by Karen White
I had arrived first and sat upon the bench to wait for him. As I waited, I thought I heard rustling in the bushes behind me and jumped up, remembering the cottonmouth. But I saw nothing, and settled back down to wait.
I did not wait long before Daniel appeared on the grotto path, his friendly smile warming me. I hoped that I would soon be able to claim Clara as a close friend. Because of my fondness for her husband, I wanted to be equally comfortable with both.
He kissed my hand as he had done on the last occasion when we had met at the grotto. “You are a picture of loveliness, Catherine. Marriage suites you.” He tilted his head, an odd look on his face. “I remember many times seeing Elizabeth sitting here just like that. The resemblance is uncanny, you know.”
A shadow passed over his face, drawing away the warmth of his smile. He sat down next to me and I turned to him. “You miss her a great deal.”
Nodding, he looked away toward the thick greenery blocking our view of the house. “Yes. We were good friends. . . .” His voice trailed away and he did not say anything else.
I touched his shoulder, feeling his sadness. “Is that why you brought me here today—to talk about Elizabeth?”
He faced me, his clear gray eyes dimming. “Not exactly. I wanted to talk about you.” His lips turned up in a slight smile. “And please forgive my secrecy. I love John like a brother, but he is rather possessive when it comes to you. I wanted to speak to you in private and I could think of no other way.” He pressed my hand, then let it go. “Thank you.”
Daniel stood, as if preparing for a speech. “I have known John for a long time, and I know him to be a good man.” Bracing himself with one hand against a tree, he leveled me with his gaze. “There might be . . . aspects of his personality that you are not aware of, but perhaps should be.” He took a deep breath. “John has a fierce temper—I have certainly witnessed it myself growing up with him in Boston. But here, well, you must know how servants talk, and there were stories brought to us about the arguments he and Elizabeth would have.”
I felt my blood cool in my veins. “Did he ever . . . harm her?”
Daniel shook his head. “No—not that I ever heard. And Elizabeth never mentioned it, either.” His eyes clouded. “But she was afraid of him—she told me that much.” He began to pace, his boots crunching the dead leaves and pine straw underfoot. “Elizabeth was not as strong as you, Catherine. She was emotionally . . . vulnerable. She craved love and attention, and when she did not get it from John, she sought it elsewhere.”
Again, I imagined I heard a soft crunching of ground cover from behind me, but when Daniel showed no sign of noticing, I dismissed it. Lots of small animals lived in the pine forests that dotted West Feliciana Parish, and even though I would have avoided the dark and shadowed ones surrounded Whispering Oaks, the deer and raccoons would not.
I shifted uncomfortably on the bench, feeling myself flush at the mention of Elizabeth’s infidelities. Daniel came and sat down next to me again and took my hand, holding it in his warm palms. “I am sorry to be indelicate, but I thought you should know. Even if it is only to understand why John would be so possessive of you.” He smiled again, his eyes brightening. “It is so amazing how much you resemble her. But one only has to be in your presence for a few minutes to know that the similarities end with your beautiful face.”
I pulled my hand from his and pretended to rearrange my skirts as I slid to the edge of the bench. He seemed to notice and his demeanor sobered considerably.
“Catherine, I am sorry. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me? About my own husband?”
“Yes, and to offer you refuge. I know I have said this before, but if there is ever a time that you need to seek sanctuary, please know that you have a place at Belle Meade. I will welcome you there without questions.”
I noted his omission of Clara’s name. “I thank you for your concern, Daniel, but I can assure you that I am not my sister and I have no intention of raising my husband’s ire. And, as you mentioned, I am stronger than she was. I can handle his temper without fleeing to the nearest neighbor.”
He studied me carefully for a moment before speaking. “You defend him so readily.”
“He is my husband.”
Daniel dropped his head and stared at his hands. His fingers were long and slender, almost delicate. They were the hands of a doctor, unused to physical labor. So unlike John’s, which were strong and powerful, hiding their remarkable tenderness. “And he was Elizabeth’s husband, too, and now she is dead.”
I stood, anger flooding me. “What are you implying, Daniel?”
He stood, too. “I am not making any accusations, but in Boston I witnessed John kill a man when thoroughly provoked. I could not say he would not do it again.”
“It was in self-defense!”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes, it was. But if John had left the man alone instead of inciting his anger, the man would still be alive.”
I shook my head. “But that is in the past and has nothing to do with Elizabeth or me.”
I thought of the baby Elizabeth carried and John’s knowledge that it was not his, and could only imagine his anger. With a steady gaze, I said, “You were her doctor and knew of the baby she carried. Did she tell you the identity of the child’s father?”
His face blanched and he stared at me for a moment without speaking.
“I am sorry,” I said. “That was rather rash of me. Then I assume you did not know?”
“Yes, of course I did. I was her doctor, and everything she told me was held in confidence. I just did not expect you to know.”
“John told me—before we were married. I suppose it was his way of letting me know that the Elizabeth I had known was not the same Elizabeth she had become.”
“I am sorry. It must have been a great shock for you.”
“Yes, it was. But I would rather know the truth.”
He turned away for a moment, studying the small trickle of water under the dilapidated bridge. “So, does John know the identity of the child’s father?”
“He said she had many lovers and that it would be difficult to name just one.” I took a deep breath. “We have put Elizabeth to rest. There is no need to continue delving into a past that no longer matters.”
He smiled again. “Yes. I am sure you are right. I just want you—and John—to be happy.” He came toward me and placed both hands on my shoulders. “And you certainly are a picture of happiness. I am glad. You both deserve contentment in your lives.”
I warmed to him. “Thank you, Daniel. We are lucky to have such a friend as you. And please do not worry about me. I appreciate your concern, but I am not afraid of my husband, and there is no cause for you to worry. Remember, I am not my sister.”
He dropped his hands from my shoulders, his face sobering. “No, Catherine, you certainly are not.” He studied me for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. “I do not even know if I should tell you this, but I think it would be important to you. As much as Elizabeth’s behavior is reprehensible to us both, there was a reason for it.” He continued to study me, making me shift uncomfortably. “Never having met you, I did not understand it at the time, but now I do. She was extremely envious of you.”
I stepped back. “Of me? You must be mistaken.”
Daniel shook his head. “Oh no. She all but admitted it to me. She envied your happiness—or should I say your ability to be happy. You did not need material things to be content. She said a blue sky or a smile from your father would set you adrift on a sea of contentment, as she put it.” His face darkened. “But it was never that easy for her. She needed things—not just material things, but the undiluted attention of everyone she met. I do not think it was easy for her growing up in your household and having to divide your father’s affections.”
I sho
ok my head. “I still cannot believe it. Elizabeth had everything. . . .”
“Everything but happiness. It hurt her deeply that that which she sought so vainly came so easily to you.”
“I never knew. . . .”
His voice was gentle. “But now you do. It certainly does not excuse her behavior, but perhaps it will help you to understand it.”
I nodded and thanked him, then allowed him to escort me to the edge of the grotto. Taking my hand from his elbow, he faced me. “I think it best that we not be seen together. I have hidden my horse over by the levee and I can walk through the forest to get to her.”
As he was saying goodbye, I happened to look toward the lane of oaks and spotted a man sitting on a horse. The man’s mount stomped the ground, then stilled. Squinting my eyes, I realized the man was looking in our direction. There was something familiar about him, and I pointed him out to Daniel.
Daniel stepped back into the shadow of the grotto while staring hard at the man on horseback. After a moment, he said with distaste, “It is Philip Herndon. If he knows what is good for him, he will get off of John’s property before he is spotted.”
“I will go see what he wants.”
Daniel stilled me with a hand on my arm. “No, Catherine. That could only fuel John’s anger. I will go get my horse and approach the lane as if I am just getting here for a visit. I will see what he wants and get him to leave.”
I nodded, seeing reason in his suggestion. “All right. Just tell me later what he is up to.”
He bent to kiss my hand. “I will be sure to do that. Goodbye, Catherine. Take care of yourself, and I will see you soon.”
Feeling fortunate to have found such a good friend so quickly, I turned and began walking back toward the house, my skirts brushing the brittle summer grass. My good spirits dimmed as I approached the looming white structure, the windows like foreboding eyes warning me away. But I had no intention of fleeing. Instead my determination to change the house deepened, and I marched toward the front porch with confident steps.
John met me in the foyer, a look of concern on his face. “Where have you been? I have been waiting for you. I have something to show you.”
“I went for a walk,” I said, hating my half lie. I pushed aside my guilt, justifying it by assuring myself that when our marriage was not so new it would be strong enough to handle unpleasantness. But for now, I was reveling in our honeymoon period, and I did not want to cast any shadows on it.
I went to him and reached for his hands. He immediately pulled me into an embrace, and I was lost in his touch completely.
“You are overheated. Perhaps you should go upstairs and change first.”
I looked into his face and saw his mocking smile. “John,” I said, pretending to be shocked. “It is the middle of the afternoon.”
“Mrs. McMahon, I am insulted that you could think I would be such a cad as to be suggesting anything other than changing your clothes.” He bent to kiss my ear. “Of course, what I want to show you is upstairs in the bedroom. . . .” His voice was smothered as he rained kisses down my neck, my bones melting in his hands.
Footsteps in the back passage made him straighten in time to see Marguerite approaching with two freshly polished candelabra in her hands for the dining-room table. She sent me a knowing look, and I flushed. I was not sure if the look was intended to remind me that she knew of the note from Daniel, or if she knew what John and I had been discussing.
I headed up the stairs, John following close behind. When we reached the bedroom, he closed the door behind him, then locked it.
“John—”
He held his finger to his lips. “Sshh. Let me show you your surprise now.”
He went to a door on the far wall that had led to a small sitting room in my grandmother’s day. I had not yet been inside, assuming it to be unused. He opened the door and indicated that I should enter.
I held my breath as I walked in, my face flushing with pleasure. The windows had been stripped of their heavy drapes, leaving them bare for the sunshine to pour in through slatted blinds. A large chest stood open on the opposing wall, its shelves displaying my paints and brushes. In the middle of the room were two easels, each holding a blank canvas.
John came to stand behind me, his hands on my arms. “I had Mr. O’Rourke and Marguerite fix this room for you while we were in New Orleans. I put the paints and brushes in myself today, seeing as how they were still in a box on the floor of the bedroom.”
I could not speak, afraid that I would burst out crying if I did. Instead I walked toward the window and raised the blind. The view was of the long stand of pines that hid the grotto from sight. I knew if I turned to look out of the right corner of the window, I would see the pond, its dark, placid waters still a place I did not willingly visit.
I turned to John, wrapping my arms around his neck, happiness flooding my spirit. “This is the most precious gift anyone has ever given me. How can I ever thank you?”
He reached for me, his powerful hands caressing my back. “Let me show you.”
I felt his fingers beginning to undo the buttons on the back of my dress and I pressed myself against him. Unbidden came Daniel’s words to me about John’s temper and his penchant for violence.
As John’s hands found my bare skin, Daniel’s words faded into nothingness, lost as I was in my husband’s gentle touch, thoughts of his anger easily forgotten.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My days passed serenely as I settled in as the new mistress of Whispering Oaks. I felt proud of my ability to organize the household and to understand the ebb and flow of the workload on a sugar plantation. John took great pride in taking me for long rides and showing me the lay of the land. He showed respect for my intelligence and took pains to explain the problems of the encroaching Mississippi River and the never-ending battle to shore up the levee.
John spent a great portion of his day out of the house, and I came to know in time that it had nothing to do with me but, rather, the house. As much as he loved the rich, fertile earth and the things he was able to coax from it, the house held no appeal for him at all. I had brought a measure of brightness to it with new draperies and furnishings, but for all the sunshine that now lapped at the creamy white walls, a pervasive darkness lingered over the old rooms, like a nightmare that followed one into the waking hours.
I had begun to paint again, and it was not until I first put my brush to canvas that I realized how much I had changed in the last years. Whereas before all I had painted had been flora and fauna and the blue ocean of Saint Simons, now I wanted to paint people. I wanted to study these new inhabitants of my life, examine each feature separately, as if they were puzzle pieces that might add up to the sum of this new existence of mine.
My first subject had been, remarkably, Rebecca. Perhaps it was the desire to capture Jamie’s eyes on canvas, but her pixielike face called to me, insisting that I paint it. I hoped that one day I might find the strength to paint Jamie from memory, but for now I reveled in capturing his endearing little cousin on canvas. I looked forward to our painting sessions on those early-fall mornings, which I can remember with a vividness of thought and color that are foreign to most of my memories. Perhaps it is with the knowledge of hindsight now that I recall those happy times with such clarity. I cling to the memory so as to block out the events that would soon change our lives forever.
* * *
On a bright October morning, I sat painting Rebecca. It was still warm, as fall in the Delta rarely brought cold weather, but the heavy humidity had lifted. Rebecca sat on a blanket with Samantha by the pond, the sunlight spinning her hair into gold. I was not comfortable being this close to the water, but the child had insisted, and I knew she was right. The sun reflecting off the water and the big house in the background were perfect for a portrait.
Still, I felt unease, as if the restless spirits of the I
ndian woman and her child were watching us. The breeze teased at my neck, making my skin prick like little breaths of warning, and I found it hard to focus on my task.
As I mixed my paints for her hair, I realized with a start what I was doing. It was the same combination of gold and yellows I had once used when painting a miniature portrait of Robert. It seemed as if he were mocking me now, calling to mind his beautiful hair and the thick red river of blood running through it. As if that one gunshot had not ended his life but merely perpetuated his existence to haunt me forever.
I realized my hand was shaking, and I went to sit next to Rebecca until I could calm myself. I sat with my back to the water, and the little girl laid her head in my lap, her small arms clutching her doll. I ran my hands through her glorious hair, reveling in the thick texture of it. It was not baby-fine, as most children’s hair, but more like that of an adult. My hand stilled, an unbidden memory assaulting me. A memory of Robert and me on the beach for a picnic, with his head in my lap and me stroking his hair, so full and rich and gold.
I let my hand fall to my side, clutching at the grass and dirt as if to ground my thoughts. I had come to a place in my mind where I could almost bear the memories of Jamie. Even though they were still tinged with great sadness, his conjured image could sometimes make me smile with remembered joy.
But memories of Robert were not allowed. John had helped me banish Robert from the marriage bed, but at other times thoughts of him caught me unaware. And each time it brought back the terrifying memory of a gunshot and red blood on white sheets. I closed my eyes, trying my best to focus on the smell of the earth and grass and the feel of the beautiful child in my lap.
Rebecca began to hum the strange, haunting melody, her eyes transfixed on the still waters of the pond.
I listened for a while, still trying to identify where I had heard the music before. It was so familiar, yet so elusive. Despite receiving no answer to my question before, I thought I would try again. “Rebecca, where did you learn that song? I feel I should know it, but I cannot seem to recall where I have heard it before.”
