Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  “Take all you want, Mrs. Reed. There is plenty more in the kitchen.”

  I dropped the serving utensil ungraciously onto the platter, feeling the flush rise in my cheeks.

  “I apologize. I did not mean it unkindly. I only meant to imply that we have plenty of food and I would like you to avail yourself of it.”

  I looked down at my hands resting on the snowy white napkin in my lap, the nails brittle and broken but mercifully now free of dirt. Humiliation simmered under my skin at the need to take this man’s charity. He had worn the dreaded blue, and it was his ilk who had brought me so low.

  I raised my napkin to the table in an indication that I was through with the meal, but my host appeared not to notice as he cut up meat for Rebecca. The child had sat silently since I had been seated, slowly chewing food her father cut and put on her plate. Her almond-shaped eyes seemed to miss nothing as her gaze shifted between her father and me.

  Mary stood behind John with the bowl of yams and took the lid off the dish. He waved her away, and she returned it to the server.

  “Do you not care for candied yams, sir?”

  His gaze met mine slowly, as if embarrassed about something. “No, actually. I do not.”

  “Then why have them at your table? Surely, as the master of the plantation, you can dictate what is served?”

  He took a long drink of wine, then offered a smile to Rebecca before answering me.

  “Elizabeth told me once they were a favorite of yours. I thought they might help you feel not so far from home.”

  I carefully studied my plate, unsure of my response. I was humbled, but at the same time could not help but think he had an ulterior motive for showing such concern. Finally I said, simply, “Thank you.”

  Slowly, I slid my napkin back to my lap, lifted my fork, and speared a bite of sliced ham. “Any news of Elizabeth?”

  He took his time chewing and swallowing and I wondered if he were stalling for an answer. When it came it was short and abrupt. “No. I am afraid not.”

  I leaned forward. “Should you not be the one traveling to Baton Rouge and New Orleans to search for her? Why leave such an important detail to others?”

  His face appeared set in stone as his eyes narrowed. “I am needed here. If she chooses to return, this is where she will find me.”

  I slapped my fist on the table, making the wine dance in the glasses. “But what if she is in danger? What if she needs you?”

  His face relaxed as heavy-lidded eyes regarded me. “That, my dear Mrs. Reed, is highly unlikely.”

  I sat back in my chair, stunned. I remembered Elizabeth’s letter. I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. What had she been so afraid of? And was it enough to send her away without a word to anybody?

  Too late, I remembered Rebecca’s presence. She had been quietly eating, but now I realized she had dropped her fork and was listening intently. My heart sank as I tried to recall what we had said and if she would find any of it hurtful.

  John picked up a silver bell at the end of the table and rang it. His hands were so gentle when he touched his child, but their breadth and strong tendons told of their hidden strength. I could not help but wonder what those hands were truly capable of. Within moments, Mary rushed in, her freckles prominent in her flushed face. “Yes, sir?”

  “Tell Marguerite that Rebecca is done with her dinner and is ready to be put to bed.” Mary left as the child slid from her chair and moved to put her head on her father’s arm. He reached a hand around her shoulders as she stuck her thumb in her mouth and continued to regard me closely.

  “Mama?” she said. I watched as she ducked under her father’s arm and came to stand near me.

  A warm, sticky hand reached up, hesitated a moment, then touched my cheek. Pain chilled my veins. I wanted so much to comfort this motherless child, to smooth away her fears. But I could not. When I looked into those cursed eyes I was reminded again of what I had lost. I averted my head, afraid she would see the tears welling in my eyes.

  Marguerite came and took the child, and only then did I look up. My brother-in-law was looking at me coolly, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “I see you have more in common with your sister than mere looks, Mrs. Reed.”

  Without explanation, he excused himself and stood, leaving me alone at the table.

  Having no more appetite, I, too, slid back my chair and left the room.

  Dusk had settled over the plantation, casting more shadows inside the dimly lit house. I wandered the downstairs, curious as to the obvious lack of house staff. A cloudy chandelier suspended on a velvet rope in the foyer swayed gently in the hot breeze from the open windows. The candles flickered briefly, undulating like lovers in the sticky heat.

  I drifted into the front parlor, where a lone hurricane glass offered the only illumination. Long shadows followed me as I sat down at the piano in the corner, an old friend from the days I visited my grandmother. Sighing softly, I pressed down a few keys. I was surprised to find it in tune. My fingers touched each key, sliding up a chromatic scale and then down again. I began playing a tune with just my right hand, plucking out each note from memory. I realized I was playing the song I had heard Rebecca humming and stopped, the last note echoing in the dark room.

  A movement in the corner twisted me around. The tall form of my brother-in-law stepped forward. The light was behind him, casting his eyes into dark circles of shadow. “Please do not stop. This house has not heard music in a very long time.” He stepped around me and lit three arms of a candelabra atop the piano. The breeze from his movement brushed my skin, making it tingle with what seemed a thousand pinpricks.

  I turned around on the bench, self-conscious. “I am not that good. Elizabeth was the one with all the musical talent, I am afraid.”

  “I would not know. She has never played for me. I made sure to keep it tuned, but she never showed any interest.”

  He stood behind me, and the room began to feel incredibly small. Gingerly, I stroked the keys, my hands finding their homes, and started a Brahms waltz. His presence unnerved me, causing my fingers to stumble like a small child learning to walk. I lifted my hands from the keyboard but did not turn around. “I am a bit out of practice, I am afraid. My piano was demolished by the butt of a Yankee rifle. It made it quite difficult to play.”

  I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth, but my anger still burned fresh. I let my hands fall to my sides. “Why was Elizabeth so unhappy?”

  Only his soft breathing answered me. Then, after a moment, “She alone could tell you that. She did not make me privy to her thoughts. And I eventually grew tired of asking.” He remained behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath on the top of my head. I did not turn around.

  “Was it your decision to keep the birth of Rebecca a secret? I cannot believe that was my sister’s wish.” I kept my gaze focused on the keys, watching the light dance with the shadows upon their surface.

  He shifted away from me. I turned and watched as he walked to the window and stared out through the murky glass. “You were not the only one she kept in the dark. I did not know I was a father until my first furlough during the war. Rebecca was already five months old.”

  The sadness in his voice was palpable, tugging at my compassion. But I held back, wondering if this man was responsible for Elizabeth’s actions. I smoothed the fabric of my dress. “This woman you describe is not the sister I remember.”

  He stared at me a moment, the house utterly quiet except for the breeze moving through the darkened rooms. “Perhaps. People do change. Or maybe you never knew the real Elizabeth.”

  I stood. “I assure you, sir, my sister and I were very close. There were never any secrets between us. At least not until she married.”

  He tilted his head as he regarded me. “You are not the young woman I remember from seven years ago. The first time I saw yo
u, you were dancing barefoot along the beach, impervious to the broken shells. I gather that it has been some time since you have felt carefree enough to do such a thing.”

  I flushed, embarrassed that he should recall such an intimate detail about me. “I suppose, Mr. McMahon, that a war can change people. I do not believe that girl exists anymore.”

  I moved to the doorway, and he followed me. Turning to say good night, I found him standing very close. Something akin to panic flooded through me and for a moment I could not find words. He spoke first.

  “If Elizabeth never returns, would it be your desire to take Rebecca to her mother’s family?” Penetrating eyes stared down at me.

  “No.” My vehemence showed in the one syllable. I recalled the small cemetery where the rest of my family lay, and the scorched and overgrown land that had once held so much bounty. “There is nothing left of our family on Saint Simons. And I do not think I could care for another child.”

  His eyes never left my face. “Good. Because I would never let her go.”

  “The child is yours, sir. I would not consider taking her from you.” I looked for an answer to my unasked question in those eyes. “Elizabeth will return. She must.”

  I waited for a response, but he remained silent. My heart thudded in my ears. Something about this man pushed at my blood, making it rush through my veins in a hurried torrent. I stepped back. “I am tired and will retire now to my room. Good night, Mr. McMahon.”

  I reached the bottom of the stairs before he spoke. “If you will be staying here for an extended period of time, you might call me John.”

  My hand flew to my neck, where I felt the heat under my palm. I forced my voice to stay calm as I stared at my hand on the balustrade. “If you wish. And you may call me Catherine.”

  I took two steps.

  “Good night, Catherine.”

  I paused, then turned around. “Good night, John.”

  The shadows hid his face, but I was quite sure I saw a glimmer of white. I hurriedly climbed the stairs, feeling his gaze upon my back until I disappeared from view.

  * * *

  My heart pounded as I entered my room. I had to lean against the door to catch my breath and recover from the heat that had suddenly pervaded my body. The bedside lamp had been lit and it threw a circle of light over my bed, illuminating black spots on the coverlet.

  Thinking they were insects but wondering at their stillness, I approached cautiously. When I got close enough, I realized they were leaves. Gingerly, I scooped a few into my hand.

  They were thin, shiny dark green leaves, about six inches long. I sniffed them, hoping for a clue, but I could smell only the night air.

  The hair at the back of my neck stood up and I turned to the closed door, thinking I heard a footfall in the hallway. I flung open the door but saw no one. Immediately, I ran for the bell and pulled it urgently.

  I waited for what seemed an eternity, but was most likely only about five minutes, until Marguerite appeared, her eyes heavy with sleep and wearing a cotton wrapper. “Yes, madam?”

  I opened my palm to show her the crushed leaves. “I found these on the bed. Do you know what they are or how they got there?”

  Green eyes widened and I saw fear in them as she gazed at me. “Those are oleander leaves. They can kill you if you eat them.”

  My hand shook a little. “How did they come to be on my bed?”

  She shook her head. “I do not know. Maybe some of the other servants are playing a trick on you.”

  “Really,” I said, sounding doubtful. “What other servants? I have yet to see any evidence of their existence.”

  Marguerite crossed her arms over her chest. “They are afraid of you. Those that did not run off because of your sister do not like to show their faces too much.”

  “What do you mean? Why would they be afraid of Elizabeth?”

  Dark lashes lowered, hiding her eyes. “There are some who take their unhappiness out on other people.”

  “Why do you think Elizabeth was so unhappy? What would make her so miserable?”

  She shook her head, then fixed her cool green gaze on me. “People build their own prisons and then do not know how to find a way out. It made her angry—and she would take that out on whoever was about.”

  I swallowed, not quite believing what she said of Elizabeth was true. “But why should they fear me?”

  Her eyes seemed to flicker. “You look so much like her, they think you are one and the same. They think a voodoo priest has you in a spell and you have a nice spirit in you now, but the evil spirit will come back.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That is nonsense.” She continued to stare at me as if I were the one speaking irrationally. “You may go now. I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep. Good night.”

  “Good night,” she muttered, before leaving and closing the door quietly behind her.

  I stared at the closed door for a long while. Then, opening my hand, I let the leaves fall slowly to the floor.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I slept fitfully, waking throughout the night, sure I had heard a footfall nearby. Whispering voices moved from my dreams to my waking, causing me to sit up in bed, my ears straining to hear what was being said. When I opened my door, I found more oleander leaves sprinkled on the threshold of my bedroom. Somewhere in the depths of the house, a door closed, and I shivered in the warm air.

  After twisting the key in the lock, I went back to my bed and lay down, not again closing my eyes until the white light of dawn peered through the windows.

  I was awakened midmorning by Marguerite knocking on my door. I opened it and she bustled into my room with an armful of clothes. Following her was a young black girl, around fifteen or sixteen years of age, carrying a steaming breakfast tray. I tried smiling at the girl, but she kept her eyes averted from me the entire time she was in my room.

  The girl set the tray on the bedside table as Marguerite spoke. “They are starting to harvest the sugarcane today, so you best stay out of Mr. McMahon’s way. You will be getting most of your meals in your room until the harvest is over.” I nodded, my heart sinking slightly. I was already terribly lonely, and the thought of not seeing another adult for days on end, even if the adult were morose and not extremely pleased with my presence, was stifling.

  Staring at the large bundle in Marguerite’s arms, I protested. “I am in mourning, Marguerite. I really cannot wear those clothes. But thank you.” I looked at the bundle closely. “Did you notice any of Elizabeth’s things missing? Things she might have packed if she were going on a trip?”

  She continued folding and placing the clothes in the large rosewood armoire—the same armoire I remembered being locked inside as a child by Elizabeth in a game of find the button. She was quiet for a moment, smoothing down fabric and ruffles. Then she said, “No, ma’am. Not that I recall. And I would have noticed. Seems like she just ran off without a second thought.”

  I swung my legs over to sit on the edge of the bed. “Do you really think she ran off? What would have made her do something like that? She knew I was coming.”

  She regarded me coolly for a moment. Changing the subject, she said, “Mr. McMahon told me to bring these in for you. He also told me to burn your old things.”

  She glanced at me from the corner of her eye as I sat up straight with indignation. “They are the only clothes I own, and you will not burn them.”

  She shook her head. “Mr. McMahon will not be very happy to find his orders are not being carried out. You best just let me have them.”

  I slid out of the high bed, my feet slapping the wood floor. “I will not.”

  Marguerite turned toward me, her hands on her hips. “He has ordered new dresses for you.” Her green eyes narrowed. “I was not supposed to tell you that, so keep it to yourself. If I were you, I would just accept it and leave it at that. Mr. McMahon doe
s not like to draw attention to himself.”

  Who did the man think he was, orchestrating something as personal as my own wardrobe? He could order dresses without my knowledge as much as it contented him. But I would never wear any of them.

  Marguerite picked up what looked to be a black serge skirt. I raised my hand. “Wait. What is that?”

  She held it up for me to see. “Miss Elizabeth’s riding habit.”

  “May I see it?”

  I held the soft fabric in my hands, noting the exquisite workmanship. Small grosgrain-covered buttons ran up the front, and a large pocket decorated the left side of the skirt. The collar and cuffs were of fine cream linen. A blue grosgrain cravat completed the ensemble. It was simply beautiful and carried the mark of my very elegant older sister. I slid my fingers over the fabric. It had been many years since I had been privy to such a beautiful thing. Every stitch of clothing I owned had been taken by the soldiers before they burned my home, leaving me with only what I had on my back. I had been given two more dresses by kind neighbors, who helped me dye them black when it became necessary for me to wear the mantle of mourning.

  “I will wear this,” I said, holding it up to me. “I would like to go riding this morning.”

  She nodded and helped me dress.

  I felt almost foolish wearing such high style. It had been much more my sister’s desire to be fashionable than mine. She had waited with anticipation for the day she could put up her hair, lower her skirt lengths, and wear a corset. I had dreaded it, knowing how the auspices of womanhood would restrict me in ways not just physical.

  As Marguerite stood behind me, putting the final pins into my chignon, our gazes met in the mirror. “I found more oleander leaves outside my door last night. Do you know how they got there or what they might mean?”

  I studied her reaction closely, looking for some clue. There was something about this woman that made it clear she did not like me. Whether it was because of my resemblance to Elizabeth, I could not say.