Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  But where was the key? When I had left for my honeymoon, I had hidden it in the back of my dresser drawer, tucking it among stockings and chemises. I walked quickly over to the dresser and yanked open the drawer. My heart slammed in my chest when I saw the gaping cavity.

  Calming myself, I left the room and walked to the end of the corridor to John’s room. The door stood partially ajar, and I waited for a moment before pushing it open. To my relief, I found the room empty, but I still felt uncomfortable advancing further. This was John’s room. My gaze strayed to the empty spot on the wall where Elizabeth’s portrait had been, and then to the great mahogany bed. I flushed, imagining what we would be doing beneath its sheets later in the evening.

  Elizabeth had had her own room, but her ghost seemed to be everywhere in this one. Even as I looked at the bed, I wondered if she had ever passed the night there, wrapped in John’s arms and enjoying his caresses. I turned away, trying to avert my thoughts, and saw the trunk of paints and supplies John had given me. It sat in the corner, untouched, and I smiled again, remembering his thoughtfulness. One of the first things I would do to become settled would be to set up a place in the house for my painting.

  I closed the door quietly behind me and leaned against it, contemplating where my things would have been placed. I was reluctant to go around blatantly opening drawers, still feeling like an intruder in somebody else’s room. A large chest-on-chest occupied the space between the windows, and I was fairly certain it contained John’s personal items. My gaze strayed to a lowboy against the far wall, and I thought that it would be the ideal place for my things.

  With my breath held, I slid open the first drawer and, to my delight, found my underpinnings. Wiping my hands on my underskirt, I began digging into the drawer, hoping to feel the hard brass key easily under the light fabrics of my clothing. I almost cried out when my fingers found it, wrapped in a pair of stockings, as I had left it, and pulled it from the drawer.

  I had started sliding the drawer closed when I spotted something unfamiliar in the back. It appeared to be a large linen handkerchief, certainly not one of my own, and when I pulled on it, it seemed stuck. I realized it was caught on the back of the drawer and would have been easily overlooked had I not had the drawer pulled all the way out.

  I held it out to the light and saw the embroidered initials JEM and knew it belonged to my new husband, as I had seen him in possession of several identical to this one. It was filthy, covered in dirt, with long streaks of mud bisecting the cloth. It was as if somebody had wiped very dirty fingers on it and then stuffed it in the back of the drawer to be hidden and forgotten.

  My gaze strayed to my own dirty hands, and they began to tremble as the realization of why it was there struck me. I remembered the ride to the questioning at the town hall, and how I had smelled freshly turned earth on John’s jacket. I raised my eyes to the mirror over the chest and saw John standing in the doorway, watching me closely.

  I turned quickly to face him, my hands behind my back and pressed against the lowboy. He approached with long strides, his eyes holding a dangerous spark. He stood so close to me that I couldn’t move away without pushing against him.

  His voice was like dark velvet when he spoke. “What are you hiding, Cat?”

  “Nothing,” I stammered. “I was simply cleaning and my hands are filthy. I was embarrassed to let you see them.”

  He placed his hands on my shoulders and slowly let them slide down to my elbows. “There is nothing about you that I do not think is beautiful.” His eyes bored into mine. “Let me see.”

  I felt like an animal in a trap, with nowhere to run and hide. Without preamble, I moved my hands out from behind my back and raised them in front of me. One finger at a time, I opened my hands, revealing the key in one and the handkerchief in the other.

  His eyes darkened, and the first flash of fear I had experienced in over a year coursed through me. The key hit the floor with a small thud as the handkerchief drifted out of my fingers. John lowered his face to mine, those obsidian eyes glittering, and I clenched my own eyes tightly, waiting for what was to come.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Why were you hiding these from me?” His voice was low and thick, like a dam holding back the words of accusation I knew he wanted to say.

  I opened my eyes and faced him, forcing myself to raise my chin. “I should ask you the same thing. Why was your dirty handkerchief hidden in the back of your drawer? Did you use it to wipe your fingers after burying the letterbox from the attic?”

  I waited for him to answer, my fingers clutching the lowboy behind me. To my surprise, he gave a low chuckle, but there was no mirth in it.

  “Do you mean to say you are standing here acting like a hunted fox because you found a dirty handkerchief belonging to me?” He threw back his head and laughed. “I am a planter, my dear wife. I get my fingers dirty quite often, which is why I always carry a handkerchief. Feel free to interview the laundress, and she will inform you that, yes, I always have dirty and muddy handkerchiefs that need her attention.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me, all traces of laughter gone. “Now you might answer a question of my own. Why is that key on a chain, and why would you hide it from me?”

  I felt suddenly foolish and found myself staring at him dumbly, unable to find any words that would defend myself.

  He leaned closer to me and I felt his heat. “I thought we had an agreement between us. An agreement to trust. It was even you who said you could not have a marriage without it.”

  I nodded, my eyes stinging at his chastisement. He moved his head lower, his lips close to my ear. “I want you, Cat. But I want your trust even more. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice barely audible. He was pressing me against the chest while his hands slowly raised my skirts. I wanted to protest, but I wanted him as much as I wanted his forgiveness for doubting him.

  His moist lips moved to my neck as his fingers deftly raised my chemise. “I want you . . . now,” he whispered against my throat.

  I was too aroused to tell him to stop, too enflamed by his passion to even want him to, but something in the back of my head told me that propriety should make me ashamed and disdainful of what we were about to do.

  Instead, I allowed him to lift me on top of the low chest. “Cat,” he whispered into my ear, and he moved his hands to my hips and slid me closer. I moaned into his mouth, and as he whispered my name again, time seemed to stop. He pressed me backward until I felt the wall behind me, my hair tumbling about my shoulders. I should have been ashamed, but all I could think of was my wanting of this man and his desire for me, and I pulled him closer.

  I felt him shudder at the same time as my passion consumed me, leaving me trembling as I fell back down to earth. We held each other for a long moment, he with his lips on my hair and my fingers clutching his shirt. Finally, he lifted me off the chest and my legs slid down to the ground. He didn’t let go of me, and I was grateful for his support because I was sure my legs would have otherwise buckled.

  He looked honestly chagrined as he studied my face. “I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. Gently, he pulled me toward him, kissing me softly on my forehead. “I am sorry,” he said again. “I did not mean for that to happen. But this wanting I have for you . . .”

  I felt the sting of tears in my eyes—but they were not tears of shame. The fire we had shared was new to me, new and liberating, and he had made me feel wanted again. I knew, once I was alone again, I would be shocked at our behavior, but now I was simply grateful. He had made me a woman to be desired, not pitied, scorned, or accused. Robert’s suicide had done all those things to me, had, indeed, deadened all emotions in me. John made me feel alive again, allowed me to feel passion and heat, to see colors where I had once only seen black and white.

  He saw my tears and looked stricken. With the pads of his thumbs he gently w
iped them away. “Forgive me, Cat.”

  I grabbed his wrists, stilling his hands. “There is nothing to forgive.” I kissed his palm, then cradled my face in his hand.

  He placed his lips on the hair at my temple, now damp from the sweat of our lovemaking. “I will send Marguerite to help you dress.”

  Drawing back, he adjusted his clothing, then left the room. As I watched the door close, I realized with a start that he had never actually denied burying the box. He had certainly implied it by giving an explanation as to how a dirty handkerchief would come to be shoved in the back of his drawer, but that was not a claim to innocence. I wanted to trust him, but I knew asking him would never allay my suspicions. I would need to discover the truth on my own before I could lay to rest all of my doubts.

  I stooped to pick up the key, intent now on finding the contents of the box and why somebody was so determined that I not discover it.

  As I moved toward the door, it opened and Marguerite came in, her strange eyes regarding me dispassionately. “I’ve ordered bathwater to be sent up.”

  “Thank you, Marguerite.”

  As she moved to the armoire to lay out my dinner gown, I slid the key into a drawer, then turned around and asked for her assistance with unbuttoning the back of my traveling costume. When she didn’t approach, I faced her. “Is there something the matter?”

  Her face remained impassive, but her eyes were alive with a hidden light. “I brought you a message from Dr. Lewiston. He asked me to tell you to keep it private and away from Mr. McMahon.”

  I looked at her, startled. “For me? Are you quite sure?”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes, ma’am. I am used to delivering messages for Dr. Lewiston.”

  “Thank you, Marguerite,” I said, wondering at her implication, but knowing I wouldn’t ask her. She was playing a game with me, I knew, except I refused to take a turn. I took the sealed note and left it unopened on my dressing table, waiting to open it in private. I was baffled by Daniel’s actions, but from what I knew of the doctor, I felt confident that he would have a sound explanation.

  I bathed and dressed for dinner, waiting until Marguerite left until I opened the note. It had tested the limits of my patience to wait so long, and I ripped it with a savage tear and took the note from the envelope. It read, I am concerned for your welfare and would like to speak to you in private. I will be in the grotto tomorrow at two thirty. It was signed simply DL.

  Thoughtfully, I folded the note, then placed it under a tray in my jewelry box. Sliding open my drawer, I spotted the key I had hidden earlier and took it out. Ascertaining that I still had a few minutes before supper, I walked down the hallway to my old room and pushed open the door.

  The blinds had been left down and no candle had been lit. Still, I was familiar enough with my surroundings to be able to feel my way to the bed and kneel beside it. As my fingers brushed the hard wood of the box, I heard John calling my name from downstairs. I froze, then stood quickly, hiding the key under the mattress. Confident that no one would be entering the room, I left as quietly as I had come in, walking slowly down the stairs, my calm demeanor belying the fluttering of my heart.

  Supper was a peaceful affair, with Rebecca chatting excitedly the entire time about her new presents and about everything she had done while we were gone. I watched her animated face, and for a moment I saw my Jamie, telling me about the size of a fish he had caught or how fast he had gone on his pony. But the image faded quickly, leaving me with only the vision of this beautiful little girl, happily sharing with her parents the precious things of her life.

  She still called me Aunt Cat, and I did not ask her to change it. It had not been so long since she had called Elizabeth Mama, and I had no intention of erasing that. If she chose, in future, to call me by another name, I would welcome it, but it would have to be in her own time.

  After we ate, Delphine came to take Rebecca to bed, and John and I retired to the parlor. I played the piano for him, and he stood behind me, not touching but near enough that I could feel his heat. I smelled brandy mixed with his male scent, and I found the combination to be near intoxicating. I missed a note but continued playing. I had chosen a Chopin nocturne, its melody haunting, each key pressed a sensual ode to the evocative music.

  He touched the pearls about my throat, then bent to kiss my exposed shoulder. My fingers collapsed on the keyboard, unable to continue. I turned on the bench and looked up at my husband, and I knew the desire in his eyes mirrored my own.

  Without speaking, I rose from the piano and allowed him to escort me up the stairs. His hand never left my arm, and I burned from his touch. When the door closed to our bedroom, it was as if the afternoon’s events had inspired us both to a new height of passion. My need for him was as fierce as his need for me, and we were still partially dressed when he pressed me on the bed. It was not until after we were both completely sated that he began to make love to me slowly, taking off my remaining clothes bit by bit and loving my body with his hands and mouth until I shouted out with the pleasure of it.

  We lay in each other’s arms long after the lamps had been turned down and we could no longer hear the stirrings of the servants. The room was in near darkness, and I rested with my back pressed up to John, staring out at my new surroundings. Moonlight lent an eerie cast to the various pieces of furniture, and, like a glaring reproof, illuminated the large empty space on the wall where Elizabeth’s portrait had once hung.

  I waited until his breathing slowed to a deep and heavy pace before I stealthily slipped from the bed and put on my nightdress. I paused for a moment to stare down at my sleeping husband, feeling an unfamiliar tenderness. At that moment, I thought of my actions as a betrayal, but I quickly dismissed them. This was simply to ease my mind and to help me pack away my doubts forever.

  Tiptoeing across the room, I let myself out and scurried down the quiet corridor and entered my old bedroom. Finding my way to the window, I opened the blinds, letting in the soft glow from the moon. In a yellow shaft of light I slid the box out from under the bed and sat on the floor next to it to avoid getting dirt on my nightgown. Fumbling my way through the bedspread, I found the key and, with no little effort in the murky light, fit it into the keyhole.

  With my breath held, I felt the key slide into place and the latch click as I turned it. I waited for a brief moment for the pounding of my heart to settle before slowly opening the lid.

  I blinked twice, wondering if the moonlight was playing tricks on my eyesight, but was rewarded with the same vision each time: an empty box, just the dusty brown wood staring blankly up at me.

  I leaned back against the bed, disappointment flooding me. I did not know what I had hoped to find—evidence of Elizabeth’s descent into depression and desperation and of the thing she feared enough to write to me? Or perhaps evidence of John’s innocence? I no longer knew which was more important to me; all I knew was that I had nothing now but John’s words and my own suspicions of Elizabeth’s true nature.

  I placed the key inside the box, the chain making a hollow clatter, before closing the lid and replacing it under the bed. With a heavy heart, I stood and went back to my own room, moving quietly so as not to awaken John.

  I slid back into bed, trying not to touch him, then turned to watch his face. His breathing remained slow and steady as I studied his dark shape. He was still an enigma to me, his strange allure all-consuming. I told myself I trusted him, and ignored the small doubts I harbored deep in the recesses of my mind. Who buried the letterbox and why? And where are the letters?

  I ignored the questions pressing into my brain and continued to watch my husband. His heavy breathing continued, a sign of deep sleep. Slowly, I lifted my hand and touched his cheek, the heavy stubble from his beard rough on my fingers. I traced the line of his jaw lightly with my finger, coming to rest on the sensual curve of his lips. John was usually so aloof and stoic in publ
ic that those lips seemed almost incongruous on his stern face. I doubted I was the only woman who had known the passion behind the man, and his mouth was certainly a hint of his true nature. I moved forward to press my lips against his and felt his hand grasp my wrist.

  “Where have you been?”

  I tried to pull my hand away, embarrassed not only that I had opened the letterbox in secret, but that he had caught me touching him when I thought he was asleep.

  “I wanted to check on Rebecca. She kicks the covers off frequently and I did not want her to catch a chill.” The lie came easily, although I was not quite sure why I had not told him the truth. I again smelled the odor of fresh dirt in my memory, and a small doubt that had been hidden deep inside me wriggled free.

  He let go of my wrist, his fingers sliding under the sleeves of my nightdress. Goose bumps rippled up my arms. He propped himself up on an elbow. “You seem to have caught a chill yourself. Let me warm you.” He kissed me, his hard body moving over mine, and I soon forgot all about doubts and trust and the stale smell of loose dirt.

  * * *

  I spent most of the following morning making a few steps forward in organizing the household. I interviewed the servants to discern what their assigned duties were, reassigning them where responsibilities overlapped. I devised a cleaning schedule, including a long-overdue spring cleaning that would involve taking down all the drapes and beating them outside. I wondered how the old house would react to having the drapes down and all the sunlight creeping inside, trickling into its dark corners.

  The hall clock chimed twice, alerting me to the time. Daniel’s note had said two thirty, and I did not want to be late. His secrecy seemed odd to me, but I was sure he would explain it once we met. I knew that his objective was to speak to me without John being present, so I took pains to avoid being seen as I left the house and skirted the pond before heading out across the back lawn to the grotto.