by Karen White
Too hungry and tired to disagree with Will, I said goodbye and watched him ride off in the late-afternoon sun. Buttery light pierced the trees and the veils of Spanish moss, and I sighed heavily. How could I ever leave this place? I stilled for a moment, straining to hear the quiet murmur of the ocean. I began walking toward it, needing to feel its tranquillity and contemplate whether my sister’s letter would be my salvation or my ruin.
* * *
Puffs of dirt sailed out from under the wheels of the coach like little whispers of goodbye. I stared down at my hands, not wanting to watch my life pass by outside the window. My mother had once told me that if you stared after somebody until they disappeared, you would never see them again. I refused to think of this parting as permanent, and so I kept my gaze fastened on the worn black leather gloves.
My sister’s words traveled with me each day of the long, arduous journey. I knew in my bones that something was dreadfully wrong, and I had to reach Elizabeth as soon as possible. The driver, a Mr. O’Rourke, deferred to my comfort, frequently asking whether I needed to stop. But I urged him on, conceding to stop and rest only when the horses were near exhaustion. My aching bones and muscles protested each mile, but my sense of urgency pressed us on. If I were not worried about the driver needing his sleep, I would have demanded that we drive day and night, not stopping until we reached the welcoming arms of my sister.
My mother would have been scandalized by my lack of a chaperone, but my circumstances had changed. I simply did not have the resources left to worry about social niceties. Patrick O’Rourke, a ruddy Bostonian, was courteous and protective, and I felt quite safe in his presence.
As we drove farther and farther inland, the heat and humidity pressed in on us, and I found myself missing the cool breezes of the ocean. The prick of tears began behind my eyelids, but I willed them away by pulling at my anger like an old wound, making it swell again inside me.
Twilight fell on us as we neared the outskirts of New Orleans and the final leg of our long journey. A spattering of rain slapped the roof of the coach, as if small hands urging us on. The coachman pulled up on the reins and stopped on the road near a muddy swamp visible in the dim light. He climbed down from his seat and opened the door of the coach to speak with me. Something screeched high in a tree.
“The road is very wet, and I do not want to risk going farther in the darkness. If it has been raining for a while, the river could have overflowed its banks and washed out the road. We would do best to find a place in town to stay and start off again tomorrow morning.”
I sat on the edge of my seat, listening to the croaking tree frogs and creatures of the night. I sniffed deeply but raised my hand to my nose when I smelled the murky miasma of the muddy river instead of the salty air of home. It had seemed so familiar for a brief, heartbreaking moment.
The rain fell harder as something screeched again, beseeching, pleading, crying. My skin tingled with the sound of it, hearing in it a spoken plea for help. I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. It was as if Elizabeth spoke to me through the wild animal, begging me to continue on.
Facing Mr. O’Rourke, I said, “No, we must go on. I am afraid this is a matter of the utmost urgency.”
His face, mottled with dark shadows and yellow light from the coach’s lanterns, looked down at me. “No, madam. We are turning back.”
I grabbed at his sleeve and leaned toward him, not caring about the rain soaking my traveling gown and cloak. “No. It is urgent I see my sister—tonight. And if you will not take me, then I shall rent a hack and complete the journey on my own.”
He stepped back as if to gauge my seriousness. I grabbed my carpetbag from the seat across from me and stepped out of the carriage, nearly tripping on my skirts.
“Please be so kind as to tell me the way to the city.”
The rain pelted on my bonnet and dripped onto my face, but I stood resolute.
The man shook his head. “Mr. McMahon will have my skin if I let you do such a thing. Please, madam, it is for your own good. Please get back into the coach.”
I jerked my arm away from him, the night sounds pressing close, the pulsing beat a rhythm of urgency. “I will only get back in if you promise to take me to Whispering Oaks. Otherwise I am walking.”
He turned around to face the darkness that eluded the small circle of lantern light. A guttural growl echoed in the distant swamp, pressing an unseen finger of fear at the base of my skull. I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. I made a move toward a lantern to remove it from its hitch.
Mr. O’Rourke stared at me, then pressed his lips together. “Fine, then. But do not say I did not warn you if we get stuck on the road.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Rourke.” Without waiting for his assistance, I stepped back into the carriage, afraid he would see the abject relief on my face.
The rain continued its steady pace, making the carriage sway to and fro more violently than before as the mud greedily sucked at the wheels. I closed my eyes in a futile attempt at rest and to still the chattering of my teeth. The humidity weighed on my person like a log, but my body shivered uncontrollably. From what, I could not say.
It happened before I had time to realize I was in danger. Mr. O’Rourke shouted, but before the sound had even reached my ears, a sickening thud came from the front left of the coach, followed quickly by the splintering of wood. The coach lurched to the side as the lantern light disappeared, sending me in a spiral through total darkness. I hit my head, disorienting myself momentarily, and then realized I was lying on the roof of the carriage, my skirts and feet under about a foot of water.
I shouted for Mr. O’Rourke, but only the incessant patter of rain and the interminable night sounds of the river answered me. Something splashed in the water outside the half-submerged carriage, and I called for Mr. O’Rourke again. This time, I heard his voice very faintly. I struggled to the side of the coach and fumbled with the upside-down door handle. It turned, but the door could not be opened.
“Help me! I cannot swim!” Mr. O’Rourke’s voice sounded stronger.
My blood stilled. It was as if I were hearing my Jamie’s voice again, crying for help from the water. I remembered jumping in to save him, feeling the pull of the water on my skirts, my arms cutting through the waves, strong and sure. But I could not save my son. And now the water taunted me, daring me to try again and surely fail.
The two horses whinnied, stamping their feet in the water and trying to pull away from the waterlogged coach. Something was out there. Something they did not like. I willed myself to move. I had to get to Mr. O’Rourke. With trembling fingers I removed my cloak and hat, then tore at my skirts.
Relieved of my cumbersome clothes and wearing only my underpinnings, I slipped easily through the window and found myself in water up to my knees. Tall grass reached up to my shoulders, brushing against me with deceptive sweetness. A faint light shone above me, and I looked up what appeared to be an embankment. The light seemed to be coming from one of the coach’s lanterns that had fallen during our plunge downward.
The plaintive cry of the driver came again. “Help me!”
I struggled through the tall grass, the blades tearing at my skin, then up the embankment. I used my hands to claw my way to the top, the dirt caking under my nails. “Mr. O’Rourke, where are you?”
The rain had slackened, and I listened closely for his voice. Something moved behind me, and a large splash broke the silence. I ran for the lantern and held it high over my head. The light picked up something white in the darkness, and I realized it was a leg waving from a scrubby tree high on the other side of the flooded road.
I clamped down on my teeth to cease their chattering, then spoke. “I will come get you—do not move.” My confident voice almost deceived me.
The earth reverberated with a muffled thudding coming up from the ground, racing up my legs, and matching the pounding of
my heart. I strained my eyes in the darkness, my mind tricking me into seeing would-be rescuers.
Rushing water and swishing reeds sounded from below the embankment to where the carriage lay upside down. The horses screamed, stamping up and down in the water. Thundering hoofbeats bore down on me as something slithered outside the realm of my lantern. A movement skittered past me and I startled, dropping the lantern, the light disappearing as suddenly as if a hand had closed on the flame. The water tugged at me, pulling at me, rendering me useless, just as it had once before. The water had beaten me yet again and I could not save Mr. O’Rourke.
The rain lessened as heavy clouds shifted above, uncovering a three-quarter moon and lending the tall reeds and scrubby oaks a blue cast. Bobbing lights attached to the thundering hooves grew larger, and I forced my legs to move, my feet slipping in the mud and mire as I ran toward the sound and lights.
“Elizabeth!” a man’s deep voice called out as the large form of a horse and rider took shape.
I reached toward him and felt strong hands grab me under the arms and lift me onto the saddle in front of my rescuer. The horse snorted and reared as other men on horseback arrived. A gunshot and then another rent the air. I struggled against the hard chest that seemed intent on smothering me.
“We must get the coachman—he is in a tree. He cannot swim.” I pointed to where the white of Mr. O’Rourke’s shirt shone in the darkness.
The man stiffened, then pulled me against his chest again and began barking orders. More shots were fired up in the air as a horseman rode across the submerged road to rescue Mr. O’Rourke.
His voice was hard and deep, as if used to delivering orders. The men followed his directive without question. My face was pressed against a smooth linen shirt, the smell of starch mingling with cigar smoke, leather, and the smell of a man—a smell I had once enjoyed and now pulled away from like a skittish horse. But muscled arms held me fast, and I sat rigid, trying to limit the contact between our bodies. He twisted in his saddle and I found myself enveloped in a large wool cloak.
Another horseman pulled alongside. “It does not seem to be robbery. The coachman is our Mr. O’Rourke. Is the woman Elizabeth?”
My rescuer grunted. “No.” His fingers worked their way around my jawbone and tilted my face to his. He raised a lantern and his breath hissed as he sucked it in, his face wearing the shock of a man who had seen a ghost. “Who are you?”
I recognized him then, the coal black eyes glittering in the lamplight. John McMahon, my brother-in-law. A small tremor passed through me. “I am Catherine, Elizabeth’s sister. Where is she?” Running water moved under us, the small rippling teasing my ears as I waited for his answer.
He lowered the light, casting his face in shadow. “She is gone.”
I gathered the cloak under my chin. “What do you mean, gone?”
His warm breath brushed my cheek, making me shiver, and I felt those dark eyes on me again. “She has disappeared, with no indications as to where she might be. No one has seen her for four days. She is simply . . . gone.”
He reined in his horse and turned it around. Holding me tightly against him, he urged on his mount, the thundering hoofbeats resonating like a distant nightmare.
CHAPTER TWO
Either the chill of the humid night or the slowing of the horse woke me from a brief doze. The rain had stopped, leaving a pungent scent of wet mud and grass in the air. I jerked awake with a start, aware of the hushed feel to the air. My grandmother’s house loomed ahead like a brilliant ghost through the alley of live oaks. The eight Doric columns along the front of the structure gleamed in the moonlight. Long fingers of Spanish moss reached down toward us, the storm-born breeze causing them to undulate like a hand beckoning us onward.
The darkness came alive as we neared the house, torches on poles illuminating the night and making it as bright as day. Despite the late hour, small groups of men approached on horseback, and small campfires brought the smells of coffee and food to us.
“Are they searching for Elizabeth?”
My brother-in-law said nothing, but continued to move toward the house, coming to a halt at the foot of the wide steps. A young boy appeared and took the reins of the horse as my captor slid to the ground with me in his arms. As if I were a baby, he effortlessly carried me up the stairs and through the wide set of mahogany double doors and into the foyer I had not seen since I had been a young girl in plaits.
But I was no longer a helpless girl. Life had certainly stamped her out of existence, and I refused to be treated as one. I struggled against him. “Please put me down. I am more than capable of walking.”
Without a word, he approached the wide, elegant staircase and proceeded to carry me up the stairs two at a time. With a booted foot, he pushed open a door at the top of the stairs and unceremoniously dumped me in the middle of the bed. I recognized this room—along with the tall four-poster with red velvet hangings—as the one I had stayed in as a child.
I scrambled off the side of the bed. “How dare you, sir! I am not a child. And I demand to know what has happened to my sister.”
He stood in the doorway, the breadth of his shoulders nearly filling the space. “I will send Marguerite for you.”
With that, he closed the door neatly behind him.
I flew to the door, flung it open, and stifled a scream.
A woman, perhaps twenty years my senior, stood close enough that I could smell the cooking smoke in her hair. Pale green eyes stared out of a face of light brown skin. Hair the color and texture of dried moss was pulled off her face and wrapped in a scarf, showing a cluster of gray at the temples. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw me, as if she recognized me.
I did not know this woman, nor did I expect to. In letters from my sister, she had explained that her husband had freed our grandmother’s slaves and brought in hired Irish help from Boston, and a few local, freed slaves to work the sugar plantation.
“I am Marguerite,” she said. “Mr. McMahon has asked that I see to you.”
Her voice, low and soothing, surprised me. It was not the voice of a servant, but rather that of an educated white woman.
I tried to see past her, but she gently led me back into the room and closed the door. “We need to get you cleaned up and fed. After a good rest, Mr. McMahon will see you.”
For the first time I became aware of the heaviness of John McMahon’s cloak around my shoulders. Looking down, I saw with dismay the muddy condition it was in and the unmistakable white of my undergarments showing beneath.
Reluctantly, I allowed Marguerite to help me bathe. She brought in a white cotton nightgown for me to wear, and I caught the familiar scent of lavender on the robe as I put it on. It was my sister’s scent, and I felt a stab of panic and worry course through me. Where is Elizabeth?
A steaming tray of food was brought to me, and I ate from hunger. I should have refused it on principle. My brother-in-law had been a major in the Federal Army, his rank no doubt protecting his land and property from the marauding armies of the North. But I had survived far worse than starvation thus far, and I was not about to succumb to something as unworldly and impractical as principle. I speared a steaming forkful of ham and stuck it in my mouth.
Marguerite reappeared as soon as I was finished and whisked the tray away with a promise that Mr. McMahon would be in to see me as soon as he could. I crawled under the sheets and lay against the white linen pillowcases, a luxury I had not indulged in within recent memory. I closed my eyes to rest and soon sank into peaceful oblivion.
When I awoke, I blinked in confusion. The candle by the bed was barely more than a wick, the sputtering flame wreaking havoc on the walls in the forms of shadowed beasts. I sat up suddenly, aware that I was not alone.
John McMahon sat in the wooden rocker by the fire, his coat gone and his white shirt lying opened at his neck. His black hair, just brushi
ng his collar, was swept off his forehead, as if by agitated hands. Long legs encased in knee-length black boots were braced on the floor, and in his hand he held a glass of spirits. He stared at me with something akin to revulsion. An unseen energy seemed to hum around him, crossing the room to where I lay. My skin tightened, and I pulled the covers up to my neck.
“This is not acceptable, sir, for you to be in my bedchamber. Please leave. I will speak to you in the library after I have properly dressed.”
“Why are you here?” He acted as if he had not heard me speak, his eyes never leaving my face.
“My sister sent for me.” I almost mentioned to him about her fear and the sense of urgency I had felt, but I did not. Something about his demeanor alarmed me, and if there had been something for Elizabeth to fear, I had the suspicion that it very well could have been the man sitting across from me. “Did she not mention it to you?”
He took a long sip from his glass, his eyes glittering in the faint light under stark brows. “No. She did not. That is why when I saw you I thought . . .” He lowered his gaze to stare into his glass, his brow furrowed. He turned to stare into the flickering flame. “Do you realize how much you resemble Elizabeth?”
Despite our four-year difference in age, people who did not know us well would mistake us for twins when we were children. But as we grew, our faces and demeanors seemed to evolve into that of two quite distinct people: Elizabeth, the otherworldy beauty excited by new dresses and parties, and me, the reserved sister, the one satisfied to sit on a beach for hours, her bare feet stuck contentedly under warm sand. As we had reached womanhood, people no longer considered us to be quite so similar.
“Not anymore,” I said. “I have not seen Elizabeth in nearly seven years. Perhaps we have grown alike again.”
He tilted his head back against the rocker, staring at the undulating images on the ceiling. “You could be one and the same.” He took another sip and in the still room I heard him swallow.
