Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  John took his hand and shook it. “Thank you, Daniel. But I do not think there is anything else anybody can do right now. I have got my men going all the way to New Orleans and Baton Rouge. I can only wait here for word of her.” He concentrated on pulling the riding gloves off his fingers. “Clara tells me that Elizabeth came to see you last week.”

  Dr. Lewiston’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well, yes . . . Yes, she did. But you could have asked me, you know, instead of my wife. I would have given you the same answer.”

  John appraised his friend with narrowed eyes. “I am sure you would have. But you were with Mrs. Brookwood and I did not want to disturb you.”

  “Yes. I was.” The doctor clamped down on his teeth, and I could see his jaw muscles working.

  “Was my wife ill, Daniel?”

  The doctor looked his friend squarely in the eye. “I am not at liberty to say. Elizabeth can tell you herself when she returns.”

  John took a step forward, but the doctor refused to step back. “And if she does not come back?”

  The doctor squared his shoulders. “Then we will discuss it. But she will return. I know it.”

  John’s eyes clouded as he stared out across his sugar fields. “I wish I were as confident as you, Daniel. But I have my doubts.”

  Despite the heat of the day, I shivered. I stood, ready to confront him with his reasons for doubting Elizabeth’s return. I paused in midbreath as the front door swung open with a crash and a young girl, about four or five years of age and clutching a doll that was nearly as big as she was, ran out onto the porch, neatly colliding with Dr. Lewiston.

  Unbound blond hair, reaching almost to the child’s waist, hung limp and wet with sweat, the girl’s cheeks reddened with exertion. Marguerite followed her closely out the door but pulled up abruptly when she saw the three adults.

  “My apologies, Mr. McMahon. I am trying to get Miss Rebecca to learn her letters, but she keeps running away from me.”

  The girl clung to the doctor’s knees, refusing to relinquish her grasp. Dr. Lewiston stroked her hair and murmured comforting words while keeping a wary eye on his friend.

  I watched as John’s face softened, resembling the look I remembered him saving for Elizabeth when they had first met. He knelt, bringing his tall frame down to a more approachable level for a child, and held out his arms. Rebecca lifted her face, then ran with her doll to John with outstretched hands.

  His transformation from a brooding ogre was completed as he kissed the bright blond head and lifted her into his arms. She put her head down on his shoulder and stuck a thumb in her mouth.

  “Perhaps, Marguerite, you should attempt to make the lessons more stimulating for a child. For heaven’s sakes, she is running away from you, not her lessons. Play with her. Make her laugh. God knows there is not enough of it around here.”

  Marguerite’s mouth tightened. “You are undermining my authority, Mr. McMahon. I have raised children before, and I know what is best.” She stepped forward as if to take the child, but John held tight.

  “Please do not touch her—can you not see she is upset? It is time for her nap. I will take her upstairs.”

  I raised my hand to stop him. “Please wait. I would like to see her.” I walked toward the child and brushed the blond hair away from her face. Her coloring was so different from Elizabeth’s, but the eyes, almond-shaped and a vibrant blue, were identical. I touched the back of my hand to her cheek, then jerked it away. They were also Jamie’s eyes. If her hair and brows were darker, it could have been my child.

  She stopped sucking on her thumb, those eyes regarding me closely. And then she began to scream.

  I stepped back, astonished at her reaction, wondering if she had sensed any of my sadness and disappointment that she was not the child I wished her to be.

  John pulled Rebecca away from my reach, then entered the house without a glance back. I sat down in my chair, trying to catch my breath.

  Dr. Lewiston spoke softly to me. “Do not worry, Mrs. Reed. Rebecca is a high-strung child and is overtired at the moment. I am quite sure it had nothing to do with you.”

  I nodded, still unable to speak, and wondered if my own animosity toward the child was a random event or a personal reaction to a child who resembled my son so much that I could feel nothing but resentment toward her.

  I rocked in silence as Dr. Lewiston approached Marguerite. “It is good to see you again, Marguerite. Clara still misses you and sends you her best.”

  Marguerite gave him a tight smile. “Thank you, sir. She knows I feel the same. But we do manage to see each other often enough, I suppose.”

  A subtle change flickered over the doctor’s expression. “Really? Clara has never mentioned it to me.”

  Lids lowered over pale green eyes. “You were most likely too busy tending to your doctoring to notice such things.” She reached for the door handle. “I must see to my duties. It was good seeing you, Dr. Lewiston.”

  With a small swish of her skirts, she disappeared inside.

  The doctor leaned against a column, his arms crossed over his chest. “She raised my wife from birth. Clara considers her almost her mother.” He pulled a gold watch out of his watered-silk waistcoat and looked at it for a moment before replacing it. “Had to sell her during the war—needed the money—and Elizabeth certainly needed the help. Your sister was not as . . . strong as she would have liked to be, and she needed another female here at Whispering Oaks. Soon after purchasing Marguerite, John freed her.” He took a deep breath, his face sad. “I suppose she will stay on for Rebecca’s sake. Until Elizabeth returns,” he added hastily.

  I rubbed my temples with the pads of my fingers, the start of a headache beginning to pound behind my eyes.

  The doctor’s voice was soothing. “Will your husband be joining you?”

  I blinked at him in the sun, unable to find the words. Finally, I managed, “He will not be. I am . . . I am in mourning.” I took a deep breath, needing sympathy from a kind soul. “For my son, too. He drowned.”

  He stood, swallowing, and I saw the kindness in his pale gray eyes. “I am sorry, Mrs. Reed. You, well . . .” He looked down at the celery green gown I had borrowed from my sister. “You are not dressed in mourning.”

  “My clothes were ruined in an accident. This is Elizabeth’s dress.”

  “Yes, I just realized.” He stood near me. “I am sorry for your loss.” I looked into his eyes and saw that he meant it. He took my hands and squeezed them.

  “Yes, well . . .” I dropped my gaze and stared at his pale hands covering mine, the skin as soft and smooth as a girl’s. Gently, he let go.

  “I must be leaving. Would you please do me a favor?” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a short rope of licorice. “Rebecca loves these. I always give her one when I see her. Would you be so kind as to pass this along to her?”

  I did not want to, but I realized I could not avoid the child forever. Perhaps this would serve as a sort of peace offering. I nodded and took the piece of candy.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reed. It is greatly appreciated.” He bowed, placed his hat over his head, and descended the steps. As an afterthought, he turned toward me as he reached the bottom. “Do call on us soon. My Clara would love to meet you. She and Elizabeth were great friends. We are straight down River Road in Saint Francisville. Barely thirty minutes by horse.”

  I smiled, ignoring his past-tense reference to my sister. “I will. Thank you.”

  He waved as he walked toward the stables, and I turned back to the house.

  I paused in the dim doorway, hearing the strange humming again. The tune vibrated against my own lips, so taunting in its familiarity, yet its identity still beyond my grasp. With the licorice held tightly in one hand, I slowly ascended the stairs, following the haunting melody hummed with such sadness by a young voice.

  The
door to Elizabeth’s room stood open and I approached it with caution. Quietly, I peered in, not sure what I would see.

  Rebecca sat on a small chair in front of a dressing mirror, wearing nothing but her camisole and bloomers, her large doll leaning against her legs. I remembered that she was supposed to be napping, and wondered what she was doing in her mother’s room.

  She sat brushing her fingers through her long, fair hair as she stared transfixed into the mirror. The lingering scent of lavender made me turn my head, as if my sister had just walked through the room. Only dark corners and rose-colored satin bed linens met my gaze.

  The humming ceased, and I focused back on the little girl. Her blue eyes widened with fear as she spotted me, and she scrunched her shoulders as if trying to disappear into the dressing table. Oh, Jamie, I thought, and breathed, the crushing sadness upon me again. I turned to leave, then stopped. She was only an innocent child, my sister’s child. Perhaps she needed comfort now as much as I did.

  Slowly, I turned to face her. Not quite managing a smile, I approached, the licorice held in front of me. When I stood before her, I knelt, remembering her father’s action.

  “Dr. Lewiston asked me to bring this to you. He says it is your favorite.”

  Her head was down, dimpled hands folded on her lap. I touched the back of a hand with the piece of candy. Without looking up, pudgy fingers opened up and took it.

  I was so close, I could smell the sweetness of her. My heart broke again as I remembered holding Jamie and burying my face in his little neck and crying with the joy that he was mine.

  My voice faltered but I swallowed, clearing my throat. “Do you know who I am?”

  She shook her head, still looking down.

  “I am your aunt Cat. Your mama and I are sisters.”

  That brought her head up as two piercing blue eyes stared at me intently. I forced myself not to look away.

  I patted the yellow yarn hair of her cloth doll. “What is her name?”

  “Samantha.” Her voice was clear and high-pitched. So much like Jamie’s.

  “She is beautiful. Where did you get her?” I lifted the doll to get a better look and noticed the painted-on bright blue eyes.

  “My papa. She is my friend.” She grabbed the doll and hugged her close.

  Abruptly, she slid from the chair and ran past me and out of the room.

  I stood to follow her, then halted. Turning around, I looked down at the dressing table. Except for a nearly empty bottle of perfume, it was bare. Dust outlined where a hand mirror would have lain, and long, dark strands of hair littered the top. But there was no sign of my sister’s comb, brush, or mirror.

  I walked toward the large armoire and threw it open. Ruffles and flounces of every type of silk, satin, and linen filled the entire space, hiding the back of the armoire. It would have been impossible to determine if something were missing. I pushed two dresses aside and peered into the back of the armoire. An empty brass hook, made to hang a dressing gown, winked at me. I looked on the floor of the armoire to see if it might have fallen, but there was nothing there except a pair of evening shoes. The scent of stale lavender permeated the small space, almost gagging me.

  The humming commenced again, so I closed the armoire behind me and followed Rebecca to her room down the hall. She stood before a tall chest and was tugging on a bottom drawer. I knelt next to her and helped her open it. She looked at me with grateful eyes, imparting a tender thread of trust in me.

  I gasped in surprise as I looked at the contents of the drawer. It was filled with licorice ropes identical to the one I had just given her. With little aplomb, she dumped her latest addition to her collection.

  “Are you saving them?” I asked, curious.

  She shook her head, blond hair swinging. “No. I do not like them. But Mama says I will hurt Dr. Lewiston’s feelings if I say no. So I keep them here.”

  “I see,” I said, brushing hair off her face. She didn’t flinch.

  We both turned at a sound from the door. Marguerite stood there, a frown on her face.

  “Mrs. Reed, it is time for Rebecca’s nap. It would be much better for the child if you would leave and let her rest.” She came over and took the doll from Rebecca’s arms and tossed it on the bed.

  I opened my mouth for an explanation, then closed it. She was right: The child needed her rest.

  I rose, resisting the impulse to pat the little girl on the head, and left. The door shut abruptly behind me, and as I walked down the hallway to my own room, I heard the haunting melody drift through the house once more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Marguerite had laid a deep blue silk gown on the bed for me to wear to the evening meal. I walked past it and opened the armoire, where the cleaned and dried clothes from my trunk had been hung.

  I stared in dismay at mended spots and uneven dye color, my gaze straying to the silk gown on the bed. With a sigh, I pulled the faded black cotton from the armoire and called for Marguerite to help me dress before heading down to dinner.

  The smell of food drifted into my room, enticing my long-starved appetite. I paused in the gloomy hallway, the dusty lampshades mellowing the yellow flames, breathing shadows onto the walls. I descended the stairs, listening to the tread of my slippers, the only sound in the tomblike silence.

  The dining-room table had been set with three places, with Rebecca and her father already seated at one end of the table. Samantha must have been left in the nursery. John’s gaze flickered over me, and he frowned as he eyed my dress. He stood and indicated the chair to his right.

  He pulled the chair back for me, his presence somehow unnerving to me.

  “Was there something wrong with Elizabeth’s gown?”

  I shook my head, embarrassed that he had noted the condition of my clothing. “No. But I am in mourning.”

  He took his seat, then filled my goblet halfway with red wine, a drop staining the white linen tablecloth and spreading like a drop of blood. “I assumed you were in mourning from your clothes. I am sorry for your loss.” He stared at me, unblinking, for a moment. “The dark blue was the closest I could think of. Elizabeth does not own anything black. Or anything very dark, for that matter.”

  I looked down at my plate, feeling my face color. It had never occurred to me that he had selected the gown.

  Eager to change the subject, I turned my attention toward Rebecca, who sat silently in the chair across from me, thumb in mouth.

  “Does Rebecca usually join you at table?” I watched as Rebecca slowly twirled a blond lock around her finger.

  “Why do you ask, Mrs. Reed? Do you not like children?”

  My host indicated to Mary that she should start serving the food. She came to stand by me with a covered silver dish and lifted the lid. Candied yams, covered in sauce, swam invitingly inside, making my mouth water. I helped myself to a large portion, concealing the fact that his question had stilled my hunger pains.

  “That is not what I meant. My husband and I always enjoyed our son’s presence at our table. But I know not all parents feel that way.” I took a bite full of yams, savoring the sweet taste.

  Strong fingers wrapped around his goblet, obliterating the facets of light. “Elizabeth did not allow it. But she is not here, and I like Rebecca to dine with me.” The same hand that had been grasping the wineglass so tightly now softened and reached for Rebecca’s tiny hand. Palm upward, he closed his fingers around hers.

  “Did your son remain on Saint Simons, Mrs. Reed?”

  The candied yams seemed to stick in my throat, but I forced them down with a swallow of wine. I took another quick gulp, needing the fortitude to find words to describe the loss of my son without communicating the depths of my grief. That was mine, and all I had left. I would not share it. Especially not with this forbidding man, who would offer brittle platitudes that could never compare to the warmth of
my son’s hand in mine.

  “My son is dead, Mr. McMahon. He drowned this past March.”

  Ebony lashes lowered over dark eyes. “I am sorry. I cannot fathom the loss of a child.”

  His voice caught, giving me a start, and I noticed how his hand closed even tighter over his daughter’s.

  I took my time cutting a piece of ham and then chewing it. “I am sure you can understand my dedication to finding my sister, sir. She is all I have left.”

  His weary gaze brushed my face. “But surely you two were not all that close. We have not seen you since the wedding.”

  I pressed my napkin to my lips. After her marriage, Elizabeth had promised to visit, but never had. Even at my wedding, and our parents’ funerals, followed so closely one after the other, Elizabeth’s presence had been conspicuously absent. We assumed the reluctance lay on the part of her husband, which would also have been the reason why I was never invited to visit her here. And then the war came, and Elizabeth was sent to live in Boston, and all contact had ceased. Until her last cryptic note.

  “That was not my choosing, sir.” I lifted my gaze to his, expecting to see guilt. But all I saw was confusion and perhaps regret.

  A black eyebrow shot up, oddly resembling a crow’s wing. “Nor was it mine. You were always welcome in this house, as you are now. Even up North, Mrs. Reed, we are capable of extending hospitality. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.” He took a long drink of his wine, his gaze never leaving my face, the sincerity of his words unclear. “I simply expect you to follow my rules in this house. And that would include staying out of rooms I have told you are off-limits.”

  I recalled Elizabeth’s dresser empty of toiletries and her missing dressing gown. I wondered if that was what he did not wish me to see.

  Mary stood by my side again with sweetened corn bread, and I helped myself to two large pieces, remembering in time to use the serving utensil instead of my fingers. Starvation had been my companion for so long, I could hope only that my table manners would not desert me completely.