John's grip on my shoulder tightened. “Catherine, I want you and Delphine to stay here with Clara and the other women. Daniel and I will ride back to see what has happened and find Rebecca. I will send Mr. O'Rourke back with news.”

I turned to my husband, my hands wildly clutching at him. “No, John. I must come with you. I cannot stay here and worry.” Hearing the sob at the back of my throat, I lowered my voice. “Please let me help.”

His eyes softened as he regarded me, then gave a sharp nod. Daniel brought our cloaks, and we raced out the door, not bothering with the formalities of saying goodbye.

We tore down the levee road, me clutching John's arm and staying away from the broken door, while Daniel and Rufus followed closely behind on their own mounts. John's hand reached for mine and I took it, looking into his eyes and feeling the unity of our spirits.
Yes,
I thought,
this is how it should be. Together, as one, through all the good and bad.
It went far deeper than trust, and I pulled our entwined hands to my heart so we could both feel its beating and know that it beat for us, for Rebecca, and for the tiny child growing within me.

When we pulled up in front of Whispering Oaks, I jumped out quickly without waiting for John's assistance. I noted the lack of servants to meet us and I wondered why until I smelled the smoke. The pungent smell of burning wood carried its way to us in the thin air, like thick fists grabbing us and pulling us around the side of the house.

Daniel saw it first and pointed. “Fire at the sugar mill!”

“Rebecca!” I shouted, ready to run as fast as my legs and full skirts would allow me.

Instead, John held tight to my arms. “Daniel and I will go see what we can do. I need you to sound the alarm so the field hands can come
and help us with water. Then go search the house for Rebecca and send word when you find her.”

His dark gaze bored into me and I nodded, understanding his meaning. He needed to be reassured that Rebecca was not in the burning building. Without warning, he grasped my head in his large hands and pulled me toward him, kissing me brutally.

He let go of me and began running toward the burning mill. I nearly stumbled as I turned and ran blindly back toward the house and to the edge of the field, where a large bell hung in its wooden casing. The evening wind whipped inside of it, causing it to moan into the clear night. I pulled on the suspended rope, making the bell chime in a low, monotonous clang, and waited until several men appeared from their quarters to investigate.

I sent one to ride to the neighboring plantations to ask for help, and the remainder to rouse as many people as they could and to go directly to the well with as many buckets as they could gather. Then I ran for the house, frantically searching for Rebecca. I almost sprawled over a large stump of an oak tree, the ax protruding from its middle, where Mr. O'Rourke had left it. Finding my footing again, I continued to run toward the front entrance to the house.

I flung open the door to complete stillness. With the exception of Marguerite and Delphine, I had seen all the house servants outside by the bell. I ran up the stairs two at a time, shouting out Rebecca's name. My lungs pressed against my stays, searching for air that they could not get. Forcing myself to slow down, I took slow, deep breaths as I walked purposefully toward Rebecca's room.

The sheets had been turned down and the pillow had the indentation of a small head, but Rebecca was conspicuously absent. My heart lurched when I spotted Samantha on the floor, facedown. I ran out of the room, my voice near hysteria as I shouted Rebecca's name again and again. She would never willingly go anywhere without her doll, and wherever she was would not be a place she wanted to be.

I ran through the house, opening every door and closet, looking under every bed and calling her name. I even climbed up to the attic, candle held aloft, searching, but found no trace of the child.

A sick dread settled in my stomach as I caught sight of the growing
flames from the mill. What if Rebecca was in the mill? Feeling almost faint from my exertion, I sped out of the house toward the burning mill, now the scene of a growing number of men and women who had formed lines from the well, transporting buckets of water to overcome the flames. My eyes stung from the smoke as they searched the crowd for John's towering form, but he was nowhere to be found. I asked several of the men hauling buckets, but they hadn't seen him. People swarmed everywhere, the air heavy with smoke, making it difficult to see. My mind screamed.
Where are you, John? Where are you?

Thinking that maybe he had found Rebecca and brought her back to the house, I turned back. As my feet fled over the dry grass, I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck that made me turn around toward the house. I thought I imagined a solid thumping on window glass and I stopped in my tracks, small spots of light gathering before my eyes as I struggled to maintain consciousness. A candle had been lit in my art room, and there, silhouetted against the window, was the sweet face of the child I had come to love as my own flesh and blood.

With a strangled shout, I ran back into the house and up the stairs to the little art room off my bedroom. I smelled candle smoke, as if a candle had just been extinguished, and no light shone under the crack in the door. I approached the room cautiously, wondering if I had just imagined Rebecca's face in the window.

I pushed at the door, watching it soundlessly glide open. “Rebecca?”

The room was completely black, the mixed odors of smoke and paints turning my stomach and making me feel faint. Pressing one hand against the doorframe to steady myself, I held my other hand to my nose and called Rebecca's name again.

A small sound came from the far corner of the room, and I approached slowly. “Rebecca, it is your mama. Everything is all right and I am here to take care of you. Can you come out now?”

A slight rasping came from the corner again, quickly followed by the sound of the door shutting behind me and the key turning in the lock.

I spun quickly, my skirts knocking over an easel and dumping the canvas to the floor with a crash. Feeling my way to the door, I grasped at the handle and tugged hard. It did not move.

“Rebecca? Is that you? Please let me out. Somebody please let me out.”

In the inky silence, I heard the rasping sound again, a creeping noise in the far dark corner, and cold perspiration crawled up my skin.
Snake.
I could almost see the black, scaly skin of a cottonmouth as it slithered toward me in the darkness. I knew it would not attack me unless provoked, but I could not see it nor avoid stepping on it if it came nearer.

I turned back to the door, banging on it in earnest. “Help me. Please, somebody help me. Please let me out!” I thumped louder, feeling the reverberations up to my shoulders.

Again, the white spots appeared before my eyes, but I clung on to consciousness with every fiber of my being. I had not survived so much of life already to die now, now that so much mattered to me. I banged on the door again with renewed strength, knowing my life and the life of my unborn child depended on it.

I stopped for a moment to listen, but heard nothing except the muted shouts from the mill. Gingerly hugging the wall, I crept toward the window, hoping to find somebody in the yard below. I nearly sagged with relief as I spied Mr. O'Rourke, the ax from the stump in his hand, walking quickly back toward the fire. I fumbled with the window latch, scraping my fingers until they bled, but was unable to open it. Instead, I banged loudly on the glass, praying against all hope that I could break it or that he would hear me banging and look up. I imagined I felt something brush against the skirt of my dress, and I pounded even harder.

Mr. O'Rourke glanced up and I waved my hands, hoping he would spot the movement. I hit my fists against the glass again so he would realize where I was and watched, with thin hope nearly smothered with desperation, as he turned back toward the house, ax in hand.

Pressing myself against the wall, I strained my ears, imagining I heard movement from all four corners of the blackened room. The darkness fell all around me, encroaching upon my very mind, but I fought it with my last resources of energy. I placed my cheek against the cool plaster of the wall, concentrating on the reality of it and forcing myself to stay upright.

A pounding sounded from the other side of the door. “Mrs. McMahon, are you in there? Do you need me?”

“Mr. O'Rourke—yes! Somebody has locked me in here and I need to get out. There is a snake in here. Please hurry!”

“There's no key in the lock. Stand back, and I will use my ax.”

I crouched by the window and listened as the ax shattered the door, splinters of wood flying into the room and hitting my bowed head.

When enough of the door had been destroyed, Mr. O'Rourke kicked the door in, the jamb fracturing in half. I stood, and a movement outside the window caused me to turn my head. Rebecca's back was toward me and she was walking in the direction of the pond, her long white nightgown glowing in the light of the full moon.

“Rebecca!” I screamed at the closed window. I stepped back and felt something smooth and rigid under my foot. A solid force hit the skirt of my gown and I looked down to see the shimmering scales of the cottonmouth in the light of the open door, its fangs buried in the folds of my skirt. Mr. O'Rourke raised his ax and brought it down with a sickening
thud
, severing the serpent in half. In a daze, I watched as he grabbed the head of the snake and yanked it from my dress, ripping the silk.

I turned to Mr. O'Rourke. “Go get Mr. McMahon and bring him to the pond—now!” Without another word, I dashed out of the room, my fingers frantically ripping at my dress, then my stays, to loosen them so I could breathe. Or swim. All I knew was that I had to get to Rebecca before she reached the pond. I could not lose another child. The light that had begun to shine in my soul would surely be darkened forever.

I saw Rebecca hesitating by the edge of the pond and heard her sobs. As I neared her, I heard her voice cry out to me, and it sounded so much like Jamie that my steps faltered and I fell.

“Mama, Mama. Where are you, Mama?”

I scraped my fingernails in the dirt, trying to stand, my mind reeling. Was that Jamie's voice or was it Rebecca's?

I found my footing again and raced toward her, watching in horror as she stepped into the black water.

“Rebecca, stop! Mama's here. Stay there and I will come get you.”

Slowly, she turned around and stared at me, her blond hair shimmering in the moonlight like a halo. “Mama?” Her eyes were dreamlike, as if she were walking in her sleep.

I pulled my gown over my head, throwing it on the grass, and stepped out of my underskirts. Reaching out my arms, I walked slowly to her, barely aware of the shouts and running feet approaching from behind.

As if in slow motion, I watched as she seemed to lose her balance, her arms swinging in wide arcs at her side before she fell backward, slowly sinking out of sight within the embrace of the dark, treacherous arms of the pond.