Spinning the Moon (57 page)

I knew I had to intervene before matters disintegrated further. Standing, I put myself between them. “Please,” I whispered urgently to both men. “Do not cause a scene. Surely this matter can be settled when you have both had a chance to cool off, and in a more appropriate place.”

John looked at me and must have read the pleading in my eyes, for he stepped back. “My wife has uncommon good sense. But I do not wish to speak with you later—or ever. I have no use for irrational men.”

I clasped John's arm, hoping to create the impression of a united front. We were husband and wife, and I wanted Philip to understand that attacking John would be akin to attacking me.

Philip leaned close so that only John and I could hear. “I will not forget what you have done. You have taken away the most precious thing in my life, and I will see that you, too, shall lose that which you hold in the highest regard.”

With a brief glance at me, he turned and left, oblivious to the heads turning to follow him out.

Shaking, John sat down. The meal was ruined for both of us and we soon left the restaurant, not even waiting to finish the last course.

His lovemaking that night was fierce, his touch tender yet his passions boiling under the surface of his skin. When I touched him, he was as if a man with fever, and I found myself arching toward him, trying to match his heated ardor. Afterward, he cradled me in his arms, making me feel more cherished than I had since I was a small child. I laid my head on his shoulder and slept.

*   *   *

Our honeymoon ended after only a week. John promised me an extended European honeymoon the following year, but for now he was needed at the plantation and mill and he did not want to leave Rebecca so soon after her mother's death.

I did not argue, as I was also anxious to return to Rebecca. I wished
only that we would be returning to Saint Simons instead of Whispering Oaks. When I thought of my new home, it was always with apprehension. The dark shadows, unseen footsteps, and haunted past seemed to follow me like a ghost—a ghost who refused to be exorcised.

We were both subdued on our return journey, John's brow furrowed with dark thoughts that he did not share with me, and me with my own. I thought back on Philip's words and wondered at his threats. He obviously still believed that John had something to do with Elizabeth's death. I did trust in John's innocence. He had given me his word. Then why the small shadow of doubt that threatened to obscure my new happiness?

I looked up suddenly to find John watching me closely. I colored, imagining that he could read my mind, and looked away. Whether he guessed my thoughts, he did not say. We had promised not to speak of Elizabeth's death again, for it was a topic we both preferred to avoid. My reasons were obvious: I simply did not wish to be reminded of the person my sister had become. But for John, his reasons went unexplained to me.

Rebecca ran out to greet us, enthusiastically hugging us each in turn. She greedily unwrapped the porcelain doll with yellow hair and blue eyes, easily putting it aside with the fickle nature of small children, when she saw the sweets we had brought. I had deliberately avoided buying her licorice, knowing how she disliked it, and enjoyed her cries of pleasure when she spotted the peppermint sticks.

After greeting his daughter, John went immediately to the sugar mill, leaving me alone with Rebecca. While my bags were brought up and Marguerite unpacked for me, the child and I went for a walk. She sucked on a peppermint stick as we walked, her words garbled. I smiled at her attempts to speak and suggested she remove the candy for me to understand her better, but she stubbornly refused.

I held her hand, now sticky from the candy, as we walked along the perimeter of the pond, me with a constant wariness over how close we came to the edge. She paused on the far side and pointed toward the orange grove. “Do you want to see my secret now?”

Her fingernails were filthy, and it was clear that she had been digging near the orange trees again. Feeling I should humor her, I agreed.
It was late afternoon, and the early-autumn sky was beginning to darken. The trees in the grove had been severely damaged in a storm several years before and had long since given up their fruit. Now the naked limbs reached up to the sky in silent supplication like the arms of barren mothers.

I realized for the first time how quiet it was in the grove. Even the screech of insects seemed to bypass this place, as if they, too, respected its peaceful solitude. Elizabeth had once told me that the orange grove had been the site of another burial mound, smaller than the one on which the house had been built. I thought again of Rebecca's claims of finding a dead body and wondered with trepidation if indeed she had.

She ran to the farthest corner of the grove, an area completely out of sight from the main house, and knelt down beside a tree trunk. “Over here, Aunt Cat.” Even from where I was, I could tell where new dirt had been replaced by old, the topsoil removed and then scraped back. A deep indentation in the middle of the small rectangle of dark soil showed where small fingers had been diligently digging.

I stood looking down at the disturbed earth and was about to suggest we go find help to finish the digging when a glimmer of something shiny caught my attention.

Kneeling down, I placed my hands on the cool earth and peered into the hole. I stared hard, not really believing what I saw until I reached out and touched it. The letterbox.

With my heart thumping, I stuck my hands in the dirt and began frantically scraping away. I sent Rebecca to go find a couple of sharp sticks and she returned, excitedly holding up our new digging instruments.

Knowing the size of the box, I easily outlined the shape with one of the sticks, which made the process easier. It hadn't been buried deep, and it took less than half an hour to release it from its grave. The sky had almost completely darkened by now, leaving only thin traces of glowing orange to guide us back to the house.

I sent Rebecca to the kitchen to wash up while I went to the front of the house, knowing that the servants at this time would be mostly by the kitchen. I had no idea who had buried the box, but whoever it was had obviously wished for it to remain hidden.

Cautiously, I opened the front door and entered. As I reached the bottom step, I heard movement in the dining room. Peering over my shoulder, I spied Marguerite setting the table. Our gazes met but I kept my back to her, only nodding as I proceeded up the stairs. As I pushed open my bedroom door I noticed behind me the trail of dirt, and I made a note to sweep the steps before anybody saw.

I quickly hid the letterbox under the bed, then stood, taking note of my surroundings with dismay. All of my things were gone. The armoire doors stood open, exposing empty shelves and hooks, and my dressing table had been completely stripped. I realized with a mix of excitement and apprehension that my things had been taken to the master bedroom.

But where was the key? When I had left for my honeymoon, I had hidden it in the back of my dresser drawer, tucking it among stockings and chemises. I walked quickly over to the dresser and yanked open the drawer. My heart slammed in my chest when I saw the gaping cavity.

Calming myself, I left the room and walked to the end of the corridor to John's room. The door stood partially ajar, and I waited for a moment before pushing it open. To my relief, I found the room empty, but I still felt uncomfortable advancing further. This was John's room. My gaze strayed to the empty spot on the wall where Elizabeth's portrait had been, and then to the great mahogany bed. I flushed, imagining what we would be doing beneath its sheets later in the evening.

Elizabeth had had her own room, but her ghost seemed to be everywhere in this one. Even as I looked at the bed, I wondered if she had ever passed the night there, wrapped in John's arms and enjoying his caresses. I turned away, trying to avert my thoughts, and saw the trunk of paints and supplies John had given me. It sat in the corner, untouched, and I smiled again, remembering his thoughtfulness. One of the first things I would do to become settled would be to set up a place in the house for my painting.

I closed the door quietly behind me and leaned against it, contemplating where my things would have been placed. I was reluctant to go around blatantly opening drawers, still feeling like an intruder in somebody else's room. A large chest-on-chest occupied the space between the windows, and I was fairly certain it contained John's personal items. My
gaze strayed to a lowboy against the far wall, and I thought that it would be the ideal place for my things.

With my breath held, I slid open the first drawer and, to my delight, found my underpinnings. Wiping my hands on my underskirt, I began digging into the drawer, hoping to feel the hard brass key easily under the light fabrics of my clothing. I almost cried out when my fingers found it, wrapped in a pair of stockings, as I had left it, and pulled it from the drawer.

I had started sliding the drawer closed when I spotted something unfamiliar in the back. It appeared to be a large linen handkerchief, certainly not one of my own, and when I pulled on it, it seemed stuck. I realized it was caught on the back of the drawer and would have been easily overlooked had I not had the drawer pulled all the way out.

I held it out to the light and saw the embroidered initials
JEM
and knew it belonged to my new husband, as I had seen him in possession of several identical to this one. It was filthy, covered in dirt, with long streaks of mud bisecting the cloth. It was as if somebody had wiped very dirty fingers on it and then stuffed it in the back of the drawer to be hidden and forgotten.

My gaze strayed to my own dirty hands, and they began to tremble as the realization of why it was there struck me. I remembered the ride to the questioning at the town hall, and how I had smelled freshly turned earth on John's jacket. I raised my eyes to the mirror over the chest and saw John standing in the doorway, watching me closely.

I turned quickly to face him, my hands behind my back and pressed against the lowboy. He approached with long strides, his eyes holding a dangerous spark. He stood so close to me that I couldn't move away without pushing against him.

His voice was like dark velvet when he spoke. “What are you hiding, Cat?”

“Nothing,” I stammered. “I was simply cleaning and my hands are filthy. I was embarrassed to let you see them.”

He placed his hands on my shoulders and slowly let them slide down to my elbows. “There is nothing about you that I do not think is beautiful.” His eyes bored into mine. “Let me see.”

I felt like an animal in a trap, with nowhere to run and hide. Without preamble, I moved my hands out from behind my back and raised them in front of me. One finger at a time, I opened my hands, revealing the key in one and the handkerchief in the other.

His eyes darkened, and the first flash of fear I had experienced in over a year coursed through me. The key hit the floor with a small
thud
as the handkerchief drifted out of my fingers. John lowered his face to mine, those obsidian eyes glittering, and I clenched my own eyes tightly, waiting for what was to come.

“W
hy were you hiding these from me?” His voice was low and thick, like a dam holding back the words of accusation I knew he wanted to say.

I opened my eyes and faced him, forcing myself to raise my chin. “I should ask you the same thing. Why was your dirty handkerchief hidden in the back of your drawer? Did you use it to wipe your fingers after burying the letterbox from the attic?”

I waited for him to answer, my fingers clutching the lowboy behind me. To my surprise, he gave a low chuckle, but there was no mirth in it.

“Do you mean to say you are standing here acting like a hunted fox because you found a dirty handkerchief belonging to me?” He threw back his head and laughed. “I am a planter, my dear wife. I get my fingers dirty quite often, which is why I always carry a handkerchief. Feel free to interview the laundress, and she will inform you that, yes, I always have dirty and muddy handkerchiefs that need her attention.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, all traces of laughter gone. “Now you might answer a question of my own. Why is that key on a chain, and why would you hide it from me?”

I felt suddenly foolish and found myself staring at him dumbly, unable to find any words that would defend myself.

He leaned closer to me and I felt his heat. “I thought we had an agreement between us. An agreement to trust. It was even you who said you could not have a marriage without it.”

I nodded, my eyes stinging at his chastisement. He moved his head lower, his lips close to my ear. “I want you, Cat. But I want your trust even more. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice barely audible. He was pressing me against
the chest while his hands slowly raised my skirts. I wanted to protest, but I wanted him as much as I wanted his forgiveness for doubting him.

His moist lips moved to my neck as his fingers deftly raised my chemise. “I want you . . . now,” he whispered against my throat.

I was too aroused to tell him to stop, too enflamed by his passion to even want him to, but something in the back of my head told me that propriety should make me ashamed and disdainful of what we were about to do.

Instead, I allowed him to lift me on top of the low chest. “Cat,” he whispered into my ear, and he moved his hands to my hips and slid me closer. I moaned into his mouth, and as he whispered my name again, time seemed to stop. He pressed me backward until I felt the wall behind me, my hair tumbling about my shoulders. I should have been ashamed, but all I could think of was my wanting of this man and his desire for me, and I pulled him closer.

I felt him shudder at the same time as my passion consumed me, leaving me trembling as I fell back down to earth. We held each other for a long moment, he with his lips on my hair and my fingers clutching his shirt. Finally, he lifted me off the chest and my legs slid down to the ground. He didn't let go of me, and I was grateful for his support because I was sure my legs would have otherwise buckled.

He looked honestly chagrined as he studied my face. “I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. Gently, he pulled me toward him, kissing me softly on my forehead. “I am sorry,” he said again. “I did not mean for that to happen. But this wanting I have for you . . .”

I felt the sting of tears in my eyes—but they were not tears of shame. The fire we had shared was new to me, new and liberating, and he had made me feel wanted again. I knew, once I was alone again, I would be shocked at our behavior, but now I was simply grateful. He had made me a woman to be desired, not pitied, scorned, or accused. Robert's suicide had done all those things to me, had, indeed, deadened all emotions in me. John made me feel alive again, allowed me to feel passion and heat, to see colors where I had once only seen black and white.

He saw my tears and looked stricken. With the pads of his thumbs he gently wiped them away. “Forgive me, Cat.”

I grabbed his wrists, stilling his hands. “There is nothing to forgive.” I kissed his palm, then cradled my face in his hand.

He placed his lips on the hair at my temple, now damp from the sweat of our lovemaking. “I will send Marguerite to help you dress.”

Drawing back, he adjusted his clothing, then left the room. As I watched the door close, I realized with a start that he had never actually denied burying the box. He had certainly implied it by giving an explanation as to how a dirty handkerchief would come to be shoved in the back of his drawer, but that was not a claim to innocence. I wanted to trust him, but I knew asking him would never allay my suspicions. I would need to discover the truth on my own before I could lay to rest all of my doubts.

I stooped to pick up the key, intent now on finding the contents of the box and why somebody was so determined that I not discover it.

As I moved toward the door, it opened and Marguerite came in, her strange eyes regarding me dispassionately. “I've ordered bathwater to be sent up.”

“Thank you, Marguerite.”

As she moved to the armoire to lay out my dinner gown, I slid the key into a drawer, then turned around and asked for her assistance with unbuttoning the back of my traveling costume. When she didn't approach, I faced her. “Is there something the matter?”

Her face remained impassive, but her eyes were alive with a hidden light. “I brought you a message from Dr. Lewiston. He asked me to tell you to keep it private and away from Mr. McMahon.”

I looked at her, startled. “For me? Are you quite sure?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes, ma'am. I am used to delivering messages for Dr. Lewiston.”

“Thank you, Marguerite,” I said, wondering at her implication, but knowing I wouldn't ask her. She was playing a game with me, I knew, except I refused to take a turn. I took the sealed note and left it unopened on my dressing table, waiting to open it in private. I was baffled by Daniel's actions, but from what I knew of the doctor, I felt confident that he would have a sound explanation.

I bathed and dressed for dinner, waiting until Marguerite left until I opened the note. It had tested the limits of my patience to wait so
long, and I ripped it with a savage tear and took the note from the envelope. It read,
I am concerned for your welfare and would like to speak to you in private. I will be in the grotto tomorrow at two thirty.
It was signed simply
DL
.

Thoughtfully, I folded the note, then placed it under a tray in my jewelry box. Sliding open my drawer, I spotted the key I had hidden earlier and took it out. Ascertaining that I still had a few minutes before supper, I walked down the hallway to my old room and pushed open the door.

The blinds had been left down and no candle had been lit. Still, I was familiar enough with my surroundings to be able to feel my way to the bed and kneel beside it. As my fingers brushed the hard wood of the box, I heard John calling my name from downstairs. I froze, then stood quickly, hiding the key under the mattress. Confident that no one would be entering the room, I left as quietly as I had come in, walking slowly down the stairs, my calm demeanor belying the fluttering of my heart.

Supper was a peaceful affair, with Rebecca chatting excitedly the entire time about her new presents and about everything she had done while we were gone. I watched her animated face, and for a moment I saw my Jamie, telling me about the size of a fish he had caught or how fast he had gone on his pony. But the image faded quickly, leaving me with only the vision of this beautiful little girl, happily sharing with her parents the precious things of her life.

She still called me Aunt Cat, and I did not ask her to change it. It had not been so long since she had called Elizabeth
Mama
, and I had no intention of erasing that. If she chose, in future, to call me by another name, I would welcome it, but it would have to be in her own time.

After we ate, Delphine came to take Rebecca to bed, and John and I retired to the parlor. I played the piano for him, and he stood behind me, not touching but near enough that I could feel his heat. I smelled brandy mixed with his male scent, and I found the combination to be near intoxicating. I missed a note but continued playing. I had chosen a Chopin nocturne, its melody haunting, each key pressed a sensual ode to the evocative music.

He touched the pearls about my throat, then bent to kiss my
exposed shoulder. My fingers collapsed on the keyboard, unable to continue. I turned on the bench and looked up at my husband, and I knew the desire in his eyes mirrored my own.

Without speaking, I rose from the piano and allowed him to escort me up the stairs. His hand never left my arm, and I burned from his touch. When the door closed to our bedroom, it was as if the afternoon's events had inspired us both to a new height of passion. My need for him was as fierce as his need for me, and we were still partially dressed when he pressed me on the bed. It was not until after we were both completely sated that he began to make love to me slowly, taking off my remaining clothes bit by bit and loving my body with his hands and mouth until I shouted out with the pleasure of it.

We lay in each other's arms long after the lamps had been turned down and we could no longer hear the stirrings of the servants. The room was in near darkness, and I rested with my back pressed up to John, staring out at my new surroundings. Moonlight lent an eerie cast to the various pieces of furniture, and, like a glaring reproof, illuminated the large empty space on the wall where Elizabeth's portrait had once hung.

I waited until his breathing slowed to a deep and heavy pace before I stealthily slipped from the bed and put on my nightdress. I paused for a moment to stare down at my sleeping husband, feeling an unfamiliar tenderness. At that moment, I thought of my actions as a betrayal, but I quickly dismissed them. This was simply to ease my mind and to help me pack away my doubts forever.

Tiptoeing across the room, I let myself out and scurried down the quiet corridor and entered my old bedroom. Finding my way to the window, I opened the blinds, letting in the soft glow from the moon. In a yellow shaft of light I slid the box out from under the bed and sat on the floor next to it to avoid getting dirt on my nightgown. Fumbling my way through the bedspread, I found the key and, with no little effort in the murky light, fit it into the keyhole.

With my breath held, I felt the key slide into place and the latch click as I turned it. I waited for a brief moment for the pounding of my heart to settle before slowly opening the lid.

I blinked twice, wondering if the moonlight was playing tricks on
my eyesight, but was rewarded with the same vision each time: an empty box, just the dusty brown wood staring blankly up at me.

I leaned back against the bed, disappointment flooding me. I did not know what I had hoped to find—evidence of Elizabeth's descent into depression and desperation and of the thing she feared enough to write to me? Or perhaps evidence of John's innocence? I no longer knew which was more important to me; all I knew was that I had nothing now but John's words and my own suspicions of Elizabeth's true nature.

I placed the key inside the box, the chain making a hollow clatter, before closing the lid and replacing it under the bed. With a heavy heart, I stood and went back to my own room, moving quietly so as not to awaken John.

I slid back into bed, trying not to touch him, then turned to watch his face. His breathing remained slow and steady as I studied his dark shape. He was still an enigma to me, his strange allure all-consuming. I told myself I trusted him, and ignored the small doubts I harbored deep in the recesses of my mind.
Who buried the letterbox and why? And where are the letters?

I ignored the questions pressing into my brain and continued to watch my husband. His heavy breathing continued, a sign of deep sleep. Slowly, I lifted my hand and touched his cheek, the heavy stubble from his beard rough on my fingers. I traced the line of his jaw lightly with my finger, coming to rest on the sensual curve of his lips. John was usually so aloof and stoic in public that those lips seemed almost incongruous on his stern face. I doubted I was the only woman who had known the passion behind the man, and his mouth was certainly a hint of his true nature. I moved forward to press my lips against his and felt his hand grasp my wrist.

“Where have you been?”

I tried to pull my hand away, embarrassed not only that I had opened the letterbox in secret, but that he had caught me touching him when I thought he was asleep.

“I wanted to check on Rebecca. She kicks the covers off frequently and I did not want her to catch a chill.” The lie came easily, although I was not quite sure why I had not told him the truth. I again smelled the
odor of fresh dirt in my memory, and a small doubt that had been hidden deep inside me wriggled free.

He let go of my wrist, his fingers sliding under the sleeves of my nightdress. Goose bumps rippled up my arms. He propped himself up on an elbow. “You seem to have caught a chill yourself. Let me warm you.” He kissed me, his hard body moving over mine, and I soon forgot all about doubts and trust and the stale smell of loose dirt.