Spinning the Moon (54 page)

“Sit, Rose, and tell me what it is you need.”

She sat across from me, still silent, then lifted the dented tin cup and drank slowly from it, her eyes closed. She sat motionless and breathing deeply for several moments. I was growing impatient but did not want to say anything to break the spell she seemed to be under.

Finally, she opened her eyes, the black pupils in the center enlarged. When she spoke, her voice was foreign to me, the words sounding old and withered and full of thick black smoke.

“You not like the other one. They says she your sister, but blood is the only thing you share.”

She looked directly at me, but her eyes did not seem to see me. Rose continued, her words without inflection. “You done suffer much sadness. And it not done with you yet.”

I drew in a breath sharply, but she appeared not to notice. “There be two men in your life—two men you share your life with.” She shook her head slowly, her eyes still not seeing. “But one of them is not who you thinks he be. He betray you in a terrible way.”

She paused, and I used it as an excuse to try to stand, but her hand snaked out to hold my arm, knocking over my tea. It splattered over the table, unheeded, the dark liquid creeping slowly to the edge. It seemed to thicken first before hurtling off into drips and hitting the hard brick
floor. I wanted to ask her about the two men but didn't want to give any credence to her words, despite the effect they had on me.

Her grip on my arm tightened, hurting me, but she seemed oblivious to my struggle to free myself. “But there be a great love to be found. A man who love you like you deserve. You soul mates—you be together in a past life and you done found him again.” Her gaze settled on my face and her eyes seemed to clear. “Your lives like the roots of an old oak tree—they runs deep and they cross over each other again and again. Don' you fight this love. It save your life.”

Slowly, she released her hold on me. Rubbing the spot recently relinquished by her fingers, I asked, “Why would my life be in need of saving?”

Shrugging, she said, “It not for me to see the why of it. I jus' see the way it will be.”

I tried to lighten the mood. “But I am sure your prophecies are only meant for those who believe in such things.”

She smiled broadly, a gap of missing teeth prominently displayed. “No, ma'am. They's for everybody who listens.” She pushed back from the table and walked over to a rough-hewn box sitting by the fireplace. Opening it, she reached in and pulled something out before returning to the table. She spread her palm wide and a shiny black stone rolled onto the table's surface.

“This lodestone be for you. It pull in all the good luck while pushing away the evil. You needs to carry this with you.”

I stared at it for a long time with some loathing, not wanting to touch it. But neither did I want to insult Rose. What would be the harm in taking it? With a smile, I reached across the table and took it, sliding the smooth stone into my pocket. My hand brushed against the pipe inside and my skin chilled. There was so little I knew, but so much I had to learn. I thanked Rose and left.

I had my supper sent to me on a tray, unable to face John as yet. Luckily, the cane from Whispering Oaks and those of local tenants needed to be processed at the mill, and John was kept busy for most of the following week. When he was home, I managed to avoid him, but knew he was waiting for my answer.

I had done nothing but think about our discussion. The more I
thought about it, the more sense it made. I had nowhere left to go, and he was offering me sanctuary. Surely not a reason I would have hoped for marriage, but I had few options left. I could not admit to myself that the prospect of marrying John excited me. My common sense continued to tell me to leave, run away as fast as my legs could carry me.

And there was Rebecca to consider. My heart remained wary, its scar tissue still raw, but the child had begun to find a place within me. Her sweet smile and joyous laugh touched me in ways I could not name but for which I was grateful. I was a long way from healing, but she was bringing me there, her little hand tucked securely into mine. We needed each other, and I knew I could not bear to be parted from her.

The Sunday following Elizabeth's funeral, I dressed with care for supper. Marguerite selected a dark amber silk from Elizabeth's room for me to wear, and I shed my black and donned the beautiful gown before I had a chance to think about what I was doing. Marguerite swept my hair up, fastening it with tortoiseshell combs, and I sent myself a frail smile in the mirror, pleased with the results.

I felt John's appraising eyes on me the moment I entered the dining room. With a gallant bow, he seated me, his fingers brushing the back of my neck. I pretended not to notice, but I was sure he could see the rippled flush that crept over my neck and shoulders.

Rebecca had eaten her dinner earlier, at my orders, and John did not seem displeased to have my undivided attention. We talked of mundane things, avoiding any topic that was close to the heart. The only reminder of the reality of our lives was the sweet, cloying smell of flowers, left over from the funeral and that littered the house. Most of the blooms had withered and died, dropping their petals on the floor. Lack of direction for the servants had allowed them to remain, their weeping limbs the only sign of grief in the house.

When dinner was over and John stood behind my chair, I wondered if he could hear the thudding of my heart. I knew that the time to tell him of my decision had arrived but I somehow could not find the words. He offered his arm to me, and I took it, our eyes meeting for a brief moment before I turned away.

Stalling for time, I walked slowly toward the parlor. When we reached the hallway console and the old mirror, he stopped, his movement
turning me around to face him. The chandelier above cast shadows on his face, only the spark from his eyes visible. “I have waited long enough for an answer from you, Catherine.”

My chest rose and fell with each breath. Turning my back to him, I faced the mirror. I could not stand so close to him and look in his eyes and be able to think coherently. “I think I have come to a decision.” His hands gripped my shoulders, but I did not turn around. “But I first must ask you something.”

I opened my hand where I had been clutching my handkerchief all evening, letting go long enough to let it rest in my lap while I ate. Slowly I unfurled the corners, displaying the pipe I had found in the attic. “Is this yours?” I faced him but stepped back, making sure no part of me touched him.

He seemed unusually calm as he took the pipe from me. “Yes. It is the one I have been missing.” Something flickered in his eyes as he raised his gaze to me.

I took a deep breath. “I found it in the attic—the time after I had been locked in when I went back to find the letterbox. The box was gone, but this had been left.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

I was taken aback. “I want to know how it got there—if you were the one who removed the letterbox.”

A dark shadow seemed to pass over his face and I looked up, expecting to see something large obliterating the light from the chandelier. But all I saw was the ornate crown molding and the brass chandelier, each flame giving a valiant effort to shine light into the darkness.

John laughed. “You have quite the imagination, do you not? It is another one of your admirable qualities.” He sobered slightly. “But I cannot tell you how the pipe got in the attic because I do not know. Nor do I know anything about a letterbox. I have been up there quite often in recent weeks, trying to locate papers pertaining to the plantation. It could have easily fallen from my pocket on several occasions. You just did not notice because you were so absorbed in your find.”

His words soothed me, but I knew that as soon as I was alone, my doubts would assail me once again. Taking yet another deep breath, I pressed on, my future hanging in the balance. I gazed directly into
those black eyes, daring him to look away. “What do you know about Elizabeth's death that you are not telling me?”

He placed his fingers under my chin and lifted my face up to his. “I am only going to say this once more and then I never want to discuss it with you again. I had nothing to do with Elizabeth's death. I am not saddened by her passing, except for any grief that it might have bestowed on you and Rebecca, but I very truthfully believe that she died by her own hand.” He lowered his face closer to mine, his scent overwhelming and addictive. “But I will admit that I do not think she could have pushed me much farther before I would have been forced to take matters into my own hand to get what I want.”

I turned away again, facing the mirror, trying to find my ability to resist him. But I was like a bee to nectar, and I was afraid I had gone too far already. My voice sounded far away. “What is it that you want?”

His eyes met mine in the glass. “I want you.”

I closed my eyes as he bent his head, placing his lips on my neck. A low moan escaped me, and I had the wild fancy of turning in his arms and succumbing to the passion I knew we both felt and letting him make love to me there, on the floor in front of the haunted mirror.

“Marry me,” he whispered in my ear.

I opened my eyes and stared at our reflection. My voice sounded breathless when I answered. “Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”

Our gazes met again in the mirror, but a distortion in the glass seemed to change John's face into a malevolent mask, and I wondered if the spirits inside were trying to tell me something. I shut my eyes once again to block out the image and surrendered to the passion John's mouth and hands evoked deep inside of me.

I
wanted a long engagement, to at least give a show of mourning for Elizabeth. But John was impatient and I knew he was a man used to getting his way. I did not fight him on the matter, although I refused to admit even to myself the anticipation I felt. It was anticipation tinged with alarm—not admirable emotions for a soon-to-be bride. I found now that I could not be in a room with him without watching his hands and wondering how they would feel touching me. He would catch me staring and I would flush, causing a devilish grin to spread over his face.

My doubts would consume me once I was out of his presence. I spent many a night tossing and turning, wondering over all the missing pieces in the puzzle of Elizabeth's existence at Whispering Oaks and of her death. John had allowed two weeks before we announced our engagement, and I intended to use that time to truly consider my alternatives.

On a warm afternoon while Rebecca napped, I found myself in the old grotto once again. Despite my deep musings, I kept a wary eye out for snakes, not ready to replicate the disaster of my last visit. I could see that someone had been there clearing out the underbrush and removing debris that many years of neglect had brought. Heavy foliage created a verdant screen from the wilting sun, and I sat down on a crumbling bench nestled against an ancient oak tree, and turned my face up toward the subtle warmth.

A crunching of dead leaves alerted my senses. I looked around, wondering who was near, but saw no one. I heard another footfall and stood, peering through the overgrown foliage. “Hello? Is anybody there?” Irrationally, I thought of the ghost of the Indian lady and her baby, and felt a chill of apprehension creep up my spine.

A tall figure pulled back the thick fronds of a fern and stepped into view. I smiled with relief, recognizing Dr. Lewiston.

He gave me an apologetic grin. “Sorry if I frightened you. I was just riding up for a visit when I saw you coming here, so I followed. I hope you do not mind.”

I was genuinely glad to see him. “No, of course not. Come sit over here with me. It is quite cool in the shade.”

I made room for him on the bench and he sat next to me, removing his hat. A shard of sunlight glinted off his head, making it shine like gold. I remembered longing for hair like that as a child and grinned to myself, thinking it wasted on a man's head.

With a gallant gesture, he pulled a bloodred tea rose from his lapel and offered it to me. “I brought a beautiful flower for a beautiful woman, hoping it would make her smile in her sadness. She does have the most ravishing smile.”

“Thank you,” I said, blushing at his compliments. It had been so long since anyone had made me feel pretty, and my mere words of thanks could not adequately describe my gratitude. Instead, I reached toward him and squeezed his hand where it rested on his knee.

He squeezed mine back, then let go quickly. His eyes, so cool and gray, studied me closely. “It is amazing, you know, how much you resemble her.”

“Elizabeth?”

He nodded. “Yes. She was so beautiful.” He looked away for a moment. “It is hard to imagine her taking her own life.”

I studied him. “I have learned, since coming here, that Elizabeth showed a different face to everyone who knew her.” I leaned back against the ungainly oak, its monstrous roots rerouted to make room for the small creek that oozed from the bottom of the grotto. “I remember one summer when our grandmother took us to a carnival in New Orleans. They had a house of mirrors, and Elizabeth was captivated by it. I was rushing along the hallways, trying to find her. I would see her face and run toward it, only to find it an image of her.” I sighed into the tepid air, the distorted image of Elizabeth haunting my memory. “She was vastly amused by my pursuit. I think that is how she pictured her life: sitting back and laughing at those of us who would try in vain to find the real Elizabeth. I wonder if she is laughing at us now as we try to sort this out.”

His eyes hardened to a steel gray, reminding me of the sky over the ocean before a storm. “How different you are from her—but you have that same ethereal beauty. It is almost like . . .” He paused, as if realizing he had spoken aloud. Covering my hand with his, he faced me with a concerned expression. “I hope you do not find this forward of me, but if you should be afraid of staying here . . .”

“Afraid? Why should I be afraid?”

He patted my hand. “Nothing I can really say, but with Elizabeth's death, despite the coroner's verdict and John's suspicion of suicide, there seem to be things here at Whispering Oaks that just are not right. Besides, there is the matter of a lack of a chaperone. In your grief you might not have noticed how . . . improper it is for you to stay here. I really feel, as a close friend of the family, that a move to our home would be the right thing to do under the circumstances.”

His concern warmed me, and I placed my other hand on top of his. “Thank you, Daniel. I really cannot express how much your concern for my well-being touches me.” I squeezed his hand. “But I do not think—”

“Daniel!”

We both startled at the sound of Clara Lewiston's voice. For such a small woman, her voice was loud and commanding. Standing directly behind her was John McMahon, a scowl darkening his features and his gaze focused on our entwined hands. Not knowing why, I guiltily slipped my hands from Daniel's and stood.

Daniel stood, too, and I could feel the tension in the thick air as he spoke. “Clara, John. This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

Clara's nose twitched like that of a small rabbit, but her voice was level as she answered her husband. “My father told me you had come to call at Whispering Oaks, and it seems that you have forgotten our supper plans with the Herndons. John was helping me find where you might have run off to.” She sent a reproachful look to Daniel.

The doctor forced a laugh as he approached his wife. “My dear, I have not forgotten anything nor have I run off anywhere. I was just following Catherine into the grotto. I have invited her to stay with us.”

Clara's pale mouth had formed itself into a perfect “O.” “I . . . well . . . Of course Catherine is welcome at Belle Meade. And I must
apologize for not thinking of it first.” She smiled at me, and I judged her offer to be sincere.

John had come to stand by me, and I felt his hot gaze. Without acknowledging him, I spoke. “It is very kind of both of you, but I must decline. With Marguerite and the other servants, I find myself adequately chaperoned. And I do feel that it is best for Rebecca if I stay here with her.”

John placed a hand on my shoulder. “I must agree with Catherine. It is best for Rebecca to stay among familiar surroundings, and equally important for Catherine to remain close by.”

Out of sight of the Lewistons, John's thumb traced circles on my back, caressing the thin fabric of my dress as if it were my bare skin. I could not pull away without making it obvious, and I was almost glad of it.

I heard the hint of amusement in his voice as he added, “And I promise as a gentleman to behave as one.”

Dr. Lewiston flushed. “Really, John, acting as a gentleman has never been your forte. I find I must insist, for the sake of Catherine's reputation, that she return with Clara and me to Belle Meade. And I invite Rebecca, as well, if that is your wish.”

John's hand stilled on my shoulder, but he did not remove it. In a very controlled voice he said, “No. Rebecca stays here and Catherine with her. I will hear no more arguments—the matter is settled.”

John placed his hand on my arm to lead me along the path out of the grotto, but I held back. I felt uncomfortable with John's dismissal of their offer and felt I needed to smooth any ruffled feathers. “Will you please join us for some refreshments? We would very much enjoy your company.”

Clara spoke first. “Thank you, Catherine, but we must be getting back. I left in the middle of doing an inventory of my spices and I hate to leave them out from under lock and key for so long. Not to mention that we have supper plans for later. But thank you very much. I hope to return the invitation as soon as your mourning permits.”

I nodded. “Thank you. I shall look forward to it.” I found myself frowning and quickly straightened my features. But I could not help but
wonder as to why she had not sent a servant to fetch Daniel—and why it was so important to remind him of supper plans now. It was barely past noon. I studied her plain face for a moment and the way it nearly glowed when she looked at her husband, and thought I knew the answer.

As John turned to allow us to pass in front of him, he stopped before the tea rose I had left behind, its brilliant red an odd splotch of color against the cream-colored bench. He retrieved it and held it up. “Clara, this looks like it came from your renowned rose garden.” He sniffed it and smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about the gesture. “Here. Let me return it to its rightful owner.” Ignoring Daniel's outstretched hand, John approached Clara and affixed the wilting flower to a button. “I hope, Clara, that you will do us the honor of letting us use some of your beautiful roses for our wedding.”

I turned to him with a look of anger, but he ignored me. He seemed intent on watching Dr. Lewiston.

Both of the Lewistons appeared startled, but good breeding quickly changed their expressions to polite interest. Clara's pale eyes seemed to shrink despite her smile. “Then let me be the first to congratulate you. I will be happy to have you as our neighbor.” She laid her hands on my shoulders and brushed her lips against my cheek.

Dr. Lewiston stepped forward. “Yes, of course. Congratulations are certainly called for. It is just a bit of a shock, especially after . . .” His words fell away, but each of us knew the implication.

John inclined his head. “I thank you for the congratulations. The wedding will be small, under the circumstances, but you will be receiving an invitation soon.”

Without further comment, John placed his hand at my elbow and led me out of the grotto. I asked the Lewistons again if they would stay, but again they declined. I did not know why it was so imperative not to be left alone with John, especially since I had agreed to be his wife. But the feeling persisted.

After the Lewistons left, John turned to me, a knowing look in his eyes. “I am hoping your eagerness for guests has nothing to do with there being something lacking in my company.”

Heat enflamed my cheeks at having been read so accurately. “Not at all. I merely enjoy their company.”

He raised an eyebrow but made no further comment. Instead, he bowed slightly and said, “Please excuse me. I have business matters to attend to. I look forward to seeing you at supper.” With an amused glint in his eyes, he raised my fingers to his lips. Instead of kissing the top of my hand, he turned it over and let his lips brush the inside of my wrist. The sensations that swirled through my veins at his touch nearly undid me. With a knowing glance, he turned and left. I tried to force myself not to stare after him, but found I could not.

I retired to my room and tried to read, but my thoughts were too easily diverted. I tried to gauge the Lewistons' reaction to John's announcement, and wondered if it was because it was simply too soon after Elizabeth's death. But then there was Daniel's veiled warning to me, and even Judge Patterson's, and it was clear that both men believed there to be something at Whispering Oaks over which I should be alarmed. It was not clear to me, however, if both warnings had been referring to the same thing.

Absently, I picked Rose's lodestone off of the dressing table and felt its cold smoothness against my palm. I recalled the older woman's words about the two men in my life and of a great betrayal, and wondered anew at her meaning. Had she been referring to Robert? His suicide had been the greatest betrayal I had ever faced, the bullet that had killed him having shattered my own life, leaving me with mere fragments to try to piece together again. But who was the other man? I was contemplating sharing my life with John, but could she have been speaking of him? Or was she referring to someone else—someone whom I would love and want to share my life with?

But I was afraid my battered heart had no room for such a fickle affection—an emotion that rode the waves of one's life, lifting a person up to the highest frothy crest and then plummeting her below, creating a frantic struggle for air beneath the surface. I set the lodestone back on my dresser, determined not to let such silliness affect my reasoning.

The window in my room had been opened to let in the late-summer air, bringing with it the heavy odor of the river. I watched as the sky picked up its darkening hues, an unseen hand painting strokes of magenta and burnt sienna across the horizon. It reminded me of the sunsets at home, and I surrendered myself to the glory of it. It was time to
dress for supper, but the lovely image of the sunset transfixed me, and I sat in peace for the first time since my arrival. The irony that my first moments of serenity had come only with a memory of home did not evade me.