Spinning the Moon (50 page)

We walked in silence down the avenue of oaks, a light breeze teasing the tops of the trees, making the leaves whisper like a hushed conversation. I waited for Clara to speak, but she seemed content to walk by my side, avoiding mud puddles and ignoring the heat that swallowed us as completely as a wave from the ocean.

“Clara, please tell me. What happened to all of the servants?”

She clucked her tongue, reminding me of an old woman I had known on Saint Simons. She had no teeth and had been wont to snap her tongue against her empty gums at the most inappropriate times. “I hope you do not think I am gossiping, but as Elizabeth's sister, I suppose you should know.” She squeezed my arm in a reassuring manner, and I nodded for her to continue. “It all started innocently enough.” She looked down at our feet, as if wondering if this would be called gossip. “It began at the Blackmores' annual masquerade ball. I suggested she rethink her costume, but I am sure you know how stubborn she could be. Elizabeth dressed up as that Indian princess who is supposed to haunt the pond in the back of your property. She even carried a doll to portray the poor dead baby. Her gown was absolutely shocking—it did not appear as if she wore stays or any petticoats at all. Just a doeskin sheath and her dark hair in plaits with feathers.”

She stopped walking for a moment and looked at me, her eyes blinking in the bright light. “She was very beautiful, and the men could not take their eyes off of her. I daresay most of the female population of the county was scandalized. But the servants thought she really was the ghost, and fled the house that night after seeing her.”

We paused again, tilting our heads back to gain access to the faint
river breeze that moved among the oaks and down the lane. “Of course, that was not the only problem dear Elizabeth had with servants.”

She closed her mouth, as if she were done speaking. I cleared my throat. “What other problems did she have?”

Watery eyes looked into mine as a thin line of perspiration beaded her upper lip. “Well, some of them felt the need to approach her husband with problems they had with her. Elizabeth believed that they should do whatever she asked them at the drop of a hat, regardless of whatever other job they were expected to do.” She sniffed. “If they complained to John, Elizabeth made their lives so miserable that they would soon be compelled to leave.”

I stopped, tilting my head, straining to identify the odd sound coming to us on the breeze. “Elizabeth and I were not raised that way, Clara. I do not know what could have made her change so. But I love her, regardless of what she may have done, and I will welcome her back. And Rebecca needs her mother.”

I watched Clara as she pursed her lips and then turned her head, hearing the same sound I was. Her eyebrows knitted together, forming parentheses of wrinkles on the bridge of her nose.

“Do you know what that is?” I closed my eyes, concentrating on the faint musical chiming.

She dropped her hand from my arm and began walking briskly to the end of the lane. I followed her, noticing how the sound grew louder. She stopped under an oak and looked up under the veil of Spanish moss. I came and stood next to her and raised my eyes to the tree.

Five empty bottles, in an assortment of colors, hung by thin twine ropes from a tall branch. The breeze, in its effort to dance through the oaks, would whistle into the bottles before escaping again, creating an odd melody. I found them enchanting and turned to my companion to tell her so, but stopped.

Clara's face had stiffened as she stared at the wind chimes with disapproval. “I would have your man Mr. O'Rourke take this down immediately. It is pagan and should not be allowed on your property.”

I looked up again at the bottles, trying to find anything ominous about them. “Do not be silly, Clara. It is just a wind chime.”

Her eyes widened to form perfect little circles. “Oh no. They are used to ward off so-called evil spirits.” She nodded her head knowingly. “Marguerite told me all about those African beliefs when I was growing up. It is dangerous and sacrilegious and is not allowed on my property. I doubt John knows about it.” She placed a trembling hand on my arm. “You do not suppose . . .”

She stopped talking, then looked directly into my eyes but did not speak.

Finally, I spoke, my voice strained. “You do not suppose this has anything to do with Elizabeth's disappearance, do you?”

She glanced away as I looked furtively back at the bottles as they began to moan again in the wind.

She shook her head quickly, causing the thin ringlets on the sides of her head to bounce. A forced smile crept up her face. “No, of course not. I am sure everything is all right and this does not mean anything. Elizabeth will come home. You will see.”

The sky darkened suddenly, carrying with it a humid breeze, thick with the scent of rain. The bottles clanked against one another with reckless abandon, the sound filling me with apprehension.

A heavy drop of rain slid against my cheek. Turning around, I grabbed Clara's arm and began to lead her quickly back toward the house, the eerie sound of the lost wind in the bottles diligently following us. As the tall columns of the house came into sight, I turned to Clara to ask her to clarify what sorts of evil spirits at Whispering Oaks might need warding off. I opened my mouth to speak, only to be silenced by an ear-piercing scream from somewhere behind the house.

I lifted my skirts, not caring what kind of undergarments I might be displaying, and ran as fast as I could around the house. I paused near the kitchen and saw Rose and Delphine coming out the kitchen door, their eyes wide with fright.

“Where is Rebecca?” I shouted. My stays pressed tightly into my chest, making it difficult to catch my breath.

They both looked past me, toward the pond. Delphine pointed. “She went to get her doll.”

Spots danced before my eyes, but I sucked in as much of a breath as I could and ran in the direction of the pond.

Something floated in the middle of the water. Something with a head and arms and legs. My head seemed to explode in white puffs of air as I reached the edge of the pond, the water just licking at my shoes. Raindrops dotted the water's surface, making it move and sway like a living thing. My lungs refused to expand and I could not seem to breathe in enough air. The body continued to float in and out of my vision, my mind screaming to me to put a foot in the water and to dive under the cool depths and rescue whoever it was.

But I could not move. Huge black circles now hovered before my eyes, obliterating my sight. I fell to my knees and somehow registered the piercing wail again.
Jamie, do not let me fail you again,
I thought, sinking into the grass. The sweet smell of oranges filled my nostrils, so thick I could taste the fruit. Was I in my grandmother's orange grove? The image of the body in the water flitted through my mind again.
Rebecca?

Another voice cut through my consciousness. A man's voice. “Catherine!”

Strong hands moved under my head. I gulped in air, my breathing calmed enough that I could fill my lungs again, clearing my vision. My eyes flickered open and I stared into John's worried face.

“Catherine?”

I nodded my head to show I had heard him, then pointed toward the pond. “Rebecca.” Rain pelted my face, soaking it, dripping inside the collar of my dress.

He bent his head close to mine and said, “Rebecca's fine. Somebody threw her doll in the water—that is all.” Warm hands brushed the rain and matted hair from my eyes as the fear gripping my belly eased its hold. But there was something in his eyes that told me all was not well.

“Why are you here? I thought . . . you were in . . . Baton Rouge.” I lay my head back against his arms, exhausted, still struggling to breathe, the stays cutting into my skin as I gulped in air.

“I was on my way but had not gone very far. Patrick O'Rourke rode out to call me back.” His jaws clenched.

“What is wrong?” I whispered.

His arm trembled beneath me. “They have found Elizabeth.” He looked away for a moment, then gazed down at me again, his eyes hard. “She is dead.”

T
he wind moaned through the oaks that surrounded the house and slapped the windows and roof with rain. A full day had passed since Elizabeth had been found, and she now lay in a hastily made pine coffin in the front parlor, lit candles burning at her head and feet and around the room. The house accepted her presence without even a stir, as nothing could make the pall in the old rooms darker.

The pinched, waxlike face of the woman in the pine box bore no resemblance to the beautiful sister of my memory. No wind teased her hair; no sun brightened her eyes and highlighted her hair—nor would it ever do so again. The sister I had known and loved was gone. But she had been gone long before her last breath had left her. The person who lay before me was a stranger, and I had no more grief to give.

I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid.
I leaned over the edge of the coffin and whispered, “What were you so afraid of, Elizabeth?”

A hand closed about my arm and I stifled a scream. I looked up into the steel gaze of Elizabeth's husband. He abruptly dropped his fingers. “Why do you think she was afraid?”

I swallowed, the sound audible in the still room. “She . . . wrote me. She said that she needed me. That she was afraid of something . . .” I let my words drift away as my eyes strayed back to the woman in the coffin.

“Do you think it was me she feared?”

My head jerked back to regard him. I paused for a moment, searching for an answer. Finally, I said, “I do not know. She did not say. And now her secrets will be buried with her.”

He moved closer and I flinched. Something heavy and foreboding filled the room, not all of it due to the open casket. Leaning toward me, he whispered, “Perhaps some secrets are best buried.”

I held my ground, my back pressed against the smooth pine box. “Are you saying that the circumstances of her death are best kept secret?”

John took a step back, allowing me room to move away from him. He looked down at his wife, his face hidden in shadow. “Perhaps they are.” His eyes met mine again, and a chill tiptoed up my spine. “But not for the reasons you might think.”

I briefly wished for some semblance of fear to hold back the words, but that emotion had long been too elusive. “Did you have anything to do with Elizabeth's death?”

He stared at me and said calmly, “No.”

I did not say anything, afraid my doubt would show in my voice. The rain continued to punish the house, reverberating on the windowpanes. I touched Elizabeth's cold hand, the bones small and fragile and so much like my own. “Why is her skin still so perfect? She was left lying in the cane field for so long. . . .”

John turned to stare out the window, the shadows of raindrops covering his face. “I saw Elizabeth there. Nobody would go near her. There was not a mark on her—not even bugs crawling in the vicinity of where her body was found.” He turned his head toward his wife for a moment. “It was so odd. And then Rufus became hysterical and had to be taken away, mumbling something about her being fixed with a curse.” He faced me, his expression unreadable. “There is to be an inquiry. They will be taking her body tomorrow morning to determine the cause of death before we can have her burial service. I hope that it will not upset you overly much.”

I shook my head, mute for a moment, the image of Elizabeth's pale, sightless eyes staring up from a sea of sugarcane vivid in my mind. “No. It will be a relief to be able to find some answers.”

A clearing of the throat brought our attention to the doorway. Dr. Lewiston stood, his hat in his hands, his eyes fixed on the dark box in the corner. A candle at the foot of the coffin fluttered, then died, leaving the acrid scent of burnt wax.

“Your man O'Rourke sent for me. My condolences, John, Catherine, for your loss.” He seemed to visibly struggle to move his gaze from the coffin to his old friend. “If there is anything I can do . . .” His voice died in the heavy silence.

John turned his back to the doctor and faced the coffin again. “Yes, Daniel. There is something. And I would like to speak to you in private.”

I nodded and left the room, closing the door behind me. I stood in the darkening foyer, listening to the murmur of voices behind me and of the windows rattling from the assault of rain. The crystal candelabra above had been lit to chase away the gathering gloom. With a start, I noticed the large mirror over the hallway console had been covered with a white sheet. I moved to stand in front of it and saw Marguerite hovering in the alcove below the stairs. She had been avoiding me ever since I had been given the responsibility of attending to Rebecca's needs, and she must have stepped back in hopes of me not seeing her.

“Why has the mirror been covered?”

Marguerite stepped forward, the whites of her eyes almost glowing in the dimness. “To protect the soul of the dead. If a soul sees her reflection, then she will be trapped in the mirror forever.”

A shutter banged against the front of the house like a disembodied shout. The crystal beads jostled one another as the flames on the chandelier sputtered from an unseen breath.

“That is nonsense,” I said, trying to keep the edge of unease out of my voice. I reached up to try to pull the sheet off the mahogany acanthus leaves at the top of the mirror. They held fast, and I heard Marguerite's throaty chuckle.

“They do not want you to take off that sheet, Miss Catherine.”

My hands stilled. “Who is ‘they'?”

Marguerite stepped closer to me, her voice almost a whisper in my ear. “The undead. They do not want you messing with what is theirs.”

I resisted the urge to move back. “My sister's soul is in heaven. All of this talk is superstitious nonsense and it will serve no purpose except to frighten Rebecca.” I gave another tug to the sheet but it remained unyielding.

Her eyes flickered. “Then you best get down on your knees and pray for her soul. But I think you will be wasting your time. Only repentant souls are saved.” She stepped back. “I need to see to supper.”

I listened as her soft footsteps padded across the foyer. The men's voices in the room behind me grew steadily louder. John's voice, deeper,
more stern, seemed to be asking the same question over and over, while Daniel answered with a strained voice, the volume of his words escalating each time he spoke. The one word I understood was “No.”

I left the sheet on the mirror, making a mental note to take care of it later. Quickly I walked toward the stairs, not wanting to be privy to the men's conversation. My fleeting thought of staying and listening flamed my cheeks, and I hurried up the steps, intent on a brief respite of sleep.

As I reached the top of the stairs, a high-pitched keening sound struck my ears. I stopped, my hand clutching the railing as I listened closely. It wasn't keening. Instead it was the old haunting tune that Rebecca favored, and my skin puckered as I heard the odd tune hummed at such a high pitch as to be almost a cry.

The sound stopped almost as soon as it had begun. With hesitating steps, I walked toward the child's bedroom. I pushed open her door slowly and found myself staring into Rebecca's empty room. A lamp had been lit, and I stayed in the threshold for a few moments, listening to the dying rain.

“Rebecca?” I called out softly.

The only answer was the running of small feet and a slamming door somewhere down the corridor behind me. I rushed out of the room and stopped suddenly. The doll Samantha lay sprawled on the floor at the end of the long hallway, her legs caught in the opening of the attic door.

Ignoring the blood thumping in my temples, I approached the attic door with purposeful footsteps. “Rebecca!” I called again. “Come here this instant. This is not the time for playing.”

Approaching the door, I picked up the doll, still damp from its adventure in the pond, and peered up the dark steps. “Rebecca! If you are up in the attic, I ask that you come down now, or I will have to punish you.”

Somewhere deep in the recesses of the great house, I heard the humming again, faint and liquid, oozing up the walls toward me. It seemed to come from the very plaster. Clutching the doll tightly against my chest, I stepped back and into a rock-hard chest. Strong hands held my arms. With a deep breath, I turned.

John's eyes regarded me calmly. “Catherine, what is wrong?”

I swallowed and kept my voice steady. “I am trying to find Rebecca. I think she is playing tricks on me.”

He looked past me and up the attic stairs. “Do you think she may have run into the attic again?”

“At first I thought so, but I just heard her somewhere else in the house.” I indicated the doll. “But she had to have been here just a moment ago, because I found this here. She must be very fast, because she was able to run down the corridor and down the steps before I could even turn around.”

John took the doll. “I think I will take a look in the attic anyway.”

He stepped past me and took the stairs two at a time. The wood floor creaked as he walked overhead and softly called his daughter's name.

I heard him at the top of the steps and watched as he slowly descended the stairs. His brow was furrowed as if in deep thought.

I wondered at his expression. “Is everything all right? Did you see any sign of Rebecca?”

He shook his head. “No. I didn't see anything.” He stepped past me, still holding the oversized rag doll. It reeked of wet wool and pond water, and the old feeling of panic settled in my veins again. I placed my palms flat against the wall behind me, trying to steady myself.

John looked at me. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, forcing my breathing to return to normal. I searched for something to distract my thoughts. “I heard raised voices downstairs. Does Dr. Lewiston know anything more about Elizabeth?”

He turned his back to me as if preparing to leave but remained where he was, his attention on the damp doll in his hands. “Yes, actually. He did.”

I moved closer to him, my hand raised to place on his arm. I let it drift back to my side. Being this near to him affected my senses in ways I could not control, and to touch him might be disastrous. “What did he say?”

He tilted his head, an ebony brow cocked like a crow in flight. “I told you that some secrets are best buried with the dead. Perhaps this would be one of them.” He started to walk away, his boots thudding softly on the carpet runner.

I walked quickly toward him. “If this concerns Elizabeth, then I demand to be told. I am stronger than you seem to think and . . .” My words died in my throat as it constricted, and I thought for one horrifying moment that I might cry. Perhaps it was his brief look of sympathy as he turned to face me, or perhaps it was the shock of my sister's death that suddenly paralyzed me, but I found myself standing in front of John, unable to speak a word.

Inexplicably, he reached a hand to my face, and I did not flinch. He wiped away a tear and let the back of his hand caress my cheek. “My dear Catherine. You have already been through so much.” His hand stilled as I trembled at his touch. “I am loath to add to your burden.”

I turned my head aside, making him drop his hand. “My burdens are not your concern. Tell me what Dr. Lewiston told you. I need to know.”

His eyes darkened as he stared dispassionately at me. “Elizabeth was with child. That was the reason she went to see Dr. Lewiston before she died.” He turned from me once more, the doll hanging limply at his side.

I raised my hand to touch his shoulder but let it fall. “I am sorry. This is a double loss for you.”

He shook his head and stepped away. “The child was not mine.”

His words reverberated in my mind as I watched him approach the stairs.

I followed on his heels and clutched at the railing. “Wait.” I nearly screamed the word. “What do you mean?”

I watched his jaw work, as if negotiating a difficult mouthful. “I do not wish to sound indelicate, but you have been a married woman and understand the affairs between man and wife. Suffice it to say that I know, without a doubt, that I could not possibly be the father of her unborn child.”

He paused for a moment, as if to gauge my reaction. Seemingly satisfied that I would not faint and take a plunge over the banister, he turned and continued his descent.

I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down on him, my mind reeling from the implications and trying to think clearly. “But, that would mean . . .” My face flushed hotly.

He turned to stare up at me, his eyes hard. “Yes, Catherine. Your assumptions would be correct.” He bowed slightly, then turned away. “If you will excuse me, then, I must go find my daughter and return her doll.”

I listened until his footsteps faded away. My gaze strayed to the closed parlor door, the stilled body of my sister lying behind it, and I wondered, not for the first time, what other secrets might have died with her. I fled for my bedroom. Lying on my bed, I stared up at the canopy until the beat of my heart had returned to normal and I could fill my lungs with air again. Finally, I turned to my side, my sister's name whispered on my lips. “Was this why you were so afraid? And would this be reason enough for your husband to end your life?” I listened to the dying winds as they blew goodbye to the old house by whistling under the eaves, the sound eerily like that of a crying baby. I blinked, feeling the tears run down my face. “Who were you really, Elizabeth? I do not seem to recognize you at all.”