by Karen White
She studied my hair. “I do not know who would do such a thing, Miss Catherine. It could be bad gris-gris. Or maybe somebody just wants to warn you.”
I knew what gris-gris was, having spent time in my girlhood at my grandmother’s plantation. There had been a young slave, Rowena, who had been about my age and whose mother secretly practiced voodoo. I had been fascinated, if not wholly convinced, with her potions and charms, but I knew there were more than a few who believed one could be a fixer of a curse and, thus, be crossed by the same.
Marguerite’s hands rested on my shoulders near my neck as our gazes clashed again in the mirror. “Maybe somebody’s just trying to warn you. Maybe they think that whatever happened to your sister could happen to you if you stay here much longer.” She shrugged. “It is not my business to know.” She stuck a hairpin firmly into my hair, pricking me in the back of my skull and filling me with a sense of foreboding.
My toilette completed, I went outdoors. The thick odor of the river pervaded my first breath of morning air as I stepped outside. My nose wrinkled, and I wondered if I would ever get used to it. As I walked toward the stables, I looked out toward the sugar mill and the fields, the tall cane swaying from unseen hands. On the outskirts of the field I saw dark men, their torsos shirtless in the heat of the morning, carrying long wooden-handled blades with hooks on the end. They were slicing at the cane near the ground where it grew, leaving patches of bristled cane that resembled the fur on a frightened cat.
I recognized Mr. O’Rourke inside the stable, spreading fresh hay. He looked startled to see me, then visibly relaxed when I spoke.
“Hello, Mr. O’Rourke. I see you have recovered very nicely from our little mishap.” I forced a smile on my lips, but it was not returned. “I hope you will accept my apology for getting us into that mess. You were right. We should have stopped. But I knew my sister was in trouble. . . .” My voice trailed off, my fingers fiddling with my riding gloves.
“Can I help you with something?” He closed his mouth, stingy with his words.
A horse whinnied in a back stall. I doubted my host would easily accept my asking the servants about Elizabeth, but I saw no other recourse for solving the mystery of my sister’s disappearance. My brother-in-law certainly had no intention of enlightening me further. “I have been meaning to ask you a question. When my sister sent you to me, did she say anything about where she might be going?”
He glanced at me quickly, his eyes resentful, before going back to his job of spreading hay. “No. She gave me my instructions and indicated that I needed to follow them as soon as possible.” He paused for a moment, his lips pressed tightly. “I believed that Mr. McMahon knew of her plans, which is why I did not question them.” Looking at me with narrowed eyes, he said, “I do as I am told and nothing more.”
I nodded, uncomfortable with the news of my sister’s deception. I recalled Marguerite’s words regarding the servants who thought I was Elizabeth but with a temporary gentle spirit inside. I wondered if Mr. O’Rourke was of the same school of thought. I swallowed, embarrassed, then changed the subject. “I would like to go for a ride. Does my sister have a mount?”
He straightened, dropping a handful of straw. “Yes, she did. But she didn’t like to ride her. Preferred to take Miss Rebecca out in the buggy instead. Never wanted a chaperone, she said. Was content with just her daughter.”
“Is her horse still here?”
The first smile erupted on Mr. O’Rourke’s face. “Oh, she is a fine filly. I ride her myself just to give her exercise. The mister bought it for his wife, but I do not think she has ridden her but once or twice.”
“What is her name?”
I was amazed to see a flush appear on his broad cheekbones. He looked at his feet and kicked at the newly strewn hay. “Mrs. McMahon named her Jezebel.”
“I see,” I said, understanding Mr. O’Rourke’s discomfiture. “May I ride her, then?”
“Yes. Just give me a few moments to get her saddled for you.”
“Thank you.” I moved my hand to my skirt, intent on brushing away a stray strand of straw. When my fingers touched the fabric, I felt something hard and unyielding within.
I thrust my hand into the pocket and pulled out a small brass key. I held it up, examining it closely. The key was too small to be a door key, yet big enough to serve another purpose. Perhaps it was for a desk or letterbox? I slipped the key back into the pocket, intent on pursuing it later.
Jezebel was a bay with smooth chestnut hair and a black mane. A calm horse, she gently nuzzled my neck as I stood near her and rubbed her nose.
“She is delightful,” I said, glad to have finally made a friend at Whispering Oaks. I wondered why my sister had not ridden her. Elizabeth had been a fine rider at home on Saint Simons. But even then she had preferred riding in the phaeton. She claimed she could spread her dress prettily and avoid the dust that way. I had preferred the exercise of galloping on the beach and narrow lanes of the island, racing the ocean-born breeze and feeling the wind pull at the pins in my hair.
Mr. O’Rourke helped me mount. “I will return in a moment to escort you. Mr. McMahon would not want you riding unchaperoned. But I can only be gone for half an hour. I am needed in the field to help bind the cane and cart it over to the mill.”
“Really, Mr. O’Rourke. That is not necessary—and I hate to cause you any trouble. I promise I will not go far and I will rub Jezebel down myself when I return.”
He cupped his hand over his eyes to shield them from the piercing morning sun. I felt drips of perspiration slip down between my shoulder blades as I sat still in the saddle. Finally, he spoke.
“If you promise not to go too far, I do not suppose Mr. McMahon would mind. But stay close, you hear? Go toward the river—you will find bridle paths there. Keep out of the swamp on the other side of the property. It is not safe even for those of us who know it well.”
I remembered well the area he spoke of. It had been one of my favorite places until Elizabeth had told me it was haunted by the ghost of the Indian lady and her baby. The horse shifted, and I held tightly to the reins. It had been Elizabeth’s favorite place, too, and I wondered if it would hold any clues to her disappearance. I coughed, the cloying smell of hay, horse, and humid air pressing in on me.
Nodding, I pulled Jezebel away. I adjusted the small hat on my head, waved goodbye to Mr. O’Rourke, and headed toward the river.
My own horse on Saint Simons had been a gelding named Persimmon, and our favorite pastime had been riding along the beach at low tide, the spray of water kicked up by his heels shimmering in the island sun. But he, as so much in my life, had been taken from me. Like most of the livestock on our plantation, he had been confiscated as enemy contraband by the Yankees. I missed Persimmon more than I cared to admit. But there was so much to be missed, I dared not think of any of it at all. Otherwise, I would stop in my tracks and suffocate from the thoughts, just as if a heavy blanket had been wrapped around my face.
Jezebel cantered down the dirt lane between the dropping oaks. At the end of the drive, I pulled up and looked back, making sure we were no longer in view of Mr. O’Rourke. Slowly, I turned her to the right, running parallel to the river, and toward what Mr. O’Rourke had referred to as the swamp. It was really nothing more than a bog, with ornamental gardens that had been planted by my grandmother, complete with a grotto and whimsical brick bridges. It had been a magical place for me at first, before Elizabeth had told me about the ghost and I found myself looking for an apparition behind each tree.
I skirted the pond in the back of the property, then headed toward the cover of trees surrounding the bog before anyone in the tall cane fields could spot me.
Nothing looked familiar as I ducked under the shade of the trees. Things were hushed in there, as if I had entered another world. The horse whinnied, stepping back, but I urged her on. The barely discernible path was s
trewn with sticks and rocks, making it hard to stay on solid ground. Choked reeds of swamp grass hovered in their shifting garden, the alluvial sand moist and sucking. We edged forward until we reached what was left of Grandmother’s clearing, and my heart sank with sadness. Nothing here resembled the magical world of my girlhood. It appeared as if my last refuge from my old life was gone.
Moss covered a stone bridge, its color a deep mottled gray. Weeds grew in profusion at the base of the grotto, almost completely disguised by ivy. A small gecko, its tongue whipping in and out in a furious manner, darted its head in my direction, then disappeared over a slime-covered rock.
A cloud of gnats lifted from the still water and enveloped both me and Jezebel, causing her to move her tail with a frenetic swish. I swatted at them with my arms, almost sliding off balance as Jezebel stepped back to get away from her tormentors.
A small splash diverted my attention for a moment. Only swirls of water eddying out toward the path remained of whatever creature had made the noise. I leaned forward to get a better look when Jezebel reared, knocking me completely out of the saddle. I hit the ground hard, my leg landing on a rock and bearing the brunt of my fall. The horse reared again, nearly catching me underneath her panicked hooves. I hunched over, my arms crossed over my head, not looking up until I heard her hoofbeats running down the path from whence we had come.
I sat up, trying to catch my breath, an icy finger of foreboding brushing the back of my neck. A thick black snake lay coiled only inches from my hand. Its tail vibrated as it raised its head, opening its mouth to reveal a white interior.
Cottonmouth, I thought calmly. I did not move; even my breath remained still in my chest. Staring at the snake, its obsidian eyes watching me closely as its head swiveled in the air, I felt no fear. Perhaps the lack was due to a primal act of survival. Or perhaps my life had left me immune to fear. Regardless, all I felt in the first moments after I spotted the serpent was simply, Let it be quick.
Leaves crackled on the path behind me but I did not turn my head. As the scaled body reached me, the air was rent with the sound of a shotgun, and the snake exploded into bits of skin and gore. I turned my head away, feeling pieces of it land in my skirt and hair.
A man’s harsh voice spoke beside me. “Rufus, go get Dr. Lewiston and tell him to come to the house.”
John knelt by my side. “Are you hurt?”
His voice was anything but solicitous. I shifted away from him and tried to stand, but my legs buckled under me. John caught me and lifted me in his arms.
I tried to push away. “Please, let me down. I can walk.”
Ignoring me, he pushed his way down the path. He addressed the man Rufus again. “I asked you to get Dr. Lewiston. Now go!”
I lifted my head and stared at Rufus, a large black man whose broad shoulders strained the buttons on his red and white checked shirt. The man’s eyes were wide with fear, the whites showing around the round black iris. He stared at me as if he were looking at the devil incarnate.
He spun on his heel and fled down the path in front of us. Shortly after he disappeared, I heard the beat of hooves riding away. My leg throbbed and I began to see spots in front of my eyes. Reluctantly, I laid my head on John’s chest, finding the warmth of him cold comfort.
I was vaguely aware of him lifting me onto his horse and mounting behind me. I slumped against him and did not protest when his arm came around my waist to hold me steady.
His voice was low but forceful when he spoke. “Did not Mr. O’Rourke give you explicit instructions to stay by the river?”
I did not lift my head. “Yes, he did. Please do not fault him for this accident. I simply wanted to explore my grandmother’s plantation. I am not a stranger to this place, you know.”
He stiffened and I shifted my head, pressing it against the linen of his shirt. My cheek brushed against soft flesh, stinging me, and I realized his shirt lay open. I heard his intake of breath and looked up at his unreadable eyes. I ducked my head again, taking care to rest it on cloth.
“If my overseer had not seen you, you would be dead by now. There is no cure for a cottonmouth’s bite.” He took a deep breath. “I am master of this plantation now, and I expect everybody to follow the rules that I have set. I cannot have people disobeying me. I have got much more important things to take care of than playing nursemaid to a silly woman who will not listen to directions.”
I bolted upright, causing him to tighten his hold on my waist. “I am not a child who needs instructions and discipline.”
“I beg to differ. Perhaps you are not so unlike your sister after all.”
I stayed where I was, not touching him. “It has been more than six years since I have seen her.” My voice caught and I looked down at my hands. His hold on me loosened. “And it would seem that there was quite a lot about Elizabeth that I was not aware of.” I looked directly into his eyes. “I doubt that we are very much alike at all.”
I leaned back against him again as we continued our ride in silence. Finally, he said, “Elizabeth never knew how to give proper thanks, either.”
His words brought back the memory of a Christmas when I could not have been more than twelve and Elizabeth sixteen. I had received the gift of my dreams, a rabbit-fur muff to keep my hands warm on chilly winter days. Elizabeth, despite having received an entire room full of gifts, threw a tantrum because she had not received a muff, too. Upset to see her so distraught, I had given it to her. She wore it every Sunday to church during the winter season, and it gave me great joy to see it bring her such happiness. I did not recall her ever offering to me a word of thanks, but, then, she did not have to. She was my sister and I loved her.
“What do you mean?” I asked, too lulled into complacency by the warmth of his hard chest to take affront at his suggestion that I was ungrateful.
He did not speak for a moment. Then: “I understand that your life has been difficult these past few years. If I had known of your plight, I would have offered help sooner. I do not know how much Elizabeth was aware of your situation. She never discussed it with me.” He paused, looking out toward the cane field. “I do feel responsible for you, and I would appreciate it if you would accept my help without complaining. It would make it easier for both of us.”
“I never asked for your charity,” I said, not sure whether I should be angry or grateful. “I fully intend to return to Saint Simons when Elizabeth is found. I doubt I will require your assistance after that.” I sincerely believed that I would rather starve than ask this man for help.
“Then you could at least say thank you. Surely your Southern pride does not override common courtesy.”
We entered the shade of the oak-covered lane leading to the house. My cheeks flamed, and I was glad my mother was no longer alive to witness my lapse in the manners she had instilled in me from the cradle.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice low. “Thank you,” I said again, louder this time. “For the new clothes. Marguerite told me not to mention it to you, but I do not want you to fault me again for deplorable manners.”
His voice sounded puzzled. “Really? I wonder why she would say such a thing. If something makes you happy, I would like to know about it. If it makes you smile, I would double my efforts to repeat it. I would venture to say that your lips have not smiled much in the recent past.”
I bent my head, attempting to hide the flush I felt rising to my cheeks. This man unsettled me greatly, and I did not want him to.
I was spared from saying anything else by our approach to the house. Once again he lifted me from his horse and carried me inside and upstairs to my room. As he placed me gently on the bed, his arms seemed to linger. My skin burned through the fabric of my dress where he touched me, causing an ache I had not felt in years. I looked into his dark eyes, the pain in my leg and the day’s adventure making me reckless. I made a stab at imitating Elizabeth’s flirtatious natu
re. “I am starting to make a habit of needing your rescue, am I not?”
He released me and stood. “Yes. It would appear that you are.”
His solicitous manner had changed suddenly into one of wariness. “I will send the doctor up when he arrives. In the meantime, I will have Marguerite see to your needs.”
I heard a quick swish of fabric and the muffled sound of running feet out in the hallway. John appeared not to have noticed.
Just as sudden as his change in mood, he left the room.
Marguerite came and dressed me in one of Elizabeth’s nightgowns and laid me against pillows on the headboard. She examined my leg, pressing on the sore spot, and pronounced it not broken. Then she left, too, and I dozed.
The eerie melody seemed to creep into my brain as I slept, nudging my memory. All I knew for certain when I opened my eyes was that it had something to do with Elizabeth.
I saw the child Rebecca and her doll sitting at the foot of my bed, humming the melody, and I started.
“Hello, Rebecca,” I said, yawning. “Where have you been all morning?”
Grass stuck in her hair, and her wayward braids were almost completely undone. A tear in the hem of her dress hung open. Her doll had fared no better, with dusty smudges on her face and pinafore. I imagined she had been attempting to hide from Marguerite again.
I wondered at her sudden appearance at the foot of my bed. Then a thought occurred to me. “Did you know Dr. Lewiston is on his way over?”
She looked at me shyly and her pixie face brightened with a grin. Her blue eyes sparkled, and I caught my breath. I sensed the spirit of my son within her and felt a small portion of my heart begin to thaw.
I recalled the sound I had heard out in the hall when John was placing me on the bed. “Do you like to spy on people, Rebecca?”
Her thumb popped into her mouth as the fingers on her other hand twirled Samantha’s yarn hair. She nodded solemnly, as if she expected me to scold her.
