by Karen White
“What interesting things you must see.”
Before the child could reply, a sharp rapping came from the door. It startled me, as I had not heard footsteps. I called out for whomever it was to enter, then greeted Dr. Lewiston.
He smiled, giving Rebecca an odd look. I wondered how much of our conversation he had overheard. He smoothed Rebecca’s hair, then rested his hand on her shoulder as he addressed me. “I understand you have had another accident.”
“It was silly, really. My horse got spooked by a snake, and I fell off. I hit a rock and I hurt my leg.”
“I see,” he said, setting down his black bag on the bedside table and opening it. “Let me make sure it is not broken; then I will have a poultice made to reduce any swelling. You will be as good as new in no time.”
I turned my head as he administered to my leg and pronounced it merely bruised. I thanked him and prepared to say goodbye when Rebecca began humming her mournful tune again.
The doctor paled, turning his head toward Rebecca. The child caught his movement and stopped.
I pushed myself up against the pillows. “Perhaps you can help me, Doctor. I am so sure I know that melody, but I cannot quite place it. Do you have any idea what it could be?”
He shook his head, forcing a smile, but his face blanched. “No. I do not believe I have heard it before. It is very beautiful, though.”
He snapped his bag closed. With another pat on her blond head, Dr. Lewiston handed Rebecca a stick of licorice. She looked down at the piece of candy, then stole a glance at me, a glance so full of childish humor, that I had to wink at her. The rush of pleasure I received from that one little act healed a small part of the great wound inside me. It would take much longer to heal completely, but I recognized then that the road to recovery did indeed exist, and that I might have found my way to that meandering path.
CHAPTER SIX
The same young girl who had brought my breakfast came to my room after the doctor had left. She entered, visibly trembling, her gaze darting about and landing on everything but me.
I slid from the bed, limping as I approached her and noticing how she flinched as I neared. “What is your name?” I kept my voice low so as not to frighten her further.
Her jaw shook so badly it was difficult for her to force out the words. “Del . . . phine.” Her gaze stuck to the floor.
“Delphine. What a pretty name. I am glad to meet you.”
The girl stood quietly shaking, her dark skin matching the cocoa color of her dress. I was beginning to lose patience. Superstitions or not, I could not manage with an entire household of servants frightened of me.
“I am Mrs. Reed—Mrs. McMahon’s sister. I understand we look quite a bit alike.”
Amber eyes flickered up to my face, then back down again. “Yes, ma’am,” she mumbled. Still studying the floor, she forced out, “Dr. Lewiston’s stayin’ for supper. Mr. McMahon wants to know if your leg’s feelin’ better and if you wants to join them.”
My leg was sore, but walking on it held no difficulty. “Tell Mr. McMahon that I will be there. Please send Marguerite to help me dress.”
She gave a quick curtsy, then scurried from the doorway. I hobbled to the window seat and sat down. I moved aside the lace curtains and looked out upon the lawn. This had always been my favorite part of day, the time when the sun gave way to the gathering dusk, its thin fingers of light holding on to the earth as they clawed their way to the edge and disappeared.
Oh, Elizabeth. Where are you? What were you so afraid of? A heavy breeze moved the curtains, brushing them against my face. A soft tapping sounded at the door, and Marguerite appeared with a gown over her arm.
It was beautiful—a midnight silk that shifted from blue to black as the light moved over it. The neckline was uncomfortably low, but I recognized it as a favorite cut of Elizabeth’s. Marguerite offered to do my hair, and stood behind me at the dressing table as she brushed out my long dark curls. Her eyes sparkled in her reflection, as if she held something back, something she could not wait to share. But she kept silent, the rhythmic strokes of the hairbrush almost hypnotic.
When she was finished, I checked my reflection in the cheval glass, surprised at what I saw. Years of near starvation had hollowed out my cheeks, adding a bit of mystery to my face and making my eyes appear even larger. The dress, like most of Elizabeth’s clothes, fit me well, if just a bit loosely around the waist and hips. After all, she had been well fed in Massachusetts during the long years of the war. But the gown hugged my bosom like a glove, displaying more of my chest than I thought proper. I searched in vain for my shawl, then had to be contented with just tugging at the neckline to pull the dress higher.
I followed the male voices to the parlor and found Dr. Lewiston and John speaking companionably, with little Rebecca perched on her father’s knee, giggling as he bounced her up and down like a horse. The doctor, while replying to his friend, never looked away from the child, his face aglow with affection.
The moment I stepped into the room, all movement and words ceased. I stood, hovering on the threshold, unsure. The doctor stared, his voice suspended midsentence. Something sparked in his eyes, then disappeared again. John merely glowered, his lips clamped shut.
Rebecca stopped chortling and began to scream the wailing sound of a banshee. It chilled me to the bone that such a small child could hold that much grief and pain inside. Dr. Lewiston stood, his face devoid of color and his mouth open in abject surprise. “Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice rasping the word.
John stood, too, holding his daughter against him while she buried her streaming face into his neck. “It is all right, sweetheart. It is just Aunt Catherine.” He held the back of her head as she ventured a look at me. She stopped screaming, then stuck her face back into her father’s neck, still sniffling.
I took a step forward, then stopped. “I am Aunt Cat. Remember?” I spotted Samantha lying prone on the floor and picked her up. Cautiously, I approached Rebecca again, handing her the doll. She took it and buried her face in the doll’s chest with a huge sniffle.
I looked at John. “What is wrong?” I felt as if I had walked undressed into the room. I pressed my fingers to my neck, feeling the rapid pulse of my blood. Why had Rebecca acted so frightened? What, or who, had terrified her so in the past to cause such a reaction? I wanted to leave, back out of the room unnoticed, anything to stop the terror in the child’s eyes and the shock on the faces of the two men.
Dr. Lewiston approached, his smile warm but his face strained. He offered his arm to me. “Nothing, my dear. I just believe we are all hungry and ready for supper. Please do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to the dining room.”
With a glance back at Rebecca, who seemed to have calmed down considerably, I placed my hand on his arm and accompanied him to the dining table.
I do not recall what food I stuck in my mouth and swallowed. The air in the dining room was stifling, despite the slight breeze creeping under the tall windows. Three sets of eyes regarded me intently, as if I were the evening’s entertainment.
Dr. Lewiston watched me with a look I imagined a man would give a beloved object he had lost and then found again in the most obvious place.
John left most of his food untouched, but drank glass after glass of wine, his cool dark eyes watching me, then watching Dr. Lewiston’s close appraisal of me.
When Mary brought in dessert, I begged a headache and excused myself. Welcoming my escape from the dining room, I ran quickly upstairs. As I reached the landing, I leaned against the banister, trying to find my breath, my heart hammering in my chest from the exertion. I was not used to wearing stays, my life of the last year making them unnecessary and absurd, and I was finding myself constantly out of breath and on the verge of fainting.
The door at the end of the hallway stood open, spilling light onto the dark floor. This had been my grandmoth
er’s room, and I knew that it now served as the master bedroom. I faced the door for a moment and spotted a bright splash of color on the wall—a splash of midnight blue.
Slowly I approached the door and pushed it open, the hinges moaning a protest. There, hanging on the wall opposite a huge rice poster bed, was a full-length portrait of Elizabeth. She wore the same silk dress that now clung to my frame. Instead of feeling comforted, the sight made me feel unclean.
The portrait could have been me, except for the eyes. The eyes I saw in my own reflection were haunted and hungry, but still quite human. The ones in the portrait were cold and lifeless. If I had not known the subject of the portrait, I would even have called them malevolent.
A hot breath teased at the back of my neck. I spun around and found myself staring up into the face of John McMahon.
I swallowed. “It was the dress, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. Keeping his voice low, he said, “It was quite a shock for us. The resemblance . . . especially in that dress, with your hair done up that way . . .” His voice lingered.
His presence held me to the spot, draining me of the will to move away. “I do not understand. She is your wife! Why do reminders of her bring such terror to not only you but to your daughter as well?”
His gaze flickered across my face as he raised a hand. I did not flinch as he lowered a finger to my neck and gently brushed away a lock of hair. I felt the heat of his touch long after he had removed his hand and half wished he would touch me again. Still, I did not look away.
“You are so much like her, and yet . . .” He stopped, his gaze regarding me openly. “You have such a gentle spirit. I am left to wonder sometimes if I married the wrong sister.”
My eyes widened and he stepped back, breaking the spell. He walked toward the portrait and stood before it. “Elizabeth seemed to always be searching . . . searching for something more. Whatever would make her happy. I am afraid that whatever it was she required, I could not supply. It did not matter where she lived. She was miserable in Boston and here. And when Elizabeth was unhappy, she made sure everybody around her was unhappy, too. Even an innocent child.”
My gaze wandered to the looming portrait, but I found I could not look at it. Small snatches of memory came at me, making his story ring true. Even as a child, Elizabeth had been full of mischief, always goading me into one of her adventures. Her mischievous behavior never seemed to take the form of inquisitiveness, but rather stemmed from her desire to experience things new and dangerous. Her vivaciousness always seemed to mask something darker, something unsettled about her. Yet her persuasive charm was something few could resist. I grew comfortable in her shadow, only sharing the center of attention with Elizabeth when I could be dragged along, clinging to her skirts.
He sighed, still absorbed with the portrait. “There is something within me that almost wishes she were gone forever. There were certainly times when my anger at her was so great, I could have . . .”
He stopped speaking and turned, as if he suddenly realized I was there. A cold chill gripped me as I stared at his hands. I had felt how gentle those long, powerful fingers could be. But I wondered at what else they might be capable of. My husband had had gentle hands, too. Yet they had committed such a vile act of revenge, an act tantamount to severing a part of me. The evil that lurked inside a man’s heart was rarely visible to the naked eye, yet I knew enough never to put any man above suspicion.
As if sensing my thoughts, his entire demeanor shifted to the cold, brooding one I had grown used to.
I suddenly realized I was in his bedchamber, alone with him. “I should not be here. I am sorry. I saw the portrait. . . .” I backed out of the room. Looking down at my feet before turning and retreating, I stammered, “Good night.”
I felt his gaze on my back as I walked down the hallway to my room.
* * *
I sat at the writing desk in my room, dressed in one of Elizabeth’s nightgowns and my own wrapper, nearly overwhelmed with the cloying scent of lavender that clung to her clothes and stationery. Unable to sleep, I had tried to write a letter to my closest neighbor on Saint Simons, but had held pen poised over paper for nearly an hour with only the greeting spelled out.
I did not want to discuss Elizabeth’s disappearance as of yet, nor her enigmatic husband. I was not sure what I thought of him, and certainly could not construe that on paper.
The doctor had left shortly after dinner, and I was disappointed that I had not had the opportunity to talk more with him. I found his company entertaining and peaceful—completely the opposite of my host’s.
When I heard his buggy being brought around, I had peered through my window. Dr. Lewiston had not seen me, but as the buggy drove down the drive, I looked down to find John’s dark eyes staring up at me from the front entrance steps. I had quickly let the curtain fall.
I laid the pen down and rubbed my eyes, finally ready to seek the comfort of my bed. The room was stifling, with no hint of a breeze coming from the open window. I slapped at a mosquito that had found its way inside, thankful once more for the netting hung around the bed.
I stood and opened my door, trying to catch a cross breeze. As soon as the door opened, I heard scurrying feet at the end of the hallway. I stuck my head out in time to see the bottom half of a small white nightgown disappearing around the corner of the hallway.
Grabbing my bedside lamp, I sped toward the fleeing figure. As I reached the corner and looked down the hallway, I was surprised to find it deserted. Baffled, I raised the lamp higher to see if anyone could be lurking in a corner. This portion of the house contained guest bedrooms that were barely used in my grandmother’s day. Elizabeth and I had played hide-and-seek in them, and I had been locked inside more times than I cared to recall. Servants rarely came to this wing of the house, and I had once been left in one of the rooms until supper. Elizabeth had been my rescuer, hailed by our parents as the heroine of the day. I had waited for her to mention that she had also been my jailer, but I do not believe she ever did. I so enjoyed seeing her revel in all the attention that it never occurred to me to mention it.
I called for Rebecca and listened. A clock chimed softly from the depths of the house. I was about to call for her again when I heard the distinct sound of bare feet running upstairs. I recalled the door to the attic was on this corridor and I hurried to it. Flinging it open, I shone my light into the dark space. I thought I saw another flash of white at the top of the steps and raised the light higher. Nothing but uninterrupted darkness touched the circle of light.
“Rebecca?” I called again. Something rustled up the stairs, and I quickly followed the noise into the attic.
I remembered the large space from childhood, exposed beams and stacks of old trunks and furniture pushed against the perimeter walls. It was hot and stifling, a breeze stealing its way through a broken window the only relief. A movement sounded overhead in the rafters, something different and not at all the sound of a young girl’s footsteps. “Rebecca?” I said, my voice quiet and not too steady. Something fluttered above by the roof, and I jerked my light to see. Straining my eyes, I could see only the blackness.
A huge crash from behind spun me on my heels. I gasped, spotting Rebecca standing not two feet away holding the ubiquitous Samantha, a heavy shape at her feet. “What are you doing?” My voice was lost in my throat as I regarded her.
Without a word, she dashed away in the direction in which I had come and disappeared down the dark and silent steps.
With my heart knocking loudly in my chest, I bent down to discover what had been knocked over. My hand touched something smooth and solid. Wood, I thought. I set the lamp down to get a better look.
It appeared to be a box-shaped object and it was lying on its side, the apparent victim of a fall from a nearby low chest. Using two hands, I picked it up and turned it over, ecstatic at my discovery. It was a letterbox, my sister’s initi
als carved on a brass plate on the top, a matching brass keyhole winking at me in the dim lamplight.
The key! My hand fell to the pocket of my wrapper. The key had been left in the skirt of the riding habit. Had Marguerite taken it to be laundered? Eager to discover if the key and this box belonged together, I lifted it and tucked it under my arm.
I felt a brush of air near my cheek and then a light form touched the top of my head and disappeared into the blackness of the ceiling. I screamed, dropping the box. The sound made the attic erupt into motion as a dozen fluttering objects propelled themselves from the rafters and dove at me, whipping at my hair and touching my clothing. I abandoned the lamp and the box and crawled toward the steps, the sound of small bodies whipping through the air surrounding me. I swallowed the bile in my throat and concentrated on making it the short distance to the stairwell.
I stumbled down the wooden steps, my knees and hips taking the brunt of my fall. Struggling to stand, I fumbled for the doorknob in the pitch-darkness, feeling the relief flood through me when my hand grabbed the cool brass. I turned it and pushed, but the door held fast. I tried again with no success. The door was locked.
The panic spread through my veins like a raging fire as I pounded on the door with the flats of my hands. “Let me out!” I shouted, the air around me roiling with unseen tormentors. High-pitched squealing bounced against my eardrums, reverberating in my head.
The door swung open and I fell through it and into the arms of my sister’s husband. He slammed the door behind me, creating an immediate silence. I clung to him with both hands, my body shaking, but my will still strong enough not to give way to tears. No man would ever see my tears again.
His arms fell around me, pulling me against him in the hushed hallway, pressing my head against his chest. He smelled of his own unique scent of soap, cigar, Scotch, and something else. Something raw and powerful and as enticing to me as blood to a mosquito.
