by Karen White
She smiled warmly at me. “No, Catherine—thank you. Thank you for putting up with my gossiping, and thank you for accepting my invitation. It will be a real pleasure.” She moved to leave, then turned back to add, “For me and for Daniel, I am sure.”
John and I saw her out. After she had gone, I turned to my husband. During my conversation with Clara, my thoughts had been in turmoil. It had become very clear that my concern for Rebecca far outweighed any anxiety I might suffer at my husband’s anger.
I took a deep breath before I spoke. “We must talk about Marguerite. I do not feel as if she should stay here—she is insolent and rude and does not take well to my direction. And somebody has been feeding Rebecca nonsense about the ghosts of the Indian woman and her baby—that they are under the pond and she needs to save them.”
He looked at me intently. “And you think Rebecca believes it?”
I nodded. “She is young and impressionable. But I think I convinced her that it’s not true and that she should never go to the pond without an adult. But still . . .”
He spoke gently. “Catherine, I understand how this is all very upsetting to you but, as you said, it is nonsense. We will speak to the servants and make it clear that no one is to mention the legend to Rebecca again, and that she must not be allowed by the pond by herself.”
“But, John, I feel Marguerite is behind it—that she wishes Rebecca ill for some reason. I cannot forget the time when she left Rebecca out in the thunderstorm as punishment. It chills me to the bone.”
I saw him grit his teeth, his jawbone working furiously. “I will speak to her, but I am sure you are mistaken. I have known Marguerite for years. Yes, her ways are strange, but I have never known her to wish evil on anyone.”
I touched his sleeve, fighting to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I do not want her in this house. Please send her away. Give her a large severance and a good reference, if it will make you feel better, but please, John. Dismiss her.”
He looked away, avoiding my eyes. “I said I would speak to her. But I will not dismiss her for ungrounded reasons. I know your concerns are real, but perhaps they are born of being uncertain and in a new situation rather than any solid reasons.” He turned and kissed me on the cheek. “I have to return to the mill.”
I watched his retreating form, bristling at how easily he had dismissed my fears. But maybe he was right and I was being foolish. Maybe I had imagined harmful intentions on Marguerite’s part. Perhaps I should trust John and try harder to accept Marguerite’s presence in my house, for the sake of harmony.
And then I recalled the note and Marguerite’s veiled threat. I shrugged—it did not matter. I could only tell the truth, and the truth had nothing to hide.
I stared after John as he walked toward the mill, finally admitting to myself that the heady rush I felt whenever I saw him was perhaps more than fascination. The soft smiles that he reserved for Rebecca and me belied his stern demeanor, and made them all the more special for their rarity. Our tender bond had taken root in deep hurt and grief, and now I could only wonder if such fragile beginnings could blossom into something more.
I returned to the house, closing the door quietly behind me. The bright afternoon sun had begun its descent into the twilight sky, and I stood in the foyer for a long moment, watching the play of light on the walls.
A shadow caught my attention and I turned, thinking something moved in the mirror. I stared into the murky glass, watching with unblinking eyes. I spun around to see if what I had seen had been a reflection, but found myself staring at the empty wall on the opposite side of the foyer.
I approached the old mirror slowly, marveling at the fear I felt lodged in my throat. Could it be that my new sense of contentment, now that I had something to lose, had resurrected my sense of fear?
Reaching out, I allowed my fingertips to graze the cold glass of the mirror. I dropped my hands, watching them as I slowly lowered them to my sides. I gasped as the top of the hall table came into view, then blinked to clear my eyes in the dim light.
Scattered over the table’s surface lay a handful of oleander leaves, their tender corners lifted as if waving goodbye. I stared at them for a long moment before gathering them in my fists, squeezing tightly as if to choke the life out of them. I shoved them into my pockets, obliterating them from my sight, as if they, and the threat they represented to my newfound happiness, had never existed at all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I awoke with a scream trapped in my mouth, the room of my dream still surrounding me, the pool of bloodred oleander leaves drowning me. I reached for John, but his side of the bed was empty, the pillow cool.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my teeth chattering, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark shadows of the furniture. Softly, I called out his name, but there was no reply. Sliding to the floor, I felt the cool wood touch my feet, sending more shivers up my spine. Carefully, I walked to the door and opened it, the hinges singing a faint protest.
A thin triangle of light fanned the far wall of the corridor, and I followed it like a lost ship guided by a lighthouse beacon. I hesitated at the bend in the hallway when I realized the light came from Elizabeth’s room. Slowly, I approached the door, my feet padding softly on the carpet runner. I had not brought my wrapper, and I trembled in the cool night air.
My fingers, seemingly disembodied in the dark, bisected the illumination, making them glow before I pushed gently on the door.
John sat at Elizabeth’s dressing table, a glass of Scotch not far from his hand. He was fully dressed, and I recalled how I had retired before he did. His jacket was missing, his hair mussed, as if he had spent many wretched moments ruggedly sweeping his hands through it.
With a start, I noticed that her hairbrush, comb, and mirror sat on her dresser top. Had I imagined they were missing when I had first come into this room? Or perhaps they were merely someplace in the room and had been put back.
I turned my attention back to John. He did not see me right away, and I stayed where I was, watching as he picked up her hairbrush and held it idly in his hands, then lifted it to his nose to smell deeply. He turned his head away quickly, as if the scent from the brush was not what he wished for.
He lifted his eyes and spied me in the mirror, but did not act surprised to see me.
“What are you doing, John?”
Taking a sip from his glass, he remained silent. I entered the room and closed the door behind me. I had already grown used to the knowledge that these walls had ears, and I had no intention of fueling the gossip mill any more than I had already. “What are you doing?” I asked again.
He dropped the brush, the clatter glaring in the quiet room, and stood to face me. “I am not sure,” he said slowly. “Perhaps I am simply trying to ascertain that you and Elizabeth are not one and the same.”
I smiled, thinking he was jesting, until I caught sight of the crumpled note on the dresser. I knew without asking that it was Daniel’s note, and I realized Marguerite had made good on her threat. Still, I was not sorry I had spoken to John about dismissing her. As Rebecca’s mother, I knew the child’s welfare had to come first.
I sobered quickly, the blood draining from my head. Nausea rose to my throat, and I had to sit down on the corner of the bed for fear of fainting. “I can explain that,” I said weakly.
Silence pervaded the room for a long moment as we watched each other warily. “I am sure you can. Elizabeth always had good explanations, too. Until she felt that she no longer need bother with such trivialities.”
I tasted bile and grimaced as I swallowed it down. I stared up at him, my anger rising. “So, that is the way it is? I am guilty regardless of the truth, and you are judge and jury. How dare you?” I struggled to stand, clutching one of the bedposts for support.
His face was ragged, his torment plain to see. “What else am I supposed to think, Catherine?”
“That your wife is innocent.” I glared at him, struggling to ignore the nausea that threatened to engulf me. “This wife—not Elizabeth. What about trust, John? Can one simple misunderstanding erase everything we have built so far?”
He stared at me for a long moment, his face hidden in shadow. Slowly, he put his glass down on the dressing table, the small clinking sound an intrusion in the heavy silence.
I leaned against the tall bed, pressing my forehead against the bedpost, seeking something cool. I heard the resignation in my voice. “I told you before we were married: I would rather have my freedom and starve on Saint Simons than live this way.”
He took a step toward me out of the shadows, and I raised my face to his. “Daniel was simply concerned for my welfare, and he did not want to raise your ire by questioning my well-being in your presence. Your mistrust and jealousies are building a prison for me. Is this how it started with Elizabeth? Did your jealousies imprison her, too?”
The words I hurled at him hit their mark and I closed my eyes, unable to look at the hurt in his. I took long, deep breaths and felt the cool wood of the bedpost against my face. I opened them again to look into his inscrutable eyes and spoke the words that I had never intended to utter. “If only you knew what is in my heart.”
Dark eyes stared at me, unblinking, a flash of hope flickering within. “How can you expect me to know what is in your heart when you are meeting with other men without my knowledge, when my best friend is sending you private notes? Elizabeth—”
“I am not Elizabeth, John. If you have any question as to my behavior, ask me and I will tell you the truth. I have nothing to hide. And what lies in my heart is worthless if you cannot trust me with your secrets. You say that it is to protect me, but I am telling you that it is killing me—little by little. It is leaching the strength and energy from my blood. It is starvation of the soul, which is far worse than starvation of the body. And I have experienced both.”
I shook as I spoke and felt my knees weaken beneath me. He crossed the room in two long strides and lifted me in his arms. Gently, he sat on the bed with me in his lap, cradling me like a child. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “I am sorry.”
Soft lips brushed my forehead, and it must have been a healing kiss, for my wave of nausea vanished. I still felt cold and clammy, and I snuggled deeply into John’s arms, closing my eyes and relishing his scent.
His words fell softly on my ear. “What is really in your heart, Cat?”
I did not open my eyes. I had no desire to banish my hope by not seeing what I wanted reflected in his. Instead I tilted my head to face him, but kept my eyes tightly shut. “I feel weak whenever you walk in a room. And my blood seems to move faster and my heart beats louder when you look at me or when you make Rebecca laugh.” I took a deep breath, still not daring to look at him. “And when you touch me, I feel as if I have found a part of paradise here on earth. I would die for just your touch, for I find myself living just to have you pull me toward you each night.”
Small kisses touched my eyelids, and I opened them in surprise.
His eyes darkened as he gazed down at me. “And I feel as if I have always known you, as if there has never been a time in my life in which you were not a part of it.”
I kept my eyes open as he kissed me, his lips caressing me, his mere touch arousing all of my senses.
I struggled to sit up, clutching his sleeves for support, intent on speaking before I lost my will and allowed my being to dissolve under his fingertips. “Then let us start anew. Let us pretend that all that has gone before us never happened. That there was no pain, loss, and betrayal. That there was simply us, waiting to find each other.”
His face stilled, his voice heavy and dark when he spoke. “If only I could share in your optimism—that it is possible to forgive and forget old betrayals. That it is possible to pretend they never happened, despite the fact that the evidence of their existence is within eyesight.” He pressed his lips to my forehead, holding me close. “I swear that I will do all that I can to help you remain so innocent and forgiving. I would preserve it in you even if I am incapable of forgetting or forgiving.”
I struggled to read his eyes, but he had once again masked his true emotions, hiding his thoughts and tucking whatever secrets he kept from me far back into the recesses of his mind.
I felt emboldened by his words and I turned to him with confidence. “There is already something you can do.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What is it?” Those impenetrable dark eyes flickered.
I kept my voice low, the sound of it rasping into the dark night. “Dismiss Marguerite. There is something . . . unholy about her. She is working against my authority here, and I am afraid of her influence on Rebecca.” I made no mention of the oleander leaves or the obvious way John had received the note from Daniel. The one true way to steer an issue to his core would be to invoke Rebecca’s name.
His arms stiffened around me. “It sounds as if you are suggesting blackmail. You will stay if I dismiss Marguerite.”
I shook my head vehemently, a sick feeling churning in the pit of my stomach. “No, I am asking for your trust. You are keeping Marguerite here for a reason that you will not divulge to me. Trust me, John, with your secret. Whatever my reaction to it, it cannot possibly be worse than the damage should Marguerite stay.”
To my astonishment, John moved me from his lap, settling me onto the bed, and then stood, turning his back to me. I watched as he brushed his hands over his head, sweeping the hair off his forehead in uncharacteristic agitation. “I cannot. With all your talk of trust, why can you not trust me in this matter?” He shook his head, then turned to look at me with haunted eyes. “And the matter is not to be discussed further.”
I slid off the bed and approached him, my hands on his sleeves. “What do you mean that you cannot? If it is due to a promise you made to the Lewistons, I am sure they would understand if you would just explain—”
His words cut me off. “I said I cannot, and nothing will change that. The matter is closed.”
He resembled a madman, his hair looking storm-tossed and his face ravaged. Very quietly, I said, “Then everything you have said to me tonight in this room has been a lie.”
I waited for him to refute my words, to apologize or make some move of reconciliation, but he did not. Slowly, I turned from him and left, waiting until I was safely behind the closed door of my old room to let the tears fall.
* * *
The next few days were difficult, as relations between John and me remained strained. I had slept in my old room the first night, and had continued to do so in the ensuing days. I made a show of retiring to the room I shared with John to ready myself for bed, but would return to the room down the hall as soon as the servants had gone to bed. I was too angry and hurt to sleep with him, and I knew all he would have to do would be to touch me and I would forget all his empty promises and the damage they had caused in our blossoming relationship.
We ate our meals together and I would sense his gaze resting heavily on me. I spoke civilly to him, for Rebecca’s sake, but refused any intimate conversation or contact. He accepted my withdrawal coolly, never acknowledging it outright, but aware nonetheless. He would watch me as a cat might watch a mouse, waiting for the first show of weakness to catch me.
On the third night, I excused myself with Rebecca, and helped her get ready for bed. Since her revelation of her conversations with the dead woman and her baby, I had been seeing to Rebecca. I dressed her in the morning and put her to bed each night, sitting in a chair by her bed until I was satisfied that she was sound asleep. I would sit in the darkness and strain my ears for voices or a baby’s cry, but would hear only the silence.
I fought fatigue as I slid her nightgown over her head and tucked her in bed, and when she was asleep, I gratefully walked down the corridor to the master bedroom to change for bed. I
rang for Marguerite and began pulling the pins from my hair, the dark strands falling past my shoulders and almost to my waist. It was the one feature Elizabeth and I had in common that I had not resented. We would spend long hours braiding each other’s hair into elaborate twists and styles, each one more beautiful than the next.
I paused for a moment at the memory, relieved that it had been a good one. I leaned into the mirror at my dressing table, the candlelight making my hair and skin glow, and saw the smile on my lips.
The door swung open behind me, making the candle flame shiver and swirl. I swiveled in my seat and stood to watch John enter the room.
I cleared my throat. “I rang for Marguerite.”
“And I told her not to come. I will see to your needs tonight.”
“No, John. I would rather not.”
I could see his visible efforts to control his impatience. “You cannot keep me from your bed forever, you know.”
I stepped back. “It is just that . . . I need time away from you. To think.”
He took a step forward, tension outlined in his face. “To think about what?”
I realized I was wringing my hands and stopped. “The way things are between us.”
His face relaxed, as if he had been expecting another answer. “We are married. I already told you that I did not want a cold marriage bed. And my bed has been very cold these past few nights.” He held out his hand. “Come back to me.”
As he spoke he approached, and I retreated until my heels hit the wall behind me. “No, John, not until this is settled between us.”
He reached me, and I had nowhere else to go. “Avoiding me and my bed will not settle anything.” With a light touch of his finger, he stroked my cheek, the gentle touch nearly undoing my resolve.
I turned my head, making him drop his hand. “You treat my concerns lightly.”
“And I tell you that you have no reason for concerns. I have promised you that I will learn to trust more freely. You know it is not easy for me, and I am only learning. Be patient with me.”
