Spinning the Moon (44 page)

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I sat alone at the foot of the long dining-room table, mounds of food heaping the polished surface. A young woman with red hair and freckles and a thick Irish accent introduced herself as Mary. She stood at attention by my chair and waited until I was seated before beginning to pile food on my plate.

I wanted to turn away in disgust at the wasteful abundance, remembering my recent months on Saint Simons, relying on the charity of friends and neighbors and whatever I could find in the abandoned gardens. Every waking thought had concerned itself with where my next meal would come from.

Such thoughts had no place in my life anymore. I had to eat to survive, and survive I would. I lifted my plate and allowed Mary to serve me.

As I worked my way through my second helping of grillades and grits, my brother-in-law strode into the dining room. Without a greeting, he moved with a panther's grace to the server and poured himself a cup of coffee. The small china cup looked out of place in his long, lithe fingers. I saw the power in the muscles and bones in the back of his hand, and pictured them shattering a cup with very little effort. I lifted my gaze to meet his.

“I have sent some of my men to salvage what they can from the coach. As soon as we can get all your things cleaned and dried, we will have you on your way back to Saint Simons. There is nothing you can do here.”

I dropped my fork with a clatter. “I beg to differ.”

Mary, who had been in the process of pouring my coffee, began to
shake so badly, the teacup rattled in the saucer. I took them from her with a look I hope passed for understanding. She left the room with small, hurried steps.

He placed his cup back in the saucer with forced control. His gaze darkened as he regarded me. “You, madam, are in no position to argue with me. You were invited by someone who is not here, making you an uninvited guest. I will be more than happy to see you taken safely home.”

I slid my chair back, heedless of the scraping on the wood floor. I fairly shook with emotion as I faced him. “How dare you, sir? My sister is missing and she may be in grave danger. I cannot—nor will not—return to my home before I know that she is safe.” Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “If I have to sleep on the front lawn, I will not leave.” I swallowed thickly, forcing back the anger, and turned to reason. “I have no one else, sir. I have lost everything. Even my home. I will not easily give over my sister, too.”

Something passed over his face—pain? Regret? It softened his features for a moment, allowing me to see inside him, and what I glimpsed did not frighten me. For that brief moment, I recognized something as cold and barren as my own soul, and I connected with it. I made a move to leave the dining room, but his words made me halt.

His voice was almost kind. “Do not go. Please finish your breakfast. You are too thin.” I drew in my breath as he placed his cup and saucer on the sideboard. “You may stay—but you must keep to yourself as much as possible. I do not want you interfering in the search, nor do I want you making the servants nervous with any questions. If you do have questions, you are to bring them directly to me.”

I lowered my head. “Agreed.” I looked back up at the sound of his retreating footsteps. “Who was that child upstairs with Marguerite?”

He stopped without turning around. As if holding his breath, he said, “That is Rebecca, your niece.” He began walking away from me again toward the front door.

“My niece? Elizabeth's child?”

His only answer was the slamming of the door.

F
or the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon, I was left to my own devices. I wandered through the house, noticing the dust on the dark wood of the furniture and the scuff marks on the floors. The black marble on the fireplaces looked pasty, as if the mantels had not been polished in quite some time. I tried to listen for the voice of the child Rebecca or that of servants, but I heard none inside the house.

The windows were covered in a thin coating of dirt, muting the sunlight that tried to eke its way in through the cracks of closed velvet draperies. In the front parlor I had opened them, only to find myself choking on the dust I had stirred up with the movement of fabric.

Despite my love for my grandmother, I had always hated coming to this house as a young girl. The light here was full of shadows, never quite making it inside the dark corners of the large rooms. It made it seem as if the house had no soul, only lurking secrets.

Elizabeth said it was because our great-grandfather had built the house on the highest piece of land he could find this close to the Mississippi River. Legend said the rise in the land was due to an ancient Tunica Indian burial mound. Some said he knew the legend but built the white-columned mansion anyway, piling any bones they found in a heap and burning them. I had been told by my sister that an Indian woman carrying a crying baby was seen many times walking across the grass at the back of the house, toward the pond, then disappearing into thin air. I peered out the dirty window of the library at the murky water of the pond, wondering if my sister had shared the same fate.

Mary called me in for supper, and I ate in complete silence, noticing again the piles of food. I wondered where it would go when I finished with my portion, and if the master of the house would be joining me.
But my meal progressed without interruption, and when I finished, Mary cleared the table.

I wandered out into the foyer, my hands fidgeting against my skirts, frustrated at being idle when so much needed to be done. The front door opened and I turned, surprised to see a man in the doorway.

He was slightly taller than I, with light blond hair and a heavy mustache. His clothes were simple but well tailored, his black boots polished to a high sheen. He clutched a black felt hat to his chest as he slammed the door behind him. When he spotted me, he seemed to sigh with relief, then strode toward me.

“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice more of a breath than words. As he neared, his steps slowed as he regarded me with curiosity. He stopped, examining me closely, his head tilted to the side.

“Elizabeth?” he said again, this time as a question.

His eyes were dark gray with black specks in them. They were kind eyes, and I warmed to him, in desperate need of a friend. Pale lashes blinked as if to clear my image.

“No,” I said. “I am Catherine deClaire Reed—Elizabeth's sister.” I stared at him for a moment, wondering if I had seen him before. “Have we met?”

He took a step back. “No, I do not believe so.” He gave me a deep bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Daniel Lewiston, country doctor, gentleman farmer, former Yankee, and friend and confidant of John McMahon.” A deep dimple appeared on his right cheek as he smiled at me. He took my hand and kissed my wrist, his mustache tickling the skin on the back of my hand.

I felt an unfamiliar smile creep to my lips. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Lewiston. But I am afraid that if you came to see Elizabeth or John, neither of them is here at the moment.”

A shadow seemed to cross his face before disappearing as quickly as it had come. “Then perhaps we should use this opportunity to become better acquainted. Shall we, Mrs. Reed?” He offered his arm.

I paused for a moment, looking closely at his friendly face. Needing someone to talk to, I took his arm. “Yes. Thank you, Dr. Lewiston.”

He led us outside to the front porch, where we settled into wooden rockers and eyed each other politely. Leaning toward me with his
elbows on his knees, he looked up at me, his gray eyes lighter in the bright daylight.

It felt good to be outside the dreariness of the house. A cerulean sky had replaced the dark clouds and rain of the previous night, bringing with it a hint of temporary coolness, not uncommon for late spring in the Delta. I stared past the lane of oaks toward where the great Mississippi River lay, breathing in deeply to catch the brackishness of it. I had hated the smell as a child, a constant reminder of how much I missed my faraway home.

To the east lay the wide fields of sugar cane and the sugar mill. I remembered my father saying it took a very rich cotton planter to be a very poor sugar planter. I wondered at my brother-in-law's success. He had known nothing about planting until he had moved here with Elizabeth to take over the running of the former cotton plantation. My father said he had brought with him the luck of the Irish. Years without flood or frost, and protection against enemy invasion, certainly made John's success appear lucky. But if Elizabeth's disappearance was any indication, it would seem his luck had finally run out.

I turned toward my visitor. “I assume you have heard about my sister.”

He nodded, a dour expression on his face. “I did. I could not come sooner because I was with Mrs. Brookwood, delivering her twins. I am afraid I might not know any more about the situation than you do, however.”

I rocked steadily in my chair. “Mr. McMahon will tell me nothing. All I know is that my sister disappeared from here five days ago and has not been seen or heard from since. It would appear my brother-in-law has sent out search parties, but no one has found any trace of her.”

Dr. Lewiston looked toward the ancient oaks and spoke almost absently. “That would have been Thursday. She came to my office that day.”

I sat up. “Was she ill?”

He did not look at me. “I am really not at liberty to say. Everything between a patient and her doctor should be kept in strictest confidence.” He turned to me with a smile that evaded his eyes. “I am sure she will tell you all you need to know when she returns.”

I placed my hand on the arm of his chair. “Do you really think she is coming back?”

He smiled reassuringly as he patted my hand. “Yes, I am certain of it. And I am sure there will be a good explanation for all of this. You will see.” He sighed heavily. “She has to. It would kill John to lose her. He loves her so much.”

I wondered at the strange tone of his voice. When he did not say any more, I settled back in my chair and diverted the subject. “You said you were a former Yankee. How did you come to be here?”

His mustache bristled as he smiled. “John and I were boyhood friends in Boston. We have known each other since we were still in the nursery. Shortly after his marriage to Elizabeth, I accepted an invitation for a visit down here, and while at Whispering Oaks, I met my wife. Clara and her father were visiting from their cotton plantation in Saint Francisville and were invited to dinner.” His pale eyes looked down at his hand and the band of gold on his third finger. “I suppose it must have been love at first sight, for we were married within three months and I had become a Southern planter.”

He sent me a rueful grin. “To be honest, I am not much of a planter. Clara's father had more than thirty thousand acres in cotton and people to run just about all of it. Most of it survived the war, too, largely due to John's influence. But, as far as I could see, my father-in-law did not really need me. Besides, medicine is my calling, and I continued to practice in my field up until the war. I was conscripted into the Confederate Army and became an army doctor. Which is a good thing, since I could not see myself taking up arms and firing on my own countrymen. I am surprised John still speaks to me.” There was no mirth in his voice.

Dr. Lewiston seemed kind and affable, but his voice was so forlorn, I took pity on him. It had been so long since I had been able to give comfort, and I reached over and placed my hand on top of his.

A dark shadow fell over our hands. My brother-in-law stood towering over us, a cool expression on his face.

I released Dr. Lewiston's hand and he stood to greet his old friend. “John,” he said, extending his hand. “Your lovely sister-in-law and I were just discussing this business with Elizabeth. I am here to offer whatever help I can.”

John took his hand and shook it. “Thank you, Daniel. But I do not think there is anything else anybody can do right now. I have got my
men going all the way to New Orleans and Baton Rouge. I can only wait here for word of her.” He concentrated on pulling the riding gloves off his fingers. “Clara tells me that Elizabeth came to see you last week.”

Dr. Lewiston's eyes widened in surprise. “Well, yes . . . Yes, she did. But you could have asked me, you know, instead of my wife. I would have given you the same answer.”

John appraised his friend with narrowed eyes. “I am sure you would have. But you were with Mrs. Brookwood and I did not want to disturb you.”

“Yes. I was.” The doctor clamped down on his teeth, and I could see his jaw muscles working.

“Was my wife ill, Daniel?”

The doctor looked his friend squarely in the eye. “I am not at liberty to say. Elizabeth can tell you herself when she returns.”

John took a step forward, but the doctor refused to step back. “And if she does not come back?”

The doctor squared his shoulders. “Then we will discuss it. But she will return. I know it.”

John's eyes clouded as he stared out across his sugar fields. “I wish I were as confident as you, Daniel. But I have my doubts.”

Despite the heat of the day, I shivered. I stood, ready to confront him with his reasons for doubting Elizabeth's return. I paused in midbreath as the front door swung open with a crash and a young girl, about four or five years of age and clutching a doll that was nearly as big as she was, ran out onto the porch, neatly colliding with Dr. Lewiston.

Unbound blond hair, reaching almost to the child's waist, hung limp and wet with sweat, the girl's cheeks reddened with exertion. Marguerite followed her closely out the door but pulled up abruptly when she saw the three adults.

“My apologies, Mr. McMahon. I am trying to get Miss Rebecca to learn her letters, but she keeps running away from me.”

The girl clung to the doctor's knees, refusing to relinquish her grasp. Dr. Lewiston stroked her hair and murmured comforting words while keeping a wary eye on his friend.

I watched as John's face softened, resembling the look I remembered him saving for Elizabeth when they had first met. He knelt,
bringing his tall frame down to a more approachable level for a child, and held out his arms. Rebecca lifted her face, then ran with her doll to John with outstretched hands.

His transformation from a brooding ogre was completed as he kissed the bright blond head and lifted her into his arms. She put her head down on his shoulder and stuck a thumb in her mouth.

“Perhaps, Marguerite, you should attempt to make the lessons more stimulating for a child. For heaven's sakes, she is running away from you, not her lessons. Play with her. Make her laugh. God knows there is not enough of it around here.”

Marguerite's mouth tightened. “You are undermining my authority, Mr. McMahon. I have raised children before, and I know what is best.” She stepped forward as if to take the child, but John held tight.

“Please do not touch her—can you not see she is upset? It is time for her nap. I will take her upstairs.”

I raised my hand to stop him. “Please wait. I would like to see her.” I walked toward the child and brushed the blond hair away from her face. Her coloring was so different from Elizabeth's, but the eyes, almond-shaped and a vibrant blue, were identical. I touched the back of my hand to her cheek, then jerked it away. They were also Jamie's eyes. If her hair and brows were darker, it could have been my child.

She stopped sucking on her thumb, those eyes regarding me closely. And then she began to scream.

I stepped back, astonished at her reaction, wondering if she had sensed any of my sadness and disappointment that she was not the child I wished her to be.

John pulled Rebecca away from my reach, then entered the house without a glance back. I sat down in my chair, trying to catch my breath.

Dr. Lewiston spoke softly to me. “Do not worry, Mrs. Reed. Rebecca is a high-strung child and is overtired at the moment. I am quite sure it had nothing to do with you.”

I nodded, still unable to speak, and wondered if my own animosity toward the child was a random event or a personal reaction to a child who resembled my son so much that I could feel nothing but resentment toward her.

I rocked in silence as Dr. Lewiston approached Marguerite. “It is
good to see you again, Marguerite. Clara still misses you and sends you her best.”

Marguerite gave him a tight smile. “Thank you, sir. She knows I feel the same. But we do manage to see each other often enough, I suppose.”