Spinning the Moon (65 page)

My skin seemed stuck to my bones, making me ponderous, lethargic, unable to move. I smelled salt water and heard a seagull's cry. The grass under my feet became warm sand, and waves rolled toward me, lapping at my now-bare toes. Jamie was just beyond my reach, his fingers stretching toward me before his head fell beneath the waves one last time. I cried out, his name sweet on my lips, my heart heavy with grief.

Then the fear that had remained so elusive in the last year struck me with the force of a human hand, taking the breath from my lungs and jolting my muscles into action. It was no longer the fear of water but the fear of loss. Without conscious thought, I dove into the pond where I had last seen Rebecca, the chill of the water sending pinpricks of misery to every pore of my skin.

I dove deep into the darkness, my hands reaching out to grab anything. But my fingertips brushed only the cold water, sending it in ripples down the length of my body. I swam to the bottom, feeling the thick, heavy mud, then kicked myself up toward the surface. I followed the light of the moon, its edges soft and uneven through the water but still a beacon for me.

I burst through the water, my lungs hurting. I glanced quickly around, ignoring Mr. O'Rourke and those he had gathered now approaching the bank, and looked for any sign of Rebecca. Only the small ripples caused by my movement marred the still surface of the dark water. With a deep breath, I plunged into the dark depths again.

I used the broadest stroke I could, stretching as far as possible, my fingers lonely hunters in the murky coldness. I reached the empty
bottom again, pushing aside my despair that I had not yet found Rebecca. Turning on my back, I stared up to the surface, my loosened hair swimming snakelike around my face. I pushed it away and watched as a dark shadow passed above me.

With my toes finding purchase in the siltlike bottom, I crouched and pushed upward, my fingers reaching for the small flailing hands that seemed to move slower and slower. I skimmed through the water and touched her, then grabbed her around the waist with my other arm before I broke the surface.

Gasping for air, I struggled with Rebecca's limp form until I felt two strong arms grab hold of us and bring us the rest of the way to the bank, where my feet could touch the bottom. Daniel took the child from my arms, and I was at first reluctant to let her go.

John's strained voice shook. “Give her to Daniel, Cat. He needs to get the water out of her lungs.”

With shaking hands I let go, then allowed myself to be lifted in my husband's arms.

*   *   *

We waited until we heard Rebecca's cry, and then she and I were both carried inside the house. I insisted that Rebecca be put in my bed with me. The threat of pneumonia was real, and I trusted no one to watch her as I could. We were dried and dressed in our nightclothes, then bundled into bed with a roaring fire heating the room.

I cringed when I looked at the shattered door to my art room, trying not to remember the cold sweat of fear. Looking up at John, I grabbed hold of his sleeve. “You have not asked about the door.”

He leaned over to tuck Rebecca in, his sleeve brushing across my chest. “Mr. O'Rourke told me. I will have it replaced tomorrow.”

I fell back, trying to read his inscrutable face. I pulled on his arm as he straightened. “It was no accident. I was led there on purpose and locked inside. Now do you believe me about Marguerite? Do you have any doubts about her intentions now? I know I cannot prove anything, but there is no doubt in my mind that she means us harm. Including Rebecca.”

“Did you see her so that you know for sure? I know that Philip Herndon was here—my burning mill is proof of that. He is the one
who swore to take what was most precious to me. If anybody had a motive to harm you, it would be him.”

I pushed myself up, forcing my voice to remain calm. “But what about Rebecca? We know that Marguerite was with her last.” I swallowed thickly. “Rebecca could have died tonight.”

He flinched, then resumed his stolid expression. “Hush, now—you are overwrought. You both need your rest. I have asked Rose to make you a tea to help you sleep. She will bring it up when it is ready.”

He stood, and I held on to his hand. To my surprise, I realized it was shaking. “John, please!”

Gently, he pulled his hand away. “Go to sleep. We will talk when you are feeling better.”

He bent and kissed Rebecca's forehead and then mine before leaving. I turned to face my art room, as if to make sure nothing would slither out. An unbidden thought crossed my mind: the memory of how I searched in vain for John at the burning mill before returning to the house, lured by Rebecca's image in the window and where I had been locked in a room with certain death.
Where were you, John?

I pushed the recollection aside, dismissing it as nerves brought on by the events of the evening. He could have been lost in the crush of people attempting to put out the fire, and it would have been easy to miss him.

I watched Rebecca fall asleep while I waited for Rose's tea. It was steaming hot and bitter, but I drank it down, wondering if I would ever feel warm again, and quickly joined Rebecca in oblivious sleep.

*   *   *

The sound of hushed, arguing voices awakened me. The fire had sputtered to a faint glow and a chill enveloped the room. The heated embers were the only source of light, giving me the impression that it was the middle of the night. Something heavy weighed upon my neck and I realized that my pearl necklace had not been removed when I had been dried and dressed in my nightclothes. My fingers patted it lightly, and I remembered the loose clasp, thankful it had not fallen into the water.

After checking Rebecca's slow, even breathing to make sure she was asleep, I slipped from bed and padded toward the door. Opening it a crack, I listened for voices, but heard nothing but the quiet ticking of
the grandfather clock in the foyer. I was about to close the door again when I heard someone speaking. I recognized the deep voice as John's and I waited for a long moment to hear to whom he was talking.

It was a woman's voice, deep and resonant and highly distinguishable.
Marguerite
. I heard her laugh, a sound from deep in her throat, and it made my blood chill. I stepped into the hallway and closed the door, locking it with a soft
click
behind me. Slowly, I descended the stairs, gripping the banister to guide my way, following the voices.

A light shone from under the library door, thin like the light of a single candle, and I walked toward it and placed my hand on the knob. The sound of Marguerite's voice gave me pause.

“You know that if she finds out the truth, she will leave. She will go back to where she belongs. Or maybe that is what you have been wanting all along—for her to be gone. Yet you are afraid that she will take the child with her once she knows.”

With my heart hammering wildly in my chest, my hand flew from the brass doorknob as if scorched.

I heard the control in John's voice. “You will not blackmail me with this any longer. I will not have it.”

Marguerite laughed a bitter laugh. “You stand to lose a lot more than I ever could. When she finds out how you have been deceiving her, she and that child will be gone. Then you will be left with no child and no one to warm your bed at night.” She chuckled again, low and evil, the sound fighting the rigid pulse in my neck. “Maybe that is what you deserve.”

A glass crashed to the floor, and I jumped back.

“How dare you! Rebecca and Catherine could have been killed tonight because of your negligence, and no amount of threats from you will ever make me ignore that fact.”

Marguerite's tone darkened. “I put Rebecca to bed. If the voices of the dead spoke to her, then that is the way of it. Those are powers that are stronger than mine, and I cannot stand in their way.” She gave a low chuckle. “And somebody locked Catherine in that room tonight. Who is to say it was not you?”

“Stop it! I should have listened to Catherine and dismissed you long ago. You are a danger to my daughter, and I will no longer tolerate your
presence here. You are dismissed, and I never want to see you in this house again.” Two quick and heavy footfalls sounded in the library and I pictured him walking closer to Marguerite, his height towering over her, and she staring defiantly up at him. “Get out. Tonight. And if you ever breathe a word to Catherine, I will kill you. It will be so swift and so sudden that your last living thought will be to wonder how it happened.” He lowered his voice further, making me strain to hear him. “I have killed before and I will do it again. I am not a man to be thwarted.”

Steps approached the door, and I drew back into the alcove under the stairs, my eyes mesmerized by the mirror opposite. It seemed to create its own light, casting an ethereal glow that shimmered in the darkness. I clenched my eyes, not wanting to see whatever should materialize in its corrupted glass.

The door flew open and John hissed, “Get out.”

Opening my eyes, I peered out of my hiding place.

Marguerite turned to John with equal fervor. “I will do that, but you can be sure that once your precious wife finds out that Rebecca is not your child, she will know why you married her. And she will try to leave, just like your Elizabeth. Maybe this wife will be more successful in escaping than her sister.” She barked a mirthless laugh. “Maybe you should show her Elizabeth's letters before she leaves. If you do not think they will kill her. Or maybe that is what you want.”

I heard John draw in a sudden breath. “You are lucky I am not throwing you in jail or worse. Now leave before I change my mind!”

Her voice was insolent as she turned to him in the threshold of the room. “You have far more to hide than I do.”

She turned to leave, but he grabbed her elbow and pulled her back. “What do you mean?”

Facing him slowly, she turned to smile at him. “I saw Elizabeth before you got to her and took your glove and the gris-gris. Her traveling bag was with her, too, like she was planning on leaving you. The authorities would be interested in hearing all about it.”

“There was nothing to incriminate me—only evidence that would have destroyed Rebecca's standing in the community.”

“It was your glove, remember? And the gris-gris was one for an unfaithful lover. But you know that, do you not?”

“Get out,” he said again through gritted teeth, letting go of her arm in a rough gesture.

Her skirts swung in a graceful arc as she turned back to the darkened foyer. I flattened myself against the wall, grasping at the necklace around my neck, their words reverberating in my head.
I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid.
Had I finally discovered what she had been so afraid of? Her husband, the man with a known temper and penchant for violence?

I hugged the wall, blending into the darkened alcove to avoid being seen by Marguerite as she walked by. I heard her words again, and fear curled up in my blood.
Rebecca is not your child.

Why had John not told me? I already knew about the unborn child Elizabeth carried when she died, so the fact that Rebecca was not his, either, would have come as no surprise. I almost gasped aloud as the next thought occurred to me.
He had no claim to Rebecca, a child he loved as if she were his own flesh and blood. The only sure way to keep her with him would have been to marry the child's aunt.

The hope that I had carried inside me, the hope that John had married me for other reasons, turned to ash as quickly as a thin leaf in a flame. John was a willful man. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. If I were threatening to leave and knew he had no claims to Rebecca, what would he do to stop me? The same thing that had been done to Elizabeth?

I clenched my eyes, pressing my forehead against the wall. Marguerite had gone, but I had not heard John move from the doorway of the library. After a few breathless moments, I heard his slow footsteps walk back into the room and the squeak of his desk chair as he sat.

Taking a step out of the alcove, a loud clattering sound came from the wood floor, as if something had dropped. Not wanting to waste any time to see if John had heard it, too, I fled up the stairs, then hid in the dark corridor above and waited.

John walked out into the middle of the foyer and stopped. “Marguerite? Is that you?” In the stillness of the night, I heard the precise snap of a pistol's hammer and held my breath.

After several long moments, he retreated back into his library and shut the door, the sound of the lock sliding into place loud and deliberate.

Slowly, I stood on shaking legs and made my way back to my room. After turning the key in the lock, I stirred the fire, the heat unable to penetrate the bone-chilling numbness that seemed to have seeped into my soul.

I had no hope of sleep, but the warmth of the bed beckoned me, so I slipped into the cold sheets and snuggled next to Rebecca.
What kind of a man is your father?
I wanted to ask.
He possesses unknown depths of love and kindness in the same soul that harbors so much darkness. And I am afraid. So afraid.

Too numb to weep, I lay beside Rebecca, absorbing her warmth and keeping my eyes transfixed on the ceiling as I waited for dawn.

A
s soon as the light of day touched the windows, I crept from the bed, making sure I did not awaken Rebecca, and unlocked the door. I paused by her side and felt her forehead. It was warm but not overly so, and her breathing was slow and even. Assured, I stepped back and began to dress. I had been busy making plans all through the long, wakeful night, and I had much to do.

While I sat at the dressing table, twisting my hair on top of my head, the door opened and John entered. He was still in the evening clothes he had worn the night before, his hair rumpled. Dark stubble covered his jaw, making him look as dangerous as a knife blade. My traitorous heart leapt at the sight of him, and the familiar burn inside of me ached. I turned away, focusing on my reflection in the mirror.

He went to the bed and sat down next to Rebecca, watching her as she slept. Then, as I had done, he pressed the back of his hand to her forehead and left it for a long moment. “She is very warm.”

I nodded, searching for my voice. “Yes, I noticed that, too. But I think it is just from sleep. We will see how she is when she wakes.”

His dark eyes rested on me for a moment before he went to the fireplace and restarted the fire with more logs. Then he came to me and stood next to my chair, not saying anything.

Unnerved by his proximity, I glanced at him. Without a word, he fell to his knees in front of me, placing his large hand on my abdomen where our child grew inside.

“The child—he is well?”

A large lump lodged itself in my throat. I remembered his anger of the night before when he had learned of the child's existence and noticed the absence of the words “our child.” Still, his gentleness disarmed me,
and I was left floundering for a foothold. “Yes. Our child is fine. He is well protected.”

He leaned forward and kissed me where his hand had been a moment before, his hot breath moving through the fabric of my gown to my bare flesh. I suppressed a moan and the need to run my hands through his black hair, and instead pushed myself back into my chair.

He lifted his head and his eyes searched mine. “You risked so much last night.” His fingers lightly traced my jawbone, his touch heating my blood, until they came to rest on my collarbone. “I remember what you told me of Jamie's death, and I believe I can understand what strength it took from you to save Rebecca.”

Tears pricked at my eyes as I realized the enormity of the previous night's occurrences. There was so much unsaid between us, but my uncertainty hovered near. “I love her.” There was nothing more I could say.

“So do I,” he said, his voice full of meaning. His hand dropped and the light shining in his eyes dimmed. Softly, he said, “How lucky Rebecca is to be loved so completely and selflessly that you would risk everything for her.”

I longed to fall into his arms and tell him that the love I felt for him was the same, but I could not. The words I had overheard between him and Marguerite had built a strong wall around my heart, a wall not easily breached.

I turned back to my dressing table and lifted the brush. One by one I picked out the long, dark strands from the bristles, letting them fall soundlessly to the floor. “She is but a child and has been denied the true love of a mother for too long. I am glad that we have found each other.”

He rose swiftly, his movements stiff, and I knew that my words of omission had hurt him. He, too, seemed to have expected me to say something else. “You have told me many times that you wish for a loving marriage built on truth and trust. Yet I feel there is something heavy hanging between us—something unsaid. Is there something you wish to say to me?”

I thought of my questions and accusations, certain he would have answers for me. But not the truth. The lingering suspicion that I could not bear the truth clouded my mind, and I wanted to answer him from
my heart.
I want to leave you now—now before I learn that which I cannot bear.
I shook my head. “I am content,” I lied, wishing that he would leave so I would not have to see my own betrayal in his eyes.

His expression hardened before he looked away. With another glance at Rebecca, he turned to leave. “Let me know when she wakes.”

I nodded and watched him as he left the room. I turned back to the mirror and stared at my reflection, realizing something was not right. My hand flew to my throat and I realized the pearl necklace was missing.

I jumped up and ran to the bed, pulling back the bedclothes to see if it had fallen off while I slept. Then a sickening realization flooded my veins. I remembered the clattering sound of something hitting the wood floor as I stood hidden in the alcove under the stairs. Uselessly, my fingers swept across the soft skin of my neck, searching for the pearls that now lay abandoned on the wood floor of the foyer.

Quickly finishing my toilette, I sped down the stairs, thankful nobody was there to witness my desperate search. I followed the curve of the banister to the alcove, my heart firmly lodged in my throat. The honey-gold color of the wood shone brilliantly under a new layer of wax. I swished my foot across the expanse of wood, hoping to kick something that I could not see, but all I felt under the soles of my shoes was the smooth surface of the floor.

I lifted my head rapidly at the sound of approaching footsteps, making spots dance before my eyes. John stood before me with a questioning look in his eyes.

“Are you looking for something?”

Too ashamed to admit my guilt, I shook my head. “No, I am just light-headed. I think I need to eat breakfast.”

“I will call for Mary to sit with Rebecca while you eat.” He solicitously offered me his arm and I reluctantly took it, understanding the power of his touch and its effect on me. “You need to keep up your strength.”

I allowed myself to be escorted into the dining room. John sent for Mary to go upstairs and then poured himself a cup of coffee. He filled a plate with food and put it in front of me before sitting down across the table. I felt my skin flame at the intensity of his gaze.

Forcing myself to remain calm, I returned his appraisal and searched
for conversation. The events of the previous night meant I didn't have to search far. “How is the mill?”

“Severely damaged. It is a good thing the harvesting is done, or a lot of farmers would be losing their land over this. It will take a good six months to put it in working order again.” I knew that John leased out the use of his mill to local farmers, saving them the trouble and expense of transporting their sugarcane to mills far away. He had acknowledged that he did it cheaply, but that it was necessary to maintain the local economy.

“Do you know how it started?”

He put his coffee cup into the saucer a little too forcefully, making some of the coffee splash up over the sides. “It was undoubtedly arson, since it bears the marks of the White League. I have no doubt that Philip Herndon is behind this.”

I put my fork down and faced him. “How can you be sure?”

A dark brow rose over an eye. “We have an eyewitness. Rufus said he spied Philip several days ago lurking around the mill, and warned him off. Unfortunately, Rufus did not think enough of the incident to tell me about it.” He took a deep breath. “I assume Philip had also been by the coach house to tamper with the latch. I do not think it mattered to him whom he harmed, as long as I or somebody close to me got hurt.”

I remembered Philip's threats and felt certain that John's suspicions were not unfounded. “Have they found Philip yet for questioning?”

John shook his head. “No. The sheriff stopped by while you were upstairs. He has sent some men to look for him, but so far they have not found a trace of him.” He picked up his cup and seemed to take a deliberately long sip from it. “The sheriff seems to think Philip had help in escaping. He has disappeared so completely that it would have been impossible to do so on his own, especially with his lack of funds.”

I placed my hands flat on the surface of the hard mahogany table. “What are you suggesting?”

He stood and kissed me lightly on the temple. “Not a thing, dear wife. Unless there is something you think might shed light on the situation.”

Having lost my appetite completely, I slid back from the table. “I have nothing to hide—especially not the truth. I have not spoken with
Philip since that horrible scene in New Orleans. Believe what you will, but that is the truth.”

A dark flush stained his handsome features. “Nothing to hide, Cat? I have noticed that you have not asked about Marguerite, nor made note of her absence.”

Doubt and fear flashed through my mind. I stood, facing him with my chin lifted. “Where is she?”

Leaning close to me, he reached for my hand, sending unbidden shivers of anticipation up my arm. Lifting it, he held it between us and opened up my palm. Wordlessly, he reached into his pocket and dumped the pearl necklace in my hand.

My fingers closed over the cool beads and I noticed my hand shook. Slowly, I raised my eyes to his. “Is that why you married me, then? To keep Rebecca with you? Surely you know that the law would be on your side. Simply being married to her mother would have made you the child's legal father.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind. He turned away, his back to me, before speaking. “I am a foreigner here—a damned Yankee, regardless of my years here or my commitment to the parish. With your friends' and neighbors' help, I am sure they would have spirited you and Rebecca away to her rightful family without regard to my legal status. Despite their destitute state, they would have found the means to keep both of you hidden from me indefinitely.”

The small glimmer of hope that I had sheltered inside of me fragmented like a broken mirror, and I was afraid all the pieces could never be put back where the scars would not be seen or felt. With a drowning sensation in my chest, I realized it was for the best. In the long hours of the night, I had made the decision to leave him and his dark secrets. He did not trust me, much less love me, and I loved him far more than good reason dictated.

“And now I am your wife . . .” I did not have the courage to finish the sentence.

“And we both love Rebecca. She could find worse parents to raise her.”

With a mocking bow, he moved toward the doorway.

My words called him back. “If you are not Rebecca's father, then who is?”

He paused and I heard a deep intake of breath. Looking at me over his shoulder, he said, “I do not know. But rest assured, regardless of what man gave her mother his seed, I will never cease to be her father. And I pity whoever would try to separate us.”

I listened as his footsteps crossed the foyer to the library, my hollow heart aching. My hand fell to my abdomen. He must have believed for a time that Rebecca was his. But of Elizabeth's second child, he had had no such assumption. Would her second proof of infidelity have angered him enough to be rid of her forever? And what of his doubts of me and my child?

I tried to shut out the insidious thoughts, but they spread through my mind like poison from an oleander petal. It took only a small dose to claim its victim, and I was afraid that I had already succumbed.

A door opened upstairs, quickly followed by the sound of running feet on the steps. I rushed out into the foyer and nearly ran into Mary.

“Missus MacMahon, Miss Rebecca's awake. She is asking for her papa.”

I looked at the young girl, worry gnawing at me. Her skin was flushed, her freckles standing out in stark relief. “What is wrong, Mary?”

She wrung her hands. “Rebecca is burning up, she is. Burning with the fever.”

I took the stairs two at a time, with John, who had emerged from his study, close behind me. When I approached Rebecca's bed, she twitched and moaned, her face pale and wan. Her bright blue eyes stared at me but did not seem to see me. I touched her cheek and her skin nearly burned my hand.

John turned to Mary, who had followed us up the stairs. “Go get Mr. O'Rourke and send him to find Dr. Lewiston and bring him here. Now.”

Mary bobbed her head several times, still wringing her hands, then ran from the room, her feet clattering down the steps.

Rebecca clutched at my dress. “Mama, Mama. So hot.” Her voice rasped, her lips cracked and dry.

I sat at the edge of the bed and brushed her hair off her forehead. “I know, baby. I am going to try to cool you off.”

Quietly, John said, “I will go to Rose and have her bring fresh water and bathing cloths.”

I looked at him for the first time and saw the tight restraint and despair in his eyes. I wanted to take his hand and offer comfort, but I could not. I simply nodded and turned back to Rebecca while I listened as his footsteps faded away down the hall.

*   *   *

Rebecca lingered in a feverish delirium for almost four days. We moved her back to her own room, and I began a vigil by her bedside. She could not hold down food, and I spent hours simply squeezing drops of water between her dry and cracked lips from a clean washcloth.