Spinning the Moon (46 page)

I stood. “I assure you, sir, my sister and I were very close. There were never any secrets between us. At least not until she married.”

He tilted his head as he regarded me. “You are not the young woman I remember from seven years ago. The first time I saw you, you were dancing barefoot along the beach, impervious to the broken shells. I gather that it has been some time since you have felt carefree enough to do such a thing.”

I flushed, embarrassed that he should recall such an intimate detail about me. “I suppose, Mr. McMahon, that a war can change people. I do not believe that girl exists anymore.”

I moved to the doorway, and he followed me. Turning to say good night, I found him standing very close. Something akin to panic flooded through me and for a moment I could not find words. He spoke first.

“If Elizabeth never returns, would it be your desire to take Rebecca to her mother's family?” Penetrating eyes stared down at me.

“No.” My vehemence showed in the one syllable. I recalled the small cemetery where the rest of my family lay, and the scorched and overgrown land that had once held so much bounty. “There is nothing left of our family on Saint Simons. And I do not think I could care for another child.”

His eyes never left my face. “Good. Because I would never let her go.”

“The child is yours, sir. I would not consider taking her from you.” I looked for an answer to my unasked question in those eyes. “Elizabeth will return. She must.”

I waited for a response, but he remained silent. My heart thudded in my ears. Something about this man pushed at my blood, making it rush through my veins in a hurried torrent. I stepped back. “I am tired and will retire now to my room. Good night, Mr. McMahon.”

I reached the bottom of the stairs before he spoke. “If you will be staying here for an extended period of time, you might call me John.”

My hand flew to my neck, where I felt the heat under my palm. I forced my voice to stay calm as I stared at my hand on the balustrade. “If you wish. And you may call me Catherine.”

I took two steps.

“Good night, Catherine.”

I paused, then turned around. “Good night, John.”

The shadows hid his face, but I was quite sure I saw a glimmer of white. I hurriedly climbed the stairs, feeling his gaze upon my back until I disappeared from view.

*   *   *

My heart pounded as I entered my room. I had to lean against the door to catch my breath and recover from the heat that had suddenly pervaded my body. The bedside lamp had been lit and it threw a circle of light over my bed, illuminating black spots on the coverlet.

Thinking they were insects but wondering at their stillness, I approached cautiously. When I got close enough, I realized they were leaves. Gingerly, I scooped a few into my hand.

They were thin, shiny dark green leaves, about six inches long. I sniffed them, hoping for a clue, but I could smell only the night air.

The hair at the back of my neck stood up and I turned to the closed door, thinking I heard a footfall in the hallway. I flung open the door but saw no one. Immediately, I ran for the bell and pulled it urgently.

I waited for what seemed an eternity, but was most likely only about five minutes, until Marguerite appeared, her eyes heavy with sleep and wearing a cotton wrapper. “Yes, madam?”

I opened my palm to show her the crushed leaves. “I found these on the bed. Do you know what they are or how they got there?”

Green eyes widened and I saw fear in them as she gazed at me. “Those are oleander leaves. They can kill you if you eat them.”

My hand shook a little. “How did they come to be on my bed?”

She shook her head. “I do not know. Maybe some of the other servants are playing a trick on you.”

“Really,” I said, sounding doubtful. “What other servants? I have yet to see any evidence of their existence.”

Marguerite crossed her arms over her chest. “They are afraid of you. Those that did not run off because of your sister do not like to show their faces too much.”

“What do you mean? Why would they be afraid of Elizabeth?”

Dark lashes lowered, hiding her eyes. “There are some who take their unhappiness out on other people.”

“Why do you think Elizabeth was so unhappy? What would make her so miserable?”

She shook her head, then fixed her cool green gaze on me. “People build their own prisons and then do not know how to find a way out. It made her angry—and she would take that out on whoever was about.”

I swallowed, not quite believing what she said of Elizabeth was true. “But why should they fear me?”

Her eyes seemed to flicker. “You look so much like her, they think you are one and the same. They think a voodoo priest has you in a spell and you have a nice spirit in you now, but the evil spirit will come back.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That is nonsense.” She continued to stare at me as if I were the one speaking irrationally. “You may go now. I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep. Good night.”

“Good night,” she muttered, before leaving and closing the door quietly behind her.

I stared at the closed door for a long while. Then, opening my hand, I let the leaves fall slowly to the floor.

I
slept fitfully, waking throughout the night, sure I had heard a footfall nearby. Whispering voices moved from my dreams to my waking, causing me to sit up in bed, my ears straining to hear what was being said. When I opened my door, I found more oleander leaves sprinkled on the threshold of my bedroom. Somewhere in the depths of the house, a door closed, and I shivered in the warm air.

After twisting the key in the lock, I went back to my bed and lay down, not again closing my eyes until the white light of dawn peered through the windows.

I was awakened midmorning by Marguerite knocking on my door. I opened it and she bustled into my room with an armful of clothes. Following her was a young black girl, around fifteen or sixteen years of age, carrying a steaming breakfast tray. I tried smiling at the girl, but she kept her eyes averted from me the entire time she was in my room.

The girl set the tray on the bedside table as Marguerite spoke. “They are starting to harvest the sugarcane today, so you best stay out of Mr. McMahon's way. You will be getting most of your meals in your room until the harvest is over.” I nodded, my heart sinking slightly. I was already terribly lonely, and the thought of not seeing another adult for days on end, even if the adult were morose and not extremely pleased with my presence, was stifling.

Staring at the large bundle in Marguerite's arms, I protested. “I am in mourning, Marguerite. I really cannot wear those clothes. But thank you.” I looked at the bundle closely. “Did you notice any of Elizabeth's things missing? Things she might have packed if she were going on a trip?”

She continued folding and placing the clothes in the large rosewood armoire—the same armoire I remembered being locked inside as a child
by Elizabeth in a game of find the button. She was quiet for a moment, smoothing down fabric and ruffles. Then she said, “No, ma'am. Not that I recall. And I would have noticed. Seems like she just ran off without a second thought.”

I swung my legs over to sit on the edge of the bed. “Do you really think she ran off? What would have made her do something like that? She knew I was coming.”

She regarded me coolly for a moment. Changing the subject, she said, “Mr. McMahon told me to bring these in for you. He also told me to burn your old things.”

She glanced at me from the corner of her eye as I sat up straight with indignation. “They are the only clothes I own, and you will not burn them.”

She shook her head. “Mr. McMahon will not be very happy to find his orders are not being carried out. You best just let me have them.”

I slid out of the high bed, my feet slapping the wood floor. “I will not.”

Marguerite turned toward me, her hands on her hips. “He has ordered new dresses for you.” Her green eyes narrowed. “I was not supposed to tell you that, so keep it to yourself. If I were you, I would just accept it and leave it at that. Mr. McMahon does not like to draw attention to himself.”

Who did the man think he was, orchestrating something as personal as my own wardrobe? He could order dresses without my knowledge as much as it contented him. But I would never wear any of them.

Marguerite picked up what looked to be a black serge skirt. I raised my hand. “Wait. What is that?”

She held it up for me to see. “Miss Elizabeth's riding habit.”

“May I see it?”

I held the soft fabric in my hands, noting the exquisite workmanship. Small grosgrain-covered buttons ran up the front, and a large pocket decorated the left side of the skirt. The collar and cuffs were of fine cream linen. A blue grosgrain cravat completed the ensemble. It was simply beautiful and carried the mark of my very elegant older sister. I slid my fingers over the fabric. It had been many years since I had been privy to such a beautiful thing. Every stitch of clothing I
owned had been taken by the soldiers before they burned my home, leaving me with only what I had on my back. I had been given two more dresses by kind neighbors, who helped me dye them black when it became necessary for me to wear the mantle of mourning.

“I will wear this,” I said, holding it up to me. “I would like to go riding this morning.”

She nodded and helped me dress.

I felt almost foolish wearing such high style. It had been much more my sister's desire to be fashionable than mine. She had waited with anticipation for the day she could put up her hair, lower her skirt lengths, and wear a corset. I had dreaded it, knowing how the auspices of womanhood would restrict me in ways not just physical.

As Marguerite stood behind me, putting the final pins into my chignon, our gazes met in the mirror. “I found more oleander leaves outside my door last night. Do you know how they got there or what they might mean?”

I studied her reaction closely, looking for some clue. There was something about this woman that made it clear she did not like me. Whether it was because of my resemblance to Elizabeth, I could not say.

She studied my hair. “I do not know who would do such a thing, Miss Catherine. It could be bad gris-gris. Or maybe somebody just wants to warn you.”

I knew what gris-gris was, having spent time in my girlhood at my grandmother's plantation. There had been a young slave, Rowena, who had been about my age and whose mother secretly practiced voodoo. I had been fascinated, if not wholly convinced, with her potions and charms, but I knew there were more than a few who believed one could be a fixer of a curse and, thus, be crossed by the same.

Marguerite's hands rested on my shoulders near my neck as our gazes clashed again in the mirror. “Maybe somebody's just trying to warn you. Maybe they think that whatever happened to your sister could happen to you if you stay here much longer.” She shrugged. “It is not my business to know.” She stuck a hairpin firmly into my hair, pricking me in the back of my skull and filling me with a sense of foreboding.

My toilette completed, I went outdoors. The thick odor of the river
pervaded my first breath of morning air as I stepped outside. My nose wrinkled, and I wondered if I would ever get used to it. As I walked toward the stables, I looked out toward the sugar mill and the fields, the tall cane swaying from unseen hands. On the outskirts of the field I saw dark men, their torsos shirtless in the heat of the morning, carrying long wooden-handled blades with hooks on the end. They were slicing at the cane near the ground where it grew, leaving patches of bristled cane that resembled the fur on a frightened cat.

I recognized Mr. O'Rourke inside the stable, spreading fresh hay. He looked startled to see me, then visibly relaxed when I spoke.

“Hello, Mr. O'Rourke. I see you have recovered very nicely from our little mishap.” I forced a smile on my lips, but it was not returned. “I hope you will accept my apology for getting us into that mess. You were right. We should have stopped. But I knew my sister was in trouble. . . .” My voice trailed off, my fingers fiddling with my riding gloves.

“Can I help you with something?” He closed his mouth, stingy with his words.

A horse whinnied in a back stall. I doubted my host would easily accept my asking the servants about Elizabeth, but I saw no other recourse for solving the mystery of my sister's disappearance. My brother-in-law certainly had no intention of enlightening me further. “I have been meaning to ask you a question. When my sister sent you to me, did she say anything about where she might be going?”

He glanced at me quickly, his eyes resentful, before going back to his job of spreading hay. “No. She gave me my instructions and indicated that I needed to follow them as soon as possible.” He paused for a moment, his lips pressed tightly. “I believed that Mr. McMahon knew of her plans, which is why I did not question them.” Looking at me with narrowed eyes, he said, “I do as I am told and nothing more.”

I nodded, uncomfortable with the news of my sister's deception. I recalled Marguerite's words regarding the servants who thought I was Elizabeth but with a temporary gentle spirit inside. I wondered if Mr. O'Rourke was of the same school of thought. I swallowed, embarrassed, then changed the subject. “I would like to go for a ride. Does my sister have a mount?”

He straightened, dropping a handful of straw. “Yes, she did. But she
didn't like to ride her. Preferred to take Miss Rebecca out in the buggy instead. Never wanted a chaperone, she said. Was content with just her daughter.”

“Is her horse still here?”

The first smile erupted on Mr. O'Rourke's face. “Oh, she is a fine filly. I ride her myself just to give her exercise. The mister bought it for his wife, but I do not think she has ridden her but once or twice.”

“What is her name?”

I was amazed to see a flush appear on his broad cheekbones. He looked at his feet and kicked at the newly strewn hay. “Mrs. McMahon named her Jezebel.”

“I see,” I said, understanding Mr. O'Rourke's discomfiture. “May I ride her, then?”

“Yes. Just give me a few moments to get her saddled for you.”

“Thank you.” I moved my hand to my skirt, intent on brushing away a stray strand of straw. When my fingers touched the fabric, I felt something hard and unyielding within.

I thrust my hand into the pocket and pulled out a small brass key. I held it up, examining it closely. The key was too small to be a door key, yet big enough to serve another purpose. Perhaps it was for a desk or letterbox? I slipped the key back into the pocket, intent on pursuing it later.

Jezebel was a bay with smooth chestnut hair and a black mane. A calm horse, she gently nuzzled my neck as I stood near her and rubbed her nose.

“She is delightful,” I said, glad to have finally made a friend at Whispering Oaks. I wondered why my sister had not ridden her. Elizabeth had been a fine rider at home on Saint Simons. But even then she had preferred riding in the phaeton. She claimed she could spread her dress prettily and avoid the dust that way. I had preferred the exercise of galloping on the beach and narrow lanes of the island, racing the ocean-born breeze and feeling the wind pull at the pins in my hair.

Mr. O'Rourke helped me mount. “I will return in a moment to escort you. Mr. McMahon would not want you riding unchaperoned. But I can only be gone for half an hour. I am needed in the field to help bind the cane and cart it over to the mill.”

“Really, Mr. O'Rourke. That is not necessary—and I hate to cause you any trouble. I promise I will not go far and I will rub Jezebel down myself when I return.”

He cupped his hand over his eyes to shield them from the piercing morning sun. I felt drips of perspiration slip down between my shoulder blades as I sat still in the saddle. Finally, he spoke.

“If you promise not to go too far, I do not suppose Mr. McMahon would mind. But stay close, you hear? Go toward the river—you will find bridle paths there. Keep out of the swamp on the other side of the property. It is not safe even for those of us who know it well.”

I remembered well the area he spoke of. It had been one of my favorite places until Elizabeth had told me it was haunted by the ghost of the Indian lady and her baby. The horse shifted, and I held tightly to the reins. It had been Elizabeth's favorite place, too, and I wondered if it would hold any clues to her disappearance. I coughed, the cloying smell of hay, horse, and humid air pressing in on me.

Nodding, I pulled Jezebel away. I adjusted the small hat on my head, waved goodbye to Mr. O'Rourke, and headed toward the river.

My own horse on Saint Simons had been a gelding named Persimmon, and our favorite pastime had been riding along the beach at low tide, the spray of water kicked up by his heels shimmering in the island sun. But he, as so much in my life, had been taken from me. Like most of the livestock on our plantation, he had been confiscated as enemy contraband by the Yankees. I missed Persimmon more than I cared to admit. But there was so much to be missed, I dared not think of any of it at all. Otherwise, I would stop in my tracks and suffocate from the thoughts, just as if a heavy blanket had been wrapped around my face.

Jezebel cantered down the dirt lane between the dropping oaks. At the end of the drive, I pulled up and looked back, making sure we were no longer in view of Mr. O'Rourke. Slowly, I turned her to the right, running parallel to the river, and toward what Mr. O'Rourke had referred to as the swamp. It was really nothing more than a bog, with ornamental gardens that had been planted by my grandmother, complete with a grotto and whimsical brick bridges. It had been a magical place for me at first, before Elizabeth had told me about the ghost and I found myself looking for an apparition behind each tree.

I skirted the pond in the back of the property, then headed toward the cover of trees surrounding the bog before anyone in the tall cane fields could spot me.

Nothing looked familiar as I ducked under the shade of the trees. Things were hushed in there, as if I had entered another world. The horse whinnied, stepping back, but I urged her on. The barely discernible path was strewn with sticks and rocks, making it hard to stay on solid ground. Choked reeds of swamp grass hovered in their shifting garden, the alluvial sand moist and sucking. We edged forward until we reached what was left of Grandmother's clearing, and my heart sank with sadness. Nothing here resembled the magical world of my girlhood. It appeared as if my last refuge from my old life was gone.