Spinning the Moon (67 page)

I fought the urge to go to him, to lay my head on his knee. To touch him. His words moved me, showing me the man I knew lived deep inside his forbidding form. But the darkness lurked within him, too, and I pulled away.

John continued, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the splattering rain. “And then as Elizabeth and I grew farther apart, Rebecca became even more important to me. She was mine to love unconditionally, and she freely shared her love with me. It was the first time I had ever experienced anything like it. Even my own mother had not seemed capable of it. All her love seemed to begin and end with my older brother, with not even scraps left for me. Which is why I left my home as soon as I could and have never been back. Not even for my mother's funeral.” He lifted his eyes to mine, and they shimmered in the lamplight with potent meaning. “I do not take rejection easily.”

My heart reverberated in my chest, crying out for this man at the same time my mind reeled with warning. I went to him and knelt before the chair. Tentatively, I reached for his hands and he grabbed them, pressing tightly.

His voice was gruff. “It is not good between us now, is it? And I do not know how to make it different. I thought that two weeks away from you would make my need for you lessen somehow, but it only made it stronger. I have been searching for some trace of Philip Herndon, hoping my mind would be occupied by something other than
you.” He paused for a moment, the tapping of the rain marking the passing time. “I almost hoped that you would be gone when I returned. Your rejection of me cuts deeper than a knife, wounding my soul. But now that I am back and I see you here, I know that I could never let you go. Never.”

The pressure on my hands increased and I winced, but he seemed not to notice. I stared at him in the darkened room, listening to the rain beat against the house, almost smelling the salt air and the damp cotton of my beloved home and knowing that to return, I would lose part of my soul. Or worse.

I yearned to give him another chance, an opportunity to restore his soul—and mine. I leaned toward him, hearing the urgency in my own voice. “Tell me, then, John. The burned letters in the grate. Were they Elizabeth's?”

I felt more than heard his quick intake of air, but he made no move to answer.

“Tell me now, John. I am stronger that you think. There is nothing in her letters that can harm me now.”

He let go of my hand and touched my cheek. “You do not know what you ask.”

I leaned into his touch, feeling his heat. “Yes, I do. I ask that there be trust and truth between us. For without it, we have nothing.”

Dropping his hand, he leaned back in the chair, his dark gaze resting on me. He said no more, and my heart and mind receded from him, resigned as to my course of action. His eyes widened as if he could read my thoughts, and I turned away. Slowly, I stood and walked toward the door.

“I am sleeping in the master bedroom and I keep it locked at night.”

“I know.”

The bluntness of his response startled me.

I looked at Rebecca, still peacefully asleep, then back at John. “Good night.”

He did not respond, but I felt his brooding gaze on my back as I lifted the lamp and left the room.

As I took several steps, my foot slipped and I realized that the floor was scattered with small wet spots that resembled footsteps. Curious, I
held the lantern high, following the spots for several feet until they dead-ended into a wall. Intrigued, I turned and followed them back in the other direction, realizing with a heavy heart that they led to my bedroom.
Were John's hair and clothes wet from the rain?
I could not recall, the emotions and words having obliterated all other senses. I stared at the small puddles traversing the hallway to my bedroom.

I turned the handle and pushed it wide. I held the lantern high, looking behind me to see if John followed. Reassured that he had not, I entered the bedroom. The wet footsteps stopped at the side of my bed and it did not take me long to realize why.

In the middle of the pulled-back coverlet lay a large black ball of wax. I knew without looking closer that it was a conjure ball. Some were said to contain human flesh, and my own skin rippled at the thought. Smooth pins stuck through the black wax made an even arc over the ball, and stripes of something wet and dark like blood or paint slashed across the side.

My knees trembled as I stared at the ball and I inadvertently cried out. I knew they were meant to bring death or misfortune to a household, and the fact that it lay in the middle of my bed gave me no doubt as to whom the harm was meant to befall.

I backed out of the room, mentally prepared to grab Rebecca and steal away into the night. But as I moved backward, I bumped into something hard and solid and looked up to find myself staring into the cold black eyes of my husband.

I
faced John, noting for the first time his wet hair. Quickly, I glanced down at his feet and saw that he had taken off his boots. I noted, too, the absence of his jacket and coat. Had he seen them dripping in the hallway and taken them off?

I pushed at his chest, forcing him to step back through the doorway.

He caught my wrist. “What is wrong? I heard you shout.”

“Leave, John. And do not pretend you do not know the reason why.” My voice shook with hurt, anger, and fear.
Please deny it. Please do not let me believe the worst of you.

“Let me in.” His voice held a note of warning.

My heart sank low in my chest. “No. I have already made that mistake more than once and I will not do it again.”

He stood perfectly still, his gaze hard and unreadable.
Is he simply warning me with the conjure ball?
His voice held no malice. “Then I shall not trouble you again.” Soundlessly, he turned away and strode down the corridor toward the stairs.

I closed the door, pressing my back against it, and stared at the insidious thing in the middle of my bed.
I do not take rejection easily.
I thought of Elizabeth and the price I suspected her of paying for the ultimate rejection of leaving him. My gaze strayed to the lower drawer of the dresser, where I had been gathering things to pack for my journey with Rebecca. His words crept unbidden into my mind.
And I pity whoever would try to separate us.

I wrapped the evil conjure ball in one of John's linen handkerchiefs, ensuring that my fingers never brushed the object of my dread. Dragging a chair in front of the door, I crawled into it and stared at the brass door handle until the morning light touched the walls of my room.

*   *   *

The light of day did little to scatter the dark shadows in my mind. I quickly dressed before cautiously opening my door. With relief, I saw that the hallway was empty, then hurriedly crossed the corridor. Sliding into my old room, I placed the conjure ball under the bed, then left the room as silently as I had arrived and headed toward the stairs.

I paused at the top, hearing that ethereal humming sound again. It was certainly Rebecca's voice, so I approached the open door to her room. She was out of her sickbed, as evidenced by the wrinkled sheets and indentation on the pillow. Her nightgown lay on the floor, so she must have dressed. But she was nowhere in her room.

The humming came to me again and I turned to follow it out into the corridor. I spied the lodestone on her night table and picked it up as an afterthought. I would be needing it much more than she in the coming weeks.

I stepped out into the hall, and the humming abruptly ceased. I paused, listening, and caught sight of Samantha lying on the floor. She was crammed tightly against the wall, and as I stooped to pick her up, I realized that the doll lay in the exact spot where the wet footprints had disappeared into the wall the night before.

Stunned, I pressed my palms against the plaster. I knocked to see if there would be a hollow sound, and was surprised to hear someone knocking back, quickly followed by girlish giggles.

“Rebecca? Are you in there?”

I heard a slight
click
and then a small door opened in the wainscoting. The seams of the door had been perfectly hidden in the woodwork, rendering it virtually invisible. I wondered how many other such doors might be hidden in this house.

Rebecca stuck her face out of the opening, a bright smile crowning her lips. “You found my secret place, Mama!”

I had to kneel to see past the opening and was surprised to see a set of stairs. Sunlight poured into a high, round window. I had seen that window many times from the outside of the house but it never occurred to me that I had never seen it from the inside.

I took Rebecca's hands and helped her crawl out. “How did you ever find this place?”

She looked at me with wide blue eyes. “Do you promise you will not be mad at me?”

I nodded, my serious expression matching hers.

Very solemnly, she said, “I spied on my mama. I saw her use it one day and followed her. It goes outside, behind the bushy green plants by the back porch. She used it a lot but she never knew that it was my secret, too.”

Smoothing the hair off her forehead, I asked, “Did you ever see anybody else use it?”

She looked down and did not answer.

“Rebecca, you can tell me. I promise not to be angry.”

“I saw my papa. But only two times. Once, he followed my mama. I saw her leave and then he left, too. I thought they were playing a game.”

I spoke gently. “You said you saw your papa use these stairs two times. When was the other time?”

She looked up at me with wide blue eyes. “On the same day Papa told me Mama had gone to heaven, I saw him coming back up these stairs with Mama's traveling bag. But how could she brush her hair if she did not have her brush? Maybe Papa didn't think she'd need it in heaven and that's why he brought her bag back.”

Small pinpricks of fear dusted the back of my neck. I forced a smile. “Did he see you?”

Rebecca shook her head. “No, I am too fast to let anybody see me.” She plucked at her skirt. “But I was not sad. I know Mama did not want to be here with me. She made me cry.”

I watched as her lower lip quivered and touched her cheek to soothe her lonely heart, recalling how she would scream when I had first arrived and was easily confused for Elizabeth.

“Did you see anybody else?”

“Yes. Marguerite used them all the time. She says it is faster to get outside this way.”

My fingers trembled as I stroked Rebecca's cheek.
Is this what Marguerite had meant when she told John that he had more to hide than she? And if Elizabeth had been running away, to whom had she been running?

The sands of grief and loss sifted through my fingers again, yet I was afraid to catch them and look closely, unwilling to see the truth. So I
let them fall to the ground, unheeded, and occupied my mind with plans to leave. My mistrust and doubts were enough for me. To know more would damage my heart beyond repair and perhaps move me closer to danger than I already was.

*   *   *

I found Philip Herndon two days later, his bloated body floating facedown in the pond behind the house. I had gone to rid myself of the conjure ball, having decided that whether I believed in it or not, it needed to be out of the house. I was walking, trying to organize my thoughts and to ignore the heavy weight of the ball in my hand, when I had spotted something undoubtedly human in the pond.

My heart had twisted at the sight and I had dropped the ball, not able to stop my thoughts of Jamie. With a small relief, I soon realized that the form in the water was that of an adult. For a moment, I thought that it was John and I had sunk to my knees, unable to fathom the loss or my reaction to it. Someone, possibly Mr. O'Rourke, spotted me and shouted the alarm. Nobody made mention of the conjure ball at my feet, or if they did, I did not hear.

I do not remember much past being led inside the house and the news whispered in my ear that it was Philip. I sat in the parlor with my feet propped on a footstool and recalled the night of John's return, when I thought I had seen a light by the pond and then John's wet hair. I felt the sickening realization that my love for John was wrong, that he had undoubtedly unleashed his fury on Elizabeth and her lover, and that I was in mortal danger. I should have realized that a woman as vain as Elizabeth would never have taken her own life. But my love for John had blinded me, and my unwillingness to see filled me with shame and remorse. I gathered my loss and grief around me yet again, finally forcing myself to stare the truth in the face.

John rode to the Herndons' plantation to tell them about Philip. As soon as he disappeared down the lane of oaks, I fetched Rebecca and went to find Mr. O'Rourke to ready our buggy.

He protested at first, but after I reminded him that the threat of Philip no longer existed, he let me go. I snapped the reins and set off at a brisk trot. When I neared the end of the lane, out of sight from the house, a dark figure stepped out and waved me down.

Instinctively, my hand flew to Rebecca, my main concern to protect her. I sighed with relief when I recognized Rose and slowed to a stop.

“What are you doing out here, Rose?”

“I be having dark dreams about you. You still carry that lodestone I gives you?”

I patted the pocket of my dress, feeling the smooth lump underneath, and felt foolish. “Yes, Rose. I carry it with me wherever I go.”

She stepped closer to the buggy. “Good. You needs it bad.” Placing a hand on the side of the buggy, she stared up at me. “You needs to tell the Herndons to put fresh eggs in Master Herndon's hands, then tie his wrists together before they put him facedown in the coffin. Then sprinkle eggshells on top of his grave, and he who done kilt him be revealed.” She nodded, satisfied that she had told me.

“Thank you, Rose. I will certainly think about it, but I am not quite sure that Mr. and Mrs. Herndon will take my suggestions. They will be grieving very much for their son.”

Rose patted the side of the buggy before stepping away. “You just do you best, Miz McMahon. If'n you want the killer caught.” Her eyes were full of meaning as she glanced at me one last time before turning away back down the lane, toward the house.

I snapped the reins again and felt Rebecca tugging at my sleeve. I had almost forgotten she was with me. “Are you all right?” I asked.

She nodded, then reached over with her small hand and patted the lodestone in my pocket.

I had not been to Judge Patterson's home since my return, but I remembered where it was located. Off the main River Road, it was set back on a smaller parcel of land than Whispering Oaks. He had raised oranges and rare birds instead of investing in cash crops, his fortune having been inherited from his father, a shipping merchant. I remembered the exotic screens, vases, and artwork from my visits to his raised cottage as a child. I would always wonder if it was our visits to Gracehaven that had fueled Elizabeth's wanderlust. The Oriental paintings, with their odd black splashes that substituted for our alphabet, and the unique teas and curries we'd dine on always lent an otherworldly feel that would last for days after our visits with our grandmother.

A man came to help us and take the buggy as we approached the
single-floor structure. The redbrick pillars supporting the white house reminded me of pelicans with their skinny legs standing on muddy banks, their fluffy white torsos perched precariously on top.

The judge greeted us warmly and then, as if reading my mind, sent Rebecca to the kitchen for something sweet. She lifted her face, still peaked after her illness, with a questioning look.

“You may go, but just eat a little. You are not used to eating very much right now. And if you get tired, come back to me.” With a bright smile on her pale face, she left us, and the judge ushered me into his library.

He rang for tea and then offered me a seat by the fire. Joining me in an adjacent chair, he regarded me with a warm expression. “Forgive me for my bluntness, but you are not looking well, Catherine.”

I shook my head, then lowered my gaze to my lap, trying to find my composure. His sympathy was all I needed to lose the control I had so tightly maintained in the last weeks. Finally, I raised my eyes to his. “You once offered your assistance in whatever way you could, and I have come to call you on your offer. I need to leave here—with Rebecca. And I cannot let John know that I am leaving.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I have known you since you were a little girl, Catherine, and I know you are not prone to flights of fancy. But what you are asking of me is very serious, and I need to be sure that this is not a rash decision on your part. Because once you leave, it would be very difficult for you to return.”

I nodded. “I thank you for your concern, but this is a decision that has tormented me for quite some time. I have made up my mind and there is no turning back.”

“I see. Does this have anything to do with Elizabeth?”

I looked at him sharply. “Yes, in a way. I . . . I think John may have been responsible for her death. And now Philip Herndon has been found dead.” I paused for a moment, weighing my words. “I think we both know that John would have had the best motive for wanting Philip killed.”

My hand was shaking and he put his gnarled hand over mine, and I relished the warmth. The tea arrived and he poured for me, though I still could not trust my hands to hold a teacup.

“How did Philip die?”

“I found him in the pond behind our house. I overheard Dr. Lewiston telling John that Philip had a severe gash on the back of his head. And his . . . his tongue had been cut out.” I shivered despite the roaring fire in the fireplace.