Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  I heard his slow, deliberate breaths in the silent corridor. “I do not know. Maybe she resents your replacement of Elizabeth. Or perhaps it is simply your resemblance to your sister.”

  I shook my head in exasperation. “None of that matters now, John. What matters is our peace of mind. Whatever her reasons, she cannot stay here. Let her go. I can accept whatever hold she has on you.” I swallowed thickly, searching for the courage to utter my next words. “Whatever she has to say will never change the way I feel about you.”

  He looked down at me, and for a moment I thought I saw pity in his eyes. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and I dropped my hand, deeply wounded.

  I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I cannot live this way—with doubt and suspicion clouding my every move. I told you that before we were married. I cannot stay here if things remain the way they are.” My voice caught, and I choked on my words, thinking of the child that grew inside. The one thing to bind me here, to this place and to John—if he should find out. “I cannot stay if you continue to make it clear that you distrust me so much that you feel you cannot confide in me. I have already survived so much. Surely whatever you are hiding cannot be as devastating to the spirit as that which I have already suffered. I am your wife, John. Treat me as such.”

  He gripped my arm and his voice shook. “I am trying to protect you from things you are better off not knowing. Why can you not accept that?”

  I pulled away, tears flowing freely down my cheeks. “Because I am not a silly girl who prefers to be coddled. I have faced the worst things life can give—there is nothing that can wound me more deeply than I already have been. Except your distrust. Please, John, tell me. Tell me what secret Marguerite hides.”

  His dark eyes bored into mine as a fleeting emotion flickered behind them. “I cannot,” he whispered. Then, his words urgent and low, he said, “Do not leave me.”

  I looked at him sharply. Were his words pleading or a threat? I thought of Elizabeth, supposedly killed by her own hand, and wondered if her real misdeed had been to threaten to leave her husband.

  We stood almost touching in the darkened hallway, the air thick with unspoken words. He sighed, the sound of pain mixed with desire, then bent to kiss me. With all my will, I turned away, and his lips brushed my cheek. He stayed there for a long moment, his heated breath teasing my neck, and it took all my determination not to turn back and reach for him. But he had hurt me more than a physical blow would have, and I remained as I was.

  Eventually, he straightened. Saying my name quietly, he brushed his finger against my jaw, but I remained impassive, despite the warring between my heart and my mind. I did not turn my head until I heard his boots descending the stairs. I watched him in silence, the joyful words of my impending motherhood stilled on my lips.

  * * *

  He did not come to my bed that night or the next, and I did not search for him. My heart and body screamed for him, but my mind clung to reason and I resolved to hold on to that as long as I could, for my sake as much as for the sake of my unborn child.

  It had been a long while since I had last cried, but I would wake up in the middle of those desolate nights with a pillow sodden with tears and I would reach for John’s warmth, only to feel the cold emptiness of the bed beside me.

  On the third evening, he came into the bedroom as I was preparing to dress for supper at the Lewistons’. I was seated at the dressing table, rummaging through my jewelry box, when he came to stand behind me.

  He placed a hand on my shoulder, his finger tracing the line of my collarbone. “You look tired.”

  I looked in the mirror at the dark circles under my eyes and wondered if he were mocking me. But when our gazes met in the glass, his expression showed genuine concern.

  “Perhaps I can send Mr. O’Rourke with our excuses and we can stay home tonight.”

  I shook my head, perhaps too vigorously, knowing how weak my defenses were. I could not give in to my physical desires and hope to cling on to any self-respect. “No. Daniel and Clara would be so disappointed. I will be fine.”

  A dark shadow clouded his features. Leaning over me, he reached for the pearls nestled in the top tray of the jewelry box. “Then wear these. I miss seeing you in them.”

  “The clasp is a little loose—I would like to have the jeweler look at it before I wear them again.”

  He picked the necklace up and held it to the light, his long fingers stroking the creamy smoothness of the pearls. “The clasp is fine. And it looks lovely with your amber silk gown.” With slow, deliberate movements, he wrapped the necklace around my neck and fastened it. His touch and the coolness of the pearls caressed my skin, making me burn. Our eyes met again in the mirror. Before I could move away, he bent and kissed my neck, sending dangerous sparks throughout my body.

  Quietly, he said in my ear, “I will be waiting for you downstairs.”

  I finished dressing, then left the room to go down to the foyer. I moved slowly, my fatigue weighing heavily on me, and dreading the evening ahead. My mood was not conducive to small talk nor Clara’s incessant chatter. Nor were my defenses strong enough to fight the inevitable longing for John’s touch whenever I was in his presence.

  As I approached him, he turned to face me, my wrap in his hands. I swallowed deeply, trying not to show how his mere appearance affected me. His starched white shirt accentuated his skin, darkened by the sun. The black dinner jacket hung on his broad shoulders, outlining their powerful breadth.

  His gaze swept over me in an appreciative glance, then moved behind me to set the wrap on my shoulders. I reached for it and our fingers touched. I jerked my hands away, as if I’d been burned, and stepped toward the door.

  Rebecca rushed into the room, Delphine following close behind her.

  “Mama, Mama!” the little girl shouted before launching herself into my arms.

  I hugged her close and kissed her soft cheek before letting her go. As she ran to her father, I turned to Delphine.

  “Remember, you are in charge tonight. Do not let her out of your sight, and I want you to stay in the room with her after you put her to bed, until she falls asleep. Do you understand?”

  Delphine nodded. “Yes’m.”

  Confident I could trust the young girl, I thanked her, then allowed John to escort me out the door and into the carriage. I moved over to my usual spot on the far side of the carriage, pressing against the door so as not to touch my husband inadvertently.

  Mr. O’Rourke drove, and John sat next to me. I fell against him when the coach lurched, and it took all my will to move away. We did not speak for a long while, and I watched the changing landscape out the window. It was a windless night, with a full moon and clear air, the stars brilliant diamonds in the black sky.

  I felt compelled to face John and found him watching me closely. His eyes held the same haunting look as they had when we had spoken in the hallway outside Rebecca’s room several days before. His words tossed about my mind, pleading and threatening at the same time. Do not leave me. As if reading my thoughts, he said, “It is an appropriate night for All Hallows’ Eve, is it not? Nothing seems quite real.”

  The carriage pulled up on the levee road, bumping and swaying over the uneven surface. The water seemed so close, too near, and I clutched at my reticule, feeling silly that I had put the lodestone in it but glad that I had done so.

  I turned back to look at the water, so calm and peaceful under the light of the moon, its undercurrents hidden under placid ripples. I looked at John and wondered what perilous undercurrents ran through his blood. My hand rested on my abdomen, and I wondered if we might find a peace between us and I could share the news that would only be good for both of us.

  I was still unwilling to inexorably tie myself to John with so many unanswered questions between us, as if my growing feelings for John and Rebecca had not already do
ne so. But I could not help harboring the hope that this child could be the one thing that would erase all doubts and misunderstandings between us and bring us back to that place of wild contentment that had been upon us the first weeks of our marriage.

  I looked out again at the moonlit water, the nonsalty smell of it still so foreign to me. A bat launched itself from a tree on the bank, swooping low and fluttering fast, until it disappeared behind the carriage. A metallic click sounded from the outside of the carriage, unrelated to the usual bumps and jars, and I found myself holding my breath.

  A feeling of danger suddenly consumed me, making me sick with it, and I pressed myself against the side of the carriage. John reached toward me, taking my arm with one hand as he reached for the door near me with his other.

  I looked at his face for a moment, but it was hidden in shadow. His grip on me tightened as I remembered his words in the hall. Do not leave me.

  I gave a strangled cry as the carriage door swung open behind me at the same time John lifted me out of the seat. The skirts of my gown whipped furiously in the wind outside the gaping coach door, and I clung to John’s arms.

  Mr. O’Rourke shouted from above, and then I found myself smothered against John’s solid chest, the smell of wool and freshly pressed linen heavy in my nose. I did not open my eyes again until the carriage came to a complete stop.

  “Are you all right?” John’s voice was thick in my ear.

  I nodded, not yet able to speak.

  “Thank God. I saw the door opening and knew that one bump in the road would send you out of the carriage. I got to you just in time.”

  Mr. O’Rourke climbed down from his perch and stood in the empty doorway. Holding a lantern aloft, he said, “The paint is marred—it is like someone tampered with the latch.”

  John continued to hold me tightly to him. Softly, he said, “You are shaking. We should go home.”

  I shook my head. I felt the need to be with other people besides John. I could not help but remember John gripping my arm before we heard Mr. O’Rourke’s shout, and my wild thoughts wondered what his true intent had been had the driver not noticed the open door. His words reverberated again and again in my head, my mind trying to decipher them as plea or threat. Do not leave me.

  John gave Mr. O’Rourke instructions to continue on and, after he had fiddled with the latch to get it to stay, the carriage started again. I stayed close to John and away from the door, wondering for the remainder of the journey if I were truly safer in his arms. I wanted to believe it with all my heart, but I could not stop myself from thinking of Elizabeth. Had she ever threatened to leave and was that why she now lay buried in the old family mausoleum?

  I turned to look at my husband in the dark interior of the carriage and saw no malice. He brushed the hair from my forehead and kissed me gently, then gazed out his window, his thoughts hidden from me.

  Daniel met us at the door of Belle Meade, an imposing Greek Revival mansion. I noticed the absence of a servant to greet us and take our cloaks, as well as the faded and peeling wallpaper in the grand foyer—both examples of the demise of a way of life that I acknowledged we would never see again.

  As Daniel led us into the front parlor, conversation halted as all eyes turned to us, more specifically to me. I felt a flush steal over my shoulders as the uncomfortable silence continued, until Daniel took my arm and led me to a chair. As he seated me, he leaned toward my ear and whispered, “You look so much like Elizabeth tonight—it is the way you have done your hair, I think. It is quite stunning.”

  Self-consciously, I reached up to touch the coil of hair at the nape of my neck, remembering how Elizabeth, after teasing me about my propensity for wearing my long hair unbound, had taught me how to roll and tuck my hair in a fair imitation of the style she preferred. After securing it, she had quickly pulled it out again, saying it did not suit me. But now, no longer willing to accept Marguerite’s help in getting me dressed or fixing my hair, it was the only formal style I knew how to do myself.

  Clara greeted me with a kiss on each cheek, her smile cheerful and warm as she played the consummate hostess with a skill that had been bred in her since the cradle. Despite the dingy furniture and dusty drapes, she exuded the same hospitality that she would have when her home shone and sparkled and the paint didn’t peel from the massive columns across the front.

  She wore a dinner gown in a dated style, but the celery-colored silk lifted the usual pallor of her skin, making her eyes shine. When she smiled, as she invariably did when looking at her husband, she was almost pretty. She seemed to flit among her guests like a moth around an open flame, but always seemed to come to rest by her husband’s side. She reminded me of a small child with a favorite toy, afraid to leave it alone too long, lest somebody come along and take it from her.

  As Clara had assured me, it was a small gathering. Besides the Lewistons, Clara’s elderly father, Mr. Brier, John and me, Judge Patterson, and the elder Herndons completed the party. I was surprised to see the latter until Daniel quietly explained that they were no longer on speaking terms with their son and that he had moved out of their house several weeks prior and they had not seen him since. When Daniel straightened after whispering in my ear, I looked up to see Clara and John watching us closely. Before I could respond, Clara was at Daniel’s side, whisking him away to a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Herndon.

  At dinner, as one of the guests of honor, I was seated at Daniel’s right side, with Judge Patterson on my right and Clara’s father across from me. I remembered Mr. Brier’s assertion that he had seen Elizabeth in Baton Rouge before we had found her body, and John’s claim that the old man was not in his right mind. I assumed him to be in his late seventies or early eighties, and time would have taken a toll on his mind and body. Stooped and wrinkled, he walked with the assistance of a cane, and one of the servants had to cut his meal into tiny bites. He did not speak, so I assumed he could not, and when he ate, drool fell from the corner of his mouth. But when he looked up, his eyes were bright and clear, and it was obvious that he was following the conversation around him intently.

  John sat to Clara’s right, putting him diagonally across from me, and every time I looked in his direction, I would see his dark, brooding eyes on me before I quickly looked away.

  Conversation at the table seemed strained, as if we were all trying too hard to avoid the obvious topics that would be deemed unsuitable. We talked of the weather and politics and the recent disappearance and murder of a sheriff in a neighboring parish. But the recent war, the dilapidated house, the missing son, and my dead sister seemed to float behind the dining-room chairs like ghosts, unseen but as present in the room as the scarred furniture.

  As a young female servant cleared away the dinner dishes and brought out dessert and coffee, Clara addressed me from the other end of the table, ensuring everyone could hear.

  “Catherine, is the food to your liking? You look pale.”

  It was true that the aromas of food were making my stomach churn, no doubt on account of the baby. I had thought that I had stirred the food up enough on my plate to warrant a pretense of an appetite.

  “The food is delicious, thank you. I am just feeling a little tired—that is all.”

  “Well, it has been almost two months since your honeymoon. Since we are all close friends, I was wondering if perhaps you had some news for us.”

  I tried to give her a warning look as I answered. “I am not quite sure what you mean. If you are speaking of my first completed portrait, yes—Rebecca’s has been finished, and I am quite proud of it. When you visit us next, you can see it hanging in the library.”

  Her eyes never wavered from my face. “No, dear. I was hoping you and John might have some more exciting news for us.” She lowered her lashes, her composure returned to the reserved Clara I knew. Quietly smoothing her linen napkin in her lap, she said, “I am sorry if I have embarrassed
you by speaking out of turn. It is just that I thought—well, I hoped—that we might have something to celebrate this evening. There is precious little good news as it is.”

  My gaze slid to John. His eyes had darkened, his face stilled, his hand tightly clutching his wineglass. I turned away and saw Clara, who, remarkably, had her eyes fixed on Daniel, as if to study his reaction.

  Clara must have already known the truth—probably from Marguerite. I looked down at my plate, knowing that to lie now would be futile. “Yes, we do have good news. John and I are expecting a child.”

  There was a call for a toast, and Daniel immediately stood to refill the wineglasses. I noticed how his hand shook as he poured my wine. The sound of broken glass brought our attention to John. The glass in his hand had shattered, leaving spilled wine, shards of crystal, and blood from his cut hand on the crisp white tablecloth.

  Daniel placed the wine bottle on the table and hesitated a moment before approaching John. “Let me take you to my office, where I can make sure there is no glass left in your hand and wrap it properly.”

  John glanced up at his old friend with darkened eyes and, after a long pause, accepted Daniel’s offer. With a bow and an apology, he excused himself, his gaze carefully avoiding mine.

  I felt sick to my stomach and was grateful for Judge Patterson’s assistance in helping me out of my chair and escorting me back to the parlor. Because of the small group and the absence of John and Daniel, the ladies and gentlemen convened in the same room. I assumed the three remaining men were waiting for the return of the other two before retiring to the library for port and cigars.

  Mr. Brier sat next to me on a horsehair sofa. To my surprise, he reached for my hand and patted it solicitously. His skin was surprisingly soft and warm, and I found comfort in his gesture. Still, I felt hot and clammy, almost as if I were suffocating, the need to see John all-consuming. His anger at the table had been palpable and certainly understandable, and I needed to be with him to explain.