by Karen White
Ignoring the blood thumping in my temples, I approached the attic door with purposeful footsteps. “Rebecca!” I called again. “Come here this instant. This is not the time for playing.”
Approaching the door, I picked up the doll, still damp from its adventure in the pond, and peered up the dark steps. “Rebecca! If you are up in the attic, I ask that you come down now, or I will have to punish you.”
Somewhere deep in the recesses of the great house, I heard the humming again, faint and liquid, oozing up the walls toward me. It seemed to come from the very plaster. Clutching the doll tightly against my chest, I stepped back and into a rock-hard chest. Strong hands held my arms. With a deep breath, I turned.
John’s eyes regarded me calmly. “Catherine, what is wrong?”
I swallowed and kept my voice steady. “I am trying to find Rebecca. I think she is playing tricks on me.”
He looked past me and up the attic stairs. “Do you think she may have run into the attic again?”
“At first I thought so, but I just heard her somewhere else in the house.” I indicated the doll. “But she had to have been here just a moment ago, because I found this here. She must be very fast, because she was able to run down the corridor and down the steps before I could even turn around.”
John took the doll. “I think I will take a look in the attic anyway.”
He stepped past me and took the stairs two at a time. The wood floor creaked as he walked overhead and softly called his daughter’s name.
I heard him at the top of the steps and watched as he slowly descended the stairs. His brow was furrowed as if in deep thought.
I wondered at his expression. “Is everything all right? Did you see any sign of Rebecca?”
He shook his head. “No. I didn’t see anything.” He stepped past me, still holding the oversized rag doll. It reeked of wet wool and pond water, and the old feeling of panic settled in my veins again. I placed my palms flat against the wall behind me, trying to steady myself.
John looked at me. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, forcing my breathing to return to normal. I searched for something to distract my thoughts. “I heard raised voices downstairs. Does Dr. Lewiston know anything more about Elizabeth?”
He turned his back to me as if preparing to leave but remained where he was, his attention on the damp doll in his hands. “Yes, actually. He did.”
I moved closer to him, my hand raised to place on his arm. I let it drift back to my side. Being this near to him affected my senses in ways I could not control, and to touch him might be disastrous. “What did he say?”
He tilted his head, an ebony brow cocked like a crow in flight. “I told you that some secrets are best buried with the dead. Perhaps this would be one of them.” He started to walk away, his boots thudding softly on the carpet runner.
I walked quickly toward him. “If this concerns Elizabeth, then I demand to be told. I am stronger than you seem to think and . . .” My words died in my throat as it constricted, and I thought for one horrifying moment that I might cry. Perhaps it was his brief look of sympathy as he turned to face me, or perhaps it was the shock of my sister’s death that suddenly paralyzed me, but I found myself standing in front of John, unable to speak a word.
Inexplicably, he reached a hand to my face, and I did not flinch. He wiped away a tear and let the back of his hand caress my cheek. “My dear Catherine. You have already been through so much.” His hand stilled as I trembled at his touch. “I am loath to add to your burden.”
I turned my head aside, making him drop his hand. “My burdens are not your concern. Tell me what Dr. Lewiston told you. I need to know.”
His eyes darkened as he stared dispassionately at me. “Elizabeth was with child. That was the reason she went to see Dr. Lewiston before she died.” He turned from me once more, the doll hanging limply at his side.
I raised my hand to touch his shoulder but let it fall. “I am sorry. This is a double loss for you.”
He shook his head and stepped away. “The child was not mine.”
His words reverberated in my mind as I watched him approach the stairs.
I followed on his heels and clutched at the railing. “Wait.” I nearly screamed the word. “What do you mean?”
I watched his jaw work, as if negotiating a difficult mouthful. “I do not wish to sound indelicate, but you have been a married woman and understand the affairs between man and wife. Suffice it to say that I know, without a doubt, that I could not possibly be the father of her unborn child.”
He paused for a moment, as if to gauge my reaction. Seemingly satisfied that I would not faint and take a plunge over the banister, he turned and continued his descent.
I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down on him, my mind reeling from the implications and trying to think clearly. “But, that would mean . . .” My face flushed hotly.
He turned to stare up at me, his eyes hard. “Yes, Catherine. Your assumptions would be correct.” He bowed slightly, then turned away. “If you will excuse me, then, I must go find my daughter and return her doll.”
I listened until his footsteps faded away. My gaze strayed to the closed parlor door, the stilled body of my sister lying behind it, and I wondered, not for the first time, what other secrets might have died with her. I fled for my bedroom. Lying on my bed, I stared up at the canopy until the beat of my heart had returned to normal and I could fill my lungs with air again. Finally, I turned to my side, my sister’s name whispered on my lips. “Was this why you were so afraid? And would this be reason enough for your husband to end your life?” I listened to the dying winds as they blew goodbye to the old house by whistling under the eaves, the sound eerily like that of a crying baby. I blinked, feeling the tears run down my face. “Who were you really, Elizabeth? I do not seem to recognize you at all.”
I let the tears fall until none were left. My gaze roamed the room, searching for what, I did not know. Finally I settled on the gown I had worn the previous day. Delphine had hung it outside the armoire to dry thoroughly before putting away. I sat up quickly, the room spinning for a moment. Slowly, I slid from the bed and approached the dress. My fingers crept to the large patch pocket and pulled out the gold key. Reaching in again, my hand closed over something smooth and hard, and I lifted it out. I opened my palm and stared at the pipe, the smell of tobacco still fresh. I recalled John’s puzzled expression as he descended the attic stairs and felt with certainty that I knew why.
I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. The pipe fell from my hand, landing with a small thud, and sprinkling dark tobacco on the cream-colored rug like spots of blood.
* * *
Soldiers came at dawn the next morning to take Elizabeth away. I did not venture downstairs, but watched from my bedroom window. I saw John speaking with familiarity to the captain. The captain squeezed John’s shoulder, and I wondered if they knew each other from the war and if their friendship might bear some weight on the proceedings.
I listened as the soldiers scuffled their way into the parlor and began carrying out the coffin. A man cursed and something crashed to the floor. With a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, I raced to the top of the stairs, clutching my wrapper tightly about me.
One end of the coffin had dropped, a deep gash in the freshly polished wood floor bearing testament to what had happened. The lid had slipped, revealing Elizabeth’s face, her sightless eyes now open and staring directly at me. I turned my face away, more from respect for the dead than from any fear I might have felt. Despite the vagaries of my life over the last few days, I stubbornly clung to my fearlessness. If war, starvation, and grief had not yet killed me, then surely they had made me stronger. For seeing the corpse of my sister, her clear blue eyes coldly appraising, did not scare me. But what had put her in her coffin certainly did—if not for my own sake, then for that of her child, Rebecca.
; I turned back to see John placing coins over Elizabeth’s eyes to keep them closed. With impatience, he instructed the soldiers to seal the coffin again. They hesitated, and more than one remarked on the incredible preservation of the body. If not for the still chest, she appeared to be sleeping.
With the cloying scent of freshly hewn pine heavy in the air, they lifted the coffin once more and carried it out the door to the waiting wagon. I stayed where I was at the top of the stairs, listening until I could no longer hear the wheels rolling down the long drive. Before I could turn to go, John reentered the house and stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me with a shadowed face.
“You look like an avenging angel.” His gaze swept over me, lingering on the almost-transparent white fabric of my wrap that fell over my legs and then moving slowly upward until our eyes met.
Unbidden, my pulse raced faster. I clutched the fabric tightly under my neck. “Perhaps I am.”
His eyes darkened as he put one booted foot on the lowest step. “What do you mean?” He climbed another step toward me.
I did not back away. “I meant that perhaps I am here for a reason.”
He did not drop his gaze but continued to climb the stairs. When he reached the step below me, we were at eye level. I did not blink under his close scrutiny. “Tell me, then, Catherine. What do you think happened to Elizabeth?”
I dropped a hand from my wrapper and reached for the banister behind me. “I do not know. I think we all must wait until we learn of the cause of death.” My pulse raced and skittered, but not from fear. What I felt was much more of a curse.
He was close enough that when he spoke, his warm breath pushed at the fine hairs lying on my forehead. “Do you think I had anything to do with her death?”
I could feel my own heart beating. The need to ask him again pressed down on me. “Did you?”
His black eyes stared directly into mine. “As I told you before, and as I will doubtlessly be forced to say repeatedly, no. I did not.”
He stepped past me and into the upstairs hallway. I faced his retreating back. “Clara Lewiston said you shot and killed a man in cold blood in Boston.”
Stopping, he turned around. “It was self-defense—which was proven in a court of law. It is public record, if you should choose to question my word. As for idle gossip, you are bound to hear quite a bit. Unfortunately, speaking ill of the dead is not something the people around here shun. I would ignore it all. Although some of the rumors might hold a grain of truth, I will not justify them with any remarks and cause a scandal. I want Rebecca to hold her head up high when she is old enough to care about such things.”
As if summoned, a door opened down the hallway, followed by the quick scampering of small feet. “Papa!” John reached for Rebecca and scooped the child up in his arms, holding her close to him. His face softened as he held her, the love and adoration he felt clearly etched on his usually forbidding features. He was undoubtedly the same darkly handsome man who had the disconcerting habit of stealing my breath away, but he was almost unrecognizable when with Rebecca.
He faced me. “You need to get dressed, Catherine. They want you down at the town hall for questioning. I told the captain we would be there before noon.”
I nodded and watched as he carried Rebecca back to her room. His broad shoulders cradled her head, his strong fingers gently patting her hair. Could a man who loved a child as much as he obviously did also be capable of the ultimate act of violence?
A movement from downstairs caught my attention and I found my gaze drawn to the large mirror in the foyer. I had taken off the sheet and had heard no more about the subject from Marguerite. Something dark and shadowy flickered in the depths of the glass, and I started. Surely it had been a trick of the eye or the reflection of a bird flying outside the window.
I leaned over the banister to get a better look and spied Marguerite standing in the dining room doorway and watching me with a smug expression. I straightened and went to my room without acknowledging her, the sound of Rebecca’s humming suddenly flooding the house with its melancholy and mournful tune.
CHAPTER TEN
John helped me into the buggy and then slid in next to me, taking the reins. The roads were full of puddled ruts from the recent rains, the air thick and heavy. Navigating the road took most of John’s concentration, and I used the opportunity to scrutinize him closely.
He wore an elegant coat of black wool broadcloth and a light gray silk waistcoat. A gold chain hung from the pocket, and I recalled that Elizabeth had purchased him a watch for their wedding and wondered if it was the same one. Being tall and broad shouldered, he wore his clothes well, his taut muscles discreetly covered but as obvious as if he were shirtless. I recalled how he had turned heads on his visit to Saint Simons. As a child of fourteen, I had been immune, but now, as a woman of almost twenty-two years, the physical force of his presence was impossible to ignore.
Staying as far away from him on the single seat as I could, I allowed my gaze to travel the length of his powerful body, watching the shift of his leg muscles through the fine cloth of his pants. I lifted my gaze to his hands, bare of gloves. I had felt the gentleness of his touch but knew also of their hidden strength. The fine muscles moved under the skin as he handled the reins, and I imagined those same fingers touching Elizabeth as a man would touch his wife. How would those hands have reached for her if confronted with evidence of her infidelity?
My gaze shifted to his face. Lean and tanned from his daily work on the plantation, it hinted of brutal strength and unforgiving words. But I had seen it soften as he looked at his daughter, and fleetingly wondered what it would be like to be the object of such a gaze. The brim of his hat covered his black hair and shaded his eyes to such an extent that I didn’t realize at first that he was watching me closely.
Flushing, I turned away, an apology ready on my lips as the wheel hit a rut and sent me skidding over to him, my hands greedily clutching his coat. He used his arm to steady me, my face pressed momentarily into the shoulder of his coat.
I lifted my head with a sudden motion, oddly disturbed by a scent lingering in his coat. I looked into his dark eyes and realized what it was: freshly turned earth. It was not an odor I would ever forget, having buried so many loved ones in such quick succession, as well as tending the barren earth of a garden that would not grow for me. I pulled back and his hand fell from my shoulders.
Flicking the reins, he stared ahead. “Do I repulse you so much, Catherine?”
I looked down at my hands, covered in the soft gray kid of my sister’s gloves. Squaring my shoulders, I faced him again. “On the contrary, John, you are much of an enigma to me.” I took a deep breath, wondering if I should be thankful for my newfound confidence—a trait hard-won and not without its terrible price. “I have glimpsed a kind and warm soul in you since I arrived. But there is something else in you—something that battles with the goodness. It is like a dark shadow on your soul that you go to great lengths to hide.”
His hands tightened on the reins, the skin over his knuckles pulled taut. “I do not recall you being so outspoken the last time we met.”
I settled my back gently against the seat. “I was only fourteen when last we met. I have changed a great deal since then. Not that I think you took much notice of me with Elizabeth near.”
He faced me for a moment, something flickering in his eyes. He turned away again before speaking. “You wore your hair loose down your back, regardless of your mother’s pleas to tie it back or put it up. You would walk barefoot on the beach every day with your sketch pad and your paints, and spend hours painting the birds and ocean. Your smile was open, honest, and genuine, and your laugh was like an ocean-born breeze. I found you intoxicating.”
I stared at his broad back for a moment as he leaned forward, imagining the play of muscles under his coat. “I . . . I had no idea. . . .”
�
��No, you would not have. You were fourteen and completely without guile. Since Elizabeth looked so much like you, it was not hard to imagine that perhaps she held the same blithe spirit.”
“And did she?”
He flicked the reins again before settling a dark look upon me. “No. She did not.”
I waved away a swarm of gnats that had surrounded my bonnet, hovering in the heavy humidity. “I loved Elizabeth—worshipped her, almost, as only a younger sibling could. Despite our age difference, I always fashioned that we were quite close.” I closed my eyes, recalling the look on John’s face when he told me the child Elizabeth carried could not have been his. “I cannot help but wonder if I inherited my parents’ adulation of her. She was so beautiful, it was hard to imagine her capable of doing any wrong. I . . . I wanted to be more like her.”
John reached out suddenly, grabbing my wrist, his expression firm. “Do not. Do not ever say that.” His gaze flicked downward toward his hand and he quickly let go. “Elizabeth was very clever and very charming. She only let you see what you wanted to see. Until it was too late.”
I turned away and stared at the scrubby trees along the road, not wanting to look at John or hear the truth in his words. There had been times in my childhood where Elizabeth had frightened or hurt me with her sharp words, but her charm and beautiful smile always made her easy to forgive, or at least made one believe that her actions held no evil intentions to harm or deceive.
Finally, I said, “Perhaps we are all like that.”
He leveled black eyes on me. “I think you may be right.”
The buggy climbed the road to the levee, the murky water of the Mississippi moving thick and lazy below us, chunks of leaves and debris from the recent storm dipping and twirling in a watery dance. It was so different from the salty blue ocean of my Saint Simons. For a brief moment I felt a stab of nostalgia, a deep longing for the way things used to be when I was free from grief and Elizabeth stood high on a pedestal to be admired and adored.
