Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  She turned her head in my lap to face me, her eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. “It is a secret and I am not supposed to tell.”

  I leaned forward to block the sun from her face. “Who told you that you were not supposed to tell?”

  She faced the pond again and didn’t answer.

  “Was it Marguerite?”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  I prodded again. “Was it your mama?”

  “You are my mama now.”

  My heart lurched at this declaration, but I restrained myself from lifting this child high in the air and swinging her about. The thought was obviously as new to her as it was to me, and I wanted us both to get used to the idea.

  Gently, I continued. “It is such a beautiful song and I would like to learn it, too. I promise I will not tell anybody you told me.”

  She furrowed her pale brows for a moment, as if in deep thought. Then she turned back to me, her face stricken. “But then I would not get any more candy.”

  I looked down at the cherubic face of my niece and wondered momentarily if her mother’s neglect had had any negative effect on her developing person. Leaning over, I kissed her forehead, determined not to press the matter further for the time being.

  We sat in silence for a long time, enjoying the soft breeze and the crisp smell of the approaching autumn. Our fickle climate would allow for the heat and humidity to return for brief periods of time, but for now the clear air was a welcome respite.

  Rebecca continued to gaze out at the pond, her brows puckered. Finally, she said, “I think they are down there.”

  I sat up with alarm. “Who is down there?”

  “The Indian mama and her baby. They buried them under the house, but when their bones were found, the people threw them into the pond.”

  I kept my voice calm. “Who told you this, Rebecca?”

  She did not speak for a moment but eventually turned her face to stare up at me. “They did. And they want me to get them out.”

  A frigid finger of dread slipped down my spine as I stared at the wide-eyed innocence of this child. I continued stroking her hair. “Who do you mean by ‘they,’ Rebecca?”

  “They come to talk to me at night—after my lamps are turned down and it is all dark. Sometimes they scare me, but not a lot.” She turned away from me and sighed, her fingers restlessly plucking at her dress. “It is the Indian lady and her baby. The mama does all of the talking. She tells me how lonely they are and how much they want me to come with them.”

  My hand stilled on her hair. “Where do they want you to go?”

  I watched her profile as her long golden lashes closed over her eyes. “To the bottom of the pond. Then they will be free.”

  Dread gripped at my heart. I reached down and lifted her, sitting her on my lap to face me. “Rebecca, you must listen to me. These voices are not your friends—do you hear me? They are in your imagination and you must not listen to them. The pond is a dangerous place for you to go alone and you must never, ever go there without me or another grown person. Do you understand me? Do you understand?”

  The child’s bottom lip began to quiver, and I realized how harsh my voice must have sounded to her. I felt ashamed at having scared her, but the heaviness in my heart would not dissipate. I clutched her closely to my chest, not hearing her cries of protest. It was only when her hands began to push me away that I let go.

  She sat on my lap, gazing at me, her blue eyes questioning. I touched her soft cheek, brushing away fat tears. “I am so sorry. I did not mean to make you cry, but you scared me so. Can you understand that I do not want anything to happen to you? You mean so much to me and to your papa, and I just want to keep you safe from harm. I did not mean to frighten you.”

  Rebecca touched my face. “You are crying.”

  I reached up and pressed my fingers to my own cheek and realized she was right.

  As quickly as this child had lodged herself in my heart, she leapt at me, throwing her small arms around me and burying her face into my neck. “I do not want to make you cry. My old mama would cry and say it was my fault and that she was going to leave. And then she went away. Does this mean you are going away, too?”

  I cradled her head on my shoulder, my heart breaking for this motherless child. “Oh no. I will never leave you. If you make me cry, they will be tears of happiness, for there is nothing that you can ever do that would make me go away. You bring so much joy to my life, Rebecca, and I will always want you in it.” I realized with a start that I had meant every word.

  She pulled back to contemplate me, her puckered brows telling me she had not understood everything I’d said, but perhaps enough. “You are not leaving?”

  I shook my head vigorously. “Not ever.”

  She threw her arms around me again and squeezed tightly. Then she laid her head on my shoulder, putting her thumb in her mouth, and I felt her pat my back, just as I had done to comfort her. We sat like that for a long while, watching the sun slide lazily across the pond. Then, very softly, her voice heavy with drowsiness, she said, “I love you, Mama.”

  Tears pricked at my eyes. It seemed like an eternity and more since I had last heard those words. I began to cry in earnest now, recalling how I had emotionally pushed this child away, thinking of her only as a reminder of the child I had lost. Instead she had become a large piece of my salvation, warming a corner of my heart that I had considered forever dead. I placed my cheek against hers and whispered, “I love you too, Rebecca.”

  She fell asleep in my arms and I held her closely, reveling in the joy of being a mother again and vowing to myself that the bond would never be broken.

  * * *

  After I put the sleeping Rebecca into her bed for a nap, I passed Marguerite in the hallway outside my room. I was still unsure of her position in the household and unsettled about her seemingly permanent place in it. I knew John would balk at my suggestion to dismiss her, so I tried my best to assert my authority.

  “Marguerite, I need to speak to you for a moment.”

  She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of my request, but her expression lacked any semblance of servitude.

  “I am enjoying my art room very much and I wanted to thank you for helping Mr. McMahon surprise me with it.”

  She regarded me evenly. “I always do what I am asked.”

  I was taken aback by her response but tried not to show it. Instead I said, “Yes, well, thank you anyway. The room has proven to be a real pleasure to me.”

  Bobbing her head, she moved to pass me, but I called out to her. “I also wanted to speak to you about Rebecca.”

  She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing. “She is not my responsibility anymore.”

  “That is true, but I thought you might know who has been putting ideas into her head. She has told me that she hears the voices of an Indian lady at night after she goes to bed. I know it is all in her imagination, but somebody has to be planting the seeds for her to be thinking such things.”

  Her odd green eyes widened. “And what makes you think that it is not real?”

  I was at a loss for words. Finally, I said, “Well, of course they are not real. The story of the Indian woman and her child is only a legend. And I do not want Rebecca to hear any more of those stories—they will only frighten her.”

  “There are things you do not understand, but that does not mean they do not exist.”

  I tried to remain calm. “They are irrational and frightening, and I do not want Rebecca hearing any more about it. I will speak to the other servants and make sure my wishes are clear, and I expect you to help me enforce my orders.”

  Her eyes regarded me calmly. “If that is what you want.”

  “That is what I want, and I expect my orders obeyed. If you find that you cannot, then you will be dismissed.”

  She lifted her chin.
“You will have to talk to Mr. McMahon about that.”

  I squared my shoulders. “Do not be too sure of that, Marguerite. I am in charge of the household staff.”

  “Maybe with the others. But Mr. McMahon hired me, and only he can fire me.”

  Bristling, I walked past her. “We will see about that. If you cannot accept my authority, then I do not feel you should be working here.”

  “I would think twice about that, Mrs. McMahon. I know what a temper Mr. McMahon has, and I do not like to think how he would like knowing that the doctor has sent you a note and you met in private.”

  I froze, my back to her. “That is not your concern.”

  “Maybe it is, and maybe it is not, but it is certainly your husband’s concern to know that his wife’s been meeting with another man.”

  I turned quickly, my skirts whirling about my ankles, to face her. “You would not dare.”

  She simply raised an eyebrow and silently walked past me.

  My heart hammered in my chest as I ran to my room, taking the time to shut the door calmly. With my breath held, I opened my jewelry box and lifted the tray where I had thrown Daniel’s note. It was gone. I threw everything out of the box, leaving it in a tangled mess on the dresser, but there was no note.

  I shoved everything back in the box, too agitated to take the time to put it away neatly. I tried to force my breathing to slow down, rationalizing to myself that all I needed to do was speak to John and everything would be sorted out.

  But I thought with longing of the weeks since our marriage, of the bonds of trust that we had forged, and I thought also of his anger when I had discovered the dirty handkerchief in his drawer. I closed my eyes, clutching the edge of the dresser. Marguerite had to be dealt with—but I was loath to create any ripples in the river of my new marriage just yet. It could wait.

  Slowly, I took everything out of the jewelry box again and replaced it inside neatly and orderly.

  A brief tapping on the door made me look up. Marguerite appeared, a knowing smile on her lips when she saw what I was doing. I did not acknowledge it, but simply asked her what she needed.

  “Mrs. Lewiston is here to see you. I showed her into the parlor and will ask Rose to bring tea.”

  “Thank you, Marguerite.” I stared after her long after she had gone, then smoothed my hair and went downstairs.

  When I entered the parlor, Clara stood by one of the windows, her pale hands clutching the draperies, staring out toward the front drive. She did not appear to have heard me come in, so I moved to stand next to her.

  “She is a beautiful child.”

  Clara’s voice startled me. I followed her gaze to where Rebecca played on the front lawn with Delphine. They each had a large wooden hoop with a stick and were racing each other down the drive, seeing who could roll theirs the fastest without making it fall over.

  “She is supposed to be napping. But she is beautiful, is she not? I am afraid I cannot take any credit for that. We must thank her parents.”

  Clara gave me an odd look, then returned to gaze out the window. “How are you finding the child? Does she seem normal and healthy?”

  I stared at Clara’s profile, the pale skin and nearly lashless eyes. “She is a wonderful child—unique among most children I have known, but very typical of a girl her age. She is intelligent and loving and very charming—especially when she wants to get her way.” I smiled but it was not returned. “Why do you ask?”

  Rose appeared with a tea tray, and we seated ourselves on the sofa. As I poured tea, Clara said, “I am just concerned. There have always been . . . rumors concerning Rebecca, and I was just wondering if you had noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

  I thought momentarily of mentioning the voices Rebecca said she had been hearing, but I kept it to myself. I did not want my daughter’s name dragged through the rumor mill. Despite any assurances, I doubted Clara would be able to keep a tidbit like that a secret. Instead I shook my head. “No, I have noticed nothing unusual. What sorts of rumors have you been hearing?”

  She concentrated on putting sugar into her tea and stirring it slowly, her eyebrows tightly knit. “Just that she has imaginary friends—that she sees people who are not there and speaks to them. Daniel even mentioned to me that Rebecca has spoken to him of her mother as if she were still seeing her. As if she still lived.”

  Tepid brown eyes focused on me, and I returned her stare without blinking. “Clara, having imaginary friends is quite common for children Rebecca’s age. My own son had an imaginary friend, too—an old fisherman.” I laughed, trying to add levity to our conversation. “Perhaps it is in our blood, for I know not every child has such an active imagination as Jamie and Rebecca.”

  There. I had done it. Used Jamie’s name in a sentence and not completely fallen apart. In fact, it was good to hear his name spoken. It was as if I had buried his existence at his memorial service, never to be brought into the light again. How wrong I had been.

  Clara smiled warmly. “I am sure you are right—and you would know more of these things than I. After all, you have been a mother and I have not been so blessed. Yet.” She smiled again. “I simply wanted to broach the subject with you so that you would know I am more than happy to discuss it. I can only imagine how hard it must be for you here, far from your true home. It must be so lonely.”

  I took a sip of my tea. “We have had so many visitors since we returned from our honeymoon. I feel as if I know the whole parish by now. And Daniel’s become a dear friend, too. It is my hope that we can all spend time together.”

  She looked down into her cup, hiding her expression. “Yes, I would like that, too. When Elizabeth was alive . . .” She paused, glancing up at me. “John and Elizabeth were our closest friends, and I sorely miss the companionship.”

  I placed my hand on hers and squeezed. “As soon as our mourning is over, we can be more social, and I hope to see you and Daniel as frequently as possible.”

  “Yes. That would be nice.” She took her hand away and reached for a tea cookie. “So, how are you adjusting to being the new Mrs. McMahon?”

  I chewed on a cookie, trying to will away the flush I felt creeping up my cheeks. “Very well, thank you. John has been nothing but kind in answering all my questions and helping me learn everything there is to know about the plantation. He has been very patient with me.”

  Clara put her teacup down in its saucer. “I do not think I have ever heard John McMahon’s name and the word ‘patient’ used in the same sentence.”

  “Really?”

  Her lips pulled over her teeth for a moment as she contemplated her next words. “I just recall certain aspects of Elizabeth’s behavior that John was not so patient with.”

  I held my teacup loosely, afraid that I might snap the fragile handle. “Like what?”

  Clara stood and walked back over to the window and stared out. “Elizabeth had . . . friends that she liked to visit. She would just take off without a word, returning when the whim took her. John would go into a fury when she returned—something of which I had never seen the likes of before. He was so insanely jealous. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she turned to face me.

  She continued. “He did not even like her visiting Daniel. I knew there was nothing more to their friendship, but John could not be reasoned with when it came to Elizabeth. She infuriated him and he was powerless to do anything about it. I understand she was the same way when she lived in Boston during the war.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “I always wondered why she stayed with him.”

  I sat up straight, feeling the heat pervade my cheeks. “Perhaps, like me, she had nowhere else to go.” I heard the acrimony in my voice, but her frivolous gossip regarding my dead sister had raised my ire.

  Clara held her hand to her mouth and looked truly chagrined. “Please forgive me, Catherine. I did not mean . . .” She looked do
wn to her lap for a moment, studiously straightening her skirt. “And please do not think that you have no place to go. There is always Belle Meade, and if you need to get farther away, I would see that you returned to Saint Simons.”

  My voice was cool. “That will not be necessary. And I must resent the implication that I would have need of leaving my husband.”

  Clara’s pale eyes blinked rapidly. “I have wounded you, and I am deeply sorry. It is just that Elizabeth and I used to be so frank with each other, and I suppose I forgot you were not her.”

  A booming voice sounded from the threshold. “Catherine is most definitely not Elizabeth.” John entered the room and strode toward me, then placed a lingering kiss on my cheek. I was sure it was for Clara’s benefit, but his touch thrilled me nonetheless.

  John greeted Clara with a deep grin that made her squirm. I supposed he was using a little revenge to repay her for her gossiping.

  “My, my. Where does the time go to?” She stood hastily, knocking her teaspoon on the floor in a fluster. “I really need to be going, but I wanted to extend to you both a supper invitation at Belle Meade. I realize you are still in mourning, so it will be a very small affair, but I feel it necessary to introduce you into our society. Of course, many remember you from your grandmother’s days, but they need to meet you as the new mistress of Whispering Oaks.” She glanced from me to John, like a child seeking approval. “How about Wednesday evening in two weeks? We will dine at eight.”

  My anger toward her lessened somewhat. I knew from John that Belle Meade had suffered greatly during the war and that it would be a struggle to entertain graciously, as Clara would have been used to. Still, she was making the effort to bring me into her social circle, and for that I was grateful.

  “Thank you, Clara. We would be delighted to accept. Thank you so much for your kindness.” I took her hand and held it, hoping she would realize it was an apology and an offer of a truce.