Spinning the Moon (48 page)

I remembered the large space from childhood, exposed beams and stacks of old trunks and furniture pushed against the perimeter walls. It was hot and stifling, a breeze stealing its way through a broken window the only relief. A movement sounded overhead in the rafters, something different and not at all the sound of a young girl's footsteps. “Rebecca?” I said, my voice quiet and not too steady. Something fluttered above by the roof, and I jerked my light to see. Straining my eyes, I could see only the blackness.

A huge crash from behind spun me on my heels. I gasped, spotting Rebecca standing not two feet away holding the ubiquitous Samantha, a heavy shape at her feet. “What are you doing?” My voice was lost in my throat as I regarded her.

Without a word, she dashed away in the direction in which I had come and disappeared down the dark and silent steps.

With my heart knocking loudly in my chest, I bent down to discover what had been knocked over. My hand touched something smooth and solid.
Wood,
I thought. I set the lamp down to get a better look.

It appeared to be a box-shaped object and it was lying on its side, the apparent victim of a fall from a nearby low chest. Using two hands, I picked it up and turned it over, ecstatic at my discovery. It was a letterbox, my sister's initials carved on a brass plate on the top, a matching brass keyhole winking at me in the dim lamplight.

The key!
My hand fell to the pocket of my wrapper. The key had been left in the skirt of the riding habit. Had Marguerite taken it to be laundered? Eager to discover if the key and this box belonged together, I lifted it and tucked it under my arm.

I felt a brush of air near my cheek and then a light form touched the top of my head and disappeared into the blackness of the ceiling. I screamed, dropping the box. The sound made the attic erupt into motion as a dozen fluttering objects propelled themselves from the rafters
and dove at me, whipping at my hair and touching my clothing. I abandoned the lamp and the box and crawled toward the steps, the sound of small bodies whipping through the air surrounding me. I swallowed the bile in my throat and concentrated on making it the short distance to the stairwell.

I stumbled down the wooden steps, my knees and hips taking the brunt of my fall. Struggling to stand, I fumbled for the doorknob in the pitch-darkness, feeling the relief flood through me when my hand grabbed the cool brass. I turned it and pushed, but the door held fast. I tried again with no success. The door was locked.

The panic spread through my veins like a raging fire as I pounded on the door with the flats of my hands. “Let me out!” I shouted, the air around me roiling with unseen tormentors. High-pitched squealing bounced against my eardrums, reverberating in my head.

The door swung open and I fell through it and into the arms of my sister's husband. He slammed the door behind me, creating an immediate silence. I clung to him with both hands, my body shaking, but my will still strong enough not to give way to tears. No man would ever see my tears again.

His arms fell around me, pulling me against him in the hushed hallway, pressing my head against his chest. He smelled of his own unique scent of soap, cigar, Scotch, and something else. Something raw and powerful and as enticing to me as blood to a mosquito.

His fingers threaded their way through my unbound hair and I felt him bury his face in it, breathing in deeply. I needed to move away, to step back and stop. But, God help me, I could not.

“Are you all right?” His voice vibrated in his chest.

I nodded, not daring to look up.

“Why were you in there?”

I swallowed. “I was following Rebecca, but she ran away. I was attacked by bats, and when I tried to escape, the door was locked.”

He did not say anything. Finally his fingers touched the edge of my jaw and brought my mouth to within inches of his. His breath teased my skin, making me tremble anew.
I should go back to my room. Now.
I jerked back, my hand on my lips. He let me go but remained where he
stood, his eyes flickering with the light from the wall sconce. I backed away, not able to break his gaze.

“Papa!” Rebecca ran down the hall and past me, into her father's arms.

As he lifted the child, I backed away, finally turning on my heels and disappearing into my room.

I sat on the edge of my bed in the dark, watching the sultry sway of the curtains move in the damp breeze. It was only much later, as I lay half-awake, that I wondered why John had been close enough to the attic door to rescue me so quickly.

W
hen I awoke the following morning, it was with the vague feeling that I had forgotten something. The mood persisted as I bathed and dressed in one of my black dresses.

Again, I ate breakfast alone in my room, thankful I did not have to face John. What would I say? I should have been appalled by his behavior and by my own response to it. I had every reason to be, yet I could not. He stirred something long dormant in me, something I had been quite content to leave slumbering within until the end of my days. And he was my sister's husband.

The cane field was alive with people, and I spotted John from a distance, his towering height making him easily visible. Heat teased at my cheeks and I turned away. Marguerite had told me that the harvesting and processing of the cane in the mill would occupy John for a good many weeks, keeping him away from the house. I prayed fervently that Elizabeth would return before then, thus releasing me to go back to Saint Simons.

Idleness did not come easy to me after my years of running a house and plantation and then finding myself responsible for my mere survival. I needed to do something to fill my time. In search of Marguerite, I walked through the back door to find the kitchen at the rear of the house.

I recognized Delphine leaning over to take biscuits out of the bread oven. She dropped the tin on a sturdy wood table when she spotted me. A woman not much older than me and with a clear resemblance to Delphine turned from a mixing bowl to see what was making the young girl's eyes go round.

“Good morning.” I watched the woman wipe her doughy hands on
an apron, her eyes as wide as Delphine's. “I am Mrs. Reed, Mrs. McMahon's sister.” Inexplicably, she made the sign of the cross.

I thought it odd, but held on to my composure. “I was looking for Marguerite, but I suppose you should be able to help me.” I looked around at my audience, suddenly nervous. “In my sister's absence, I was hoping to assist with your mistress's duties. The food has been wonderful since I have been here, but I was thinking I could help with the menu planning. I have also noticed that the housecleaning is not what one might expect and would like to speak with the housekeeper, if I could.”

The older woman finally stepped forward, standing between Delphine and me. Her eyes were wary as she spoke. “I be Rose. Delphine's my chile.” She looked back at the girl as if to make sure she was still there. “There ain't no more housekeeper. No housemaids neither, except for Mary. Miss Elizabeth done let them all go. Well, all thems that don' leave themselves.”

“I see,” I said, feeling uncommonly hot even in the heat of the kitchen. Nothing was making sense. My sister hated housework. The Elizabeth I had known could not have cared less about housemaids, just as long as her house was clean. I hardly recognized this person I called my sister anymore.

“Well, then. You had best show me where the beeswax is. The floors are in dire need of attention.”

The door to the kitchen opened and Marguerite entered. “Miss Clara is here—Dr. Lewiston's wife. She says she has come with news of Elizabeth.”

Before I could turn, I caught Rose doing another sign of the cross. Thanking Marguerite and asking her to bring us tea, I left the kitchen to meet Mrs. Lewiston.

I almost overlooked the small woman sitting on the settee in the parlor. She wore beige, with no other color to accent the drabness. It matched her skin tone and the back of the settee so well that she blended into the scenery like one monochromatic swath of an artist's brush.

She smiled timidly when I entered, her mouth opening only slightly, as if from years of practice at hiding slightly protruding front teeth. I
had the oddest urge to ask Marguerite if she had announced the proper visitor, for this woman did not match the doctor's vibrant personality in the slightest. He had told me it had been love at first sight, and I examined her closely to see the same spark he had seen.

Rising, she extended a small, gloved hand to me. At full height she only came to my shoulder, and her voice was so quiet I had to bend my head to hear her.

“I am Clara Lewiston. But you may call me Clara.” She studied my face intently. “You look so much like Elizabeth I would have known you anywhere.”

I smiled, relieved to have found somebody who did not mistake me for my sister. “Yes, several people have mentioned that.” I took her hand. “I have already met your charming husband. I am Catherine deClaire Reed, but please call me Catherine.”

Clara nodded. “I shall call you Catherine, then. Daniel has told me so much about you.” Her expressionless face left me with no clue as to the content of such conversations.

Marguerite entered with the tea service and set it down on the small table at my side. As I began to pour, I felt Clara's steady gaze on me.

I handed her a cup and noticed her fingers shook as she took it.

She kept her eyes down as she spoke to me. “I actually have a twofold purpose for my visit. I wanted to meet you, and I also have news for John of Elizabeth. My father has just come from Baton Rouge and is quite certain he saw her there at a party at the governor's mansion.” She took a sip from her cup, a rather unattractive position for one with protruding teeth. “I knew that John would be eager for any word.”

I sat up quickly, the hot tea sloshing onto my hand. “He saw Elizabeth—he is quite sure?”

She sent me a timid smile. “Yes, he is quite sure.” She set her cup down on the table. “Where is John? I would like to tell him in person.”

The back of my neck tingled even before I heard his voice. “Hello, Clara. I saw you arrive.”

He stood just inside the room, dressed in a rumpled white linen shirt and fawn-colored pants tucked inside black knee-high boots. His face appeared anxious as he patently ignored me, turning his complete attention toward Clara.

I found I could not look in his direction, feeling the heat in my face. Instead I focused on Clara. She did not smile at him, and she held her lips over her teeth primly. “As I was just telling your sister-in-law, my father is quite sure he saw your wife at a ball at the governor's mansion in Baton Rouge.” She patted her lips delicately with a napkin. As she lowered her pale lashes, I noticed how her hand shook and I wondered if she was always as nervous as a rabbit.

She looked almost apologetic as she spoke with her quiet voice, her gaze never quite making it to John's face. “She appeared to be in the company of a young man whom my father could not name.”

The shock of her words held back my breath. I forced myself to look at John. His skin, bronzed by the sun, had turned a murderous shade of red, his fists clenched at his side. “Is that so?” The words came out practiced and precise. “Did your father approach her?”

Clara blinked, then swallowed, her gaze focused on a chair. “No. You know my father is . . . Well, he has not been well. The shock of seeing her weakened him, and he walked outside to the gardens for a breath of fresh air. By the time he returned, she had vanished.”

Thin pale lines showed in the skin around his mouth. “And he is quite positive it was Elizabeth?”

Her small hands twisted in her lap. “As sure as he can be. Again, he is easily confused—he is of that age—but he seemed quite sure.”

“I see.” He bowed stiffly. “Then I must go see about leaving for Baton Rouge. I have things to take care of first, but I hope to be off tomorrow morning. Please thank your father, Clara.” His gaze rested on me for a moment, and I colored again. I lowered my eyes, staring at the blue veins crisscrossing the white skin at my wrist. “Ladies,” he said in farewell, then left the room.

Clara shifted in her seat. “My husband told me how much you resembled Elizabeth. He was right.” Her light brown eyes met mine. “She was quite beautiful.”

“Yes. She is.” I did not continue, not wanting to share my thoughts and doubts with a near stranger.

She compressed her lips and appeared to be deep in thought. “I wonder . . . I wonder why she left. I cannot understand why she would leave her husband.”

“Or her daughter,” I added almost absently.

She blinked rapidly. “Oh yes. Rebecca.”

I glanced at her sharply. There had been something about the way she had said Rebecca's name.

Clara continued, her fingers clutching the teacup tightly. “She is an odd child. Difficult enough to raise a child like that, and now . . . this.”

“What do you mean, a child like that?”

She smoothed her hands on her skirts and tilted her head. “I know she is a sweet child, but I just recall everything that Elizabeth told me. Rebecca is a bit high-strung, I think. Her mother even called her a clingy, needy child.”

I bristled. “Most children her age are. She will undoubtedly grow out of it. All she needs is a mother's love.”

Clara shook her head and tucked her chin to her chest, making it even more difficult to hear her. “Elizabeth did not really understand children. She did not spend a lot of time with the little girl, I am afraid.”

“How can that be? I understand that they used to go for frequent rides together—just the two of them in Elizabeth's little phaeton.”

My question seemed to disturb her, the pallor of her skin lightening one degree. “Well, then. Perhaps I am mistaken.”

“Do you have children, Clara?”

Her face grew pinched as she looked down at her fingers busily plucking at the sturdy fabric of her dress. “No. The good Lord has not seen fit to bless us with children.”

I softened. “I am sorry. Perhaps you will. You are still quite young.”

She did not answer but looked away, her gaze resting on a small daguerreotype of Rebecca sitting on the end table. Picking it up, she rubbed a finger over the glass, brushing off dust.

I cleared my throat. “Why do you think Elizabeth left? Do you know if she was unhappy?”

She placed the small frame back on the table. “We were quite close, you know, and the only thing she ever told me was . . .” Looking up, her gaze met mine, her face stricken. “But perhaps I should not share confidences.”

My interest had been raised. I placed my hand on her arm. “If you
have any information concerning my sister's state of mind before her disappearance, I think it should be shared. Please. Tell me. What did she say?”

Grabbing hold of both my hands, her fingers cold, her lusterless eyes sought mine. She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “She was afraid of her husband.”

I raised my eyebrows, hoping to encourage her to say more.

Her gaze flickered toward the doorway where John had stood, then back at me. “She was afraid he might . . . he might hurt her somehow.”

I gripped her hands tightly. “What did she mean? That he might strike her? Had he struck her before?”

Shaking her head, she dropped my hands. “She did not say.” She leaned toward me, her voice earnest. “But I do know he has a fiery temper. They say he shot a man in Boston in cold blood. His family is rather powerful, and they claimed it was self-defense. He never was charged. But I cannot help but wonder what else a man capable of murder could do. . . .” Her voice trailed off, the silence full of implications.

“Why do you think John would want to hurt Elizabeth?”

She pursed her lips as if contemplating the right words. Finally, she said, “I am not privy to what might have transpired between them as husband and wife. But servants talk.” She kept her voice hushed in a conspiratorial manner. “They said they had awful arguments—things being thrown and mirrors broken. Even smashed furniture. Lots of shouting and screaming. Foul language, too. They are not exactly sure what all the fighting was about. They never stayed close enough to find out.” She sat back in her seat, closing her eyes, her face drawn. “I hope I have not offended you with this gossip.” She opened her eyes again. “But I suppose you should know.”

“Thank you for telling me.” It was hard to force the words out. I felt as if I had suffered a blow to my chest. I could hardly breathe. I recalled how John had courted Elizabeth, the quiet looks, the soft words, the restrained touches. I could not help but wonder if that time had been colored by the eyes of a fourteen-year-old. Perhaps I had seen only what I wanted to see. One striking memory floated back to me: the memory of Elizabeth packing her trousseau before her wedding. Even at the time, I
had thought it odd that she made no mention of her soon-to-be-husband. Her biggest excitement was not that she would be getting married, but that she would be leaving Saint Simons. To see the world and have real adventures, she had said.

I poured another cup of tea for the two of us, my thoughts in turmoil. Sitting back to sip the fragrant brew, I studied the room around me with its dark woods and heavy fabrics. I somehow doubted that Elizabeth had found the adventure she craved in our grandmother's plantation in the backwoods of Louisiana.

My guest placed her cup in its saucer with a small clatter. “I hope I have not upset you. It is my sincerest wish that perhaps something I have said to you today might assist you in locating your sister. We all miss her, you know.”