by Karen White
I placed my hands flat on the surface of the hard mahogany table. “What are you suggesting?”
He stood and kissed me lightly on the temple. “Not a thing, dear wife. Unless there is something you think might shed light on the situation.”
Having lost my appetite completely, I slid back from the table. “I have nothing to hide—especially not the truth. I have not spoken with Philip since that horrible scene in New Orleans. Believe what you will, but that is the truth.”
A dark flush stained his handsome features. “Nothing to hide, Cat? I have noticed that you have not asked about Marguerite, nor made note of her absence.”
Doubt and fear flashed through my mind. I stood, facing him with my chin lifted. “Where is she?”
Leaning close to me, he reached for my hand, sending unbidden shivers of anticipation up my arm. Lifting it, he held it between us and opened up my palm. Wordlessly, he reached into his pocket and dumped the pearl necklace in my hand.
My fingers closed over the cool beads and I noticed my hand shook. Slowly, I raised my eyes to his. “Is that why you married me, then? To keep Rebecca with you? Surely you know that the law would be on your side. Simply being married to her mother would have made you the child’s legal father.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind. He turned away, his back to me, before speaking. “I am a foreigner here—a damned Yankee, regardless of my years here or my commitment to the parish. With your friends’ and neighbors’ help, I am sure they would have spirited you and Rebecca away to her rightful family without regard to my legal status. Despite their destitute state, they would have found the means to keep both of you hidden from me indefinitely.”
The small glimmer of hope that I had sheltered inside of me fragmented like a broken mirror, and I was afraid all the pieces could never be put back where the scars would not be seen or felt. With a drowning sensation in my chest, I realized it was for the best. In the long hours of the night, I had made the decision to leave him and his dark secrets. He did not trust me, much less love me, and I loved him far more than good reason dictated.
“And now I am your wife . . .” I did not have the courage to finish the sentence.
“And we both love Rebecca. She could find worse parents to raise her.”
With a mocking bow, he moved toward the doorway.
My words called him back. “If you are not Rebecca’s father, then who is?”
He paused and I heard a deep intake of breath. Looking at me over his shoulder, he said, “I do not know. But rest assured, regardless of what man gave her mother his seed, I will never cease to be her father. And I pity whoever would try to separate us.”
I listened as his footsteps crossed the foyer to the library, my hollow heart aching. My hand fell to my abdomen. He must have believed for a time that Rebecca was his. But of Elizabeth’s second child, he had had no such assumption. Would her second proof of infidelity have angered him enough to be rid of her forever? And what of his doubts of me and my child?
I tried to shut out the insidious thoughts, but they spread through my mind like poison from an oleander petal. It took only a small dose to claim its victim, and I was afraid that I had already succumbed.
A door opened upstairs, quickly followed by the sound of running feet on the steps. I rushed out into the foyer and nearly ran into Mary.
“Missus MacMahon, Miss Rebecca’s awake. She is asking for her papa.”
I looked at the young girl, worry gnawing at me. Her skin was flushed, her freckles standing out in stark relief. “What is wrong, Mary?”
She wrung her hands. “Rebecca is burning up, she is. Burning with the fever.”
I took the stairs two at a time, with John, who had emerged from his study, close behind me. When I approached Rebecca’s bed, she twitched and moaned, her face pale and wan. Her bright blue eyes stared at me but did not seem to see me. I touched her cheek and her skin nearly burned my hand.
John turned to Mary, who had followed us up the stairs. “Go get Mr. O’Rourke and send him to find Dr. Lewiston and bring him here. Now.”
Mary bobbed her head several times, still wringing her hands, then ran from the room, her feet clattering down the steps.
Rebecca clutched at my dress. “Mama, Mama. So hot.” Her voice rasped, her lips cracked and dry.
I sat at the edge of the bed and brushed her hair off her forehead. “I know, baby. I am going to try to cool you off.”
Quietly, John said, “I will go to Rose and have her bring fresh water and bathing cloths.”
I looked at him for the first time and saw the tight restraint and despair in his eyes. I wanted to take his hand and offer comfort, but I could not. I simply nodded and turned back to Rebecca while I listened as his footsteps faded away down the hall.
* * *
Rebecca lingered in a feverish delirium for almost four days. We moved her back to her own room, and I began a vigil by her bedside. She could not hold down food, and I spent hours simply squeezing drops of water between her dry and cracked lips from a clean washcloth.
Daniel came frequently, as much to comfort John and me as to tend to Rebecca. He listened to her chest and gave us the promising news that it was not pneumonia. He ruled out many childhood diseases, but could not determine what was afflicting Rebecca. Her fever remained unabated, regardless of our treatment, and I lived through those nights and days with fear as my constant shadow. I sat transfixed at her bedside, afraid to leave her if only for a moment. Jamie had drowned when I had looked away, and the guilt and grief still weighed heavily on my heart. Perhaps I could earn forgiveness if I protected Rebecca in a way that had been denied my beloved son.
On the second night of her illness, while I was bathing Rebecca’s forehead yet again with a cool cloth, John silently opened the door. I sensed him before I saw him, my emotions an odd mixture of joy and wariness.
I looked up and saw dark circles under his eyes and a beard growing on his strong jaw. If there had been any doubts before at all that he loved this child as his own flesh and blood, they would have fled completely now.
He took the cloth from my hand and led me away from the bed. He grasped my hands in his and I felt how chilled they were—as if his life’s blood were flowing out to the child who needed it more than he.
“I want you to go your room and seek rest. And then I want you to pray. That is the only thing I will allow you to do.”
I wrenched my hands away. “No, John. Do not deny me this!”
His hands spanned my waist, his palms pressing against my abdomen. “And what of the baby? You are compromising not only your own health but that of the unborn child.” His dark eyes bored into mine. “I will take your place and not leave her side. I promise you that. Can you trust me enough to tend her with all the love and care that you would?”
I looked back at the frail and flushed face of the child I had grown to love so much and then looked back at my husband. I knew he was right, yet I agonized over the decision. How could anyone care for Rebecca as well as I could? I stared into John’s eyes and knew the truth.
Slowly, I nodded. “You will send for me if you need anything? Or if she calls for me?”
Relief flooded his handsome features. “Yes. Of course. Now go get your rest. You will need all of your strength.”
Reluctantly, I stepped back, the warmth of his hands deserting me, and knew that Rebecca would be well tended. I wanted to reach for him, to hold him and read in his eyes that he felt the same, yet we both stood facing each other, each one holding back our own truth and secrets.
I turned away and bent to kiss Rebecca on the forehead, then left the room without a word.
John stayed in her room, nursing his daughter day and night as he had promised. I was allowed in to hold her hand and give her water and to help change her bedclothes, but John always sent me
back to my room to rest. I knew he was right, but I longed to be at his side, watching over our daughter.
On the second day of his vigil I brought his shaving materials and a clean change of clothes. He opened the door at my knock, and I barely recognized the disheveled man as my husband.
“How is she?” I asked.
“The same.” He opened the door wider to let me in, eyeing the bundle in my hands. “Thank you.”
I forced a smile on my face that I did not feel. “You will be needing these right now, I think. What if she awakens and sees you as you are? She will think you a monster and start screaming.” His stomach grumbled, and I added, “A food tray will be brought up shortly.”
White teeth showed as he grinned, disarming my resolve completely, and I realized it had been too long since I had seen him smile.
He reached for the stack in my hands and his fingers touched mine. I let go quickly, almost dropping everything, and he caught it with a quick grab. His eyes sobered. “She will be fine, Cat. I will it to be so.”
My voice was harsher than I intended, my exhaustion and worry no doubt sharpening my tongue. “And no one would dare thwart your wants and desires—not even God.”
He said nothing. I reached into my pocket, feeling the cool smoothness of the lodestone. I held it up to him and he took it. “Put this by Rebecca. It is to chase away evil and bring her goodness. She needs it more than I.”
Without waiting for a response, I kissed Rebecca’s hot cheek and left. I would return to prayer, for that was the only thing I could do for her. Rose was in her kitchen, casting spells and offering up sacrifices. I no longer thought of it as pagan, for it seemed to take its root in this dark, humid place, seeming more at home than Christianity. As long as Rebecca recovered, it did not matter to me what means guided her there.
And when she was well, I would take her away. I would bring her home to the bright light that dispersed the darkness away from weary hearts and where the rhythm of the ocean waves lulled one to sleep and kept the nightmares at bay. And where a child could grow in a place without shadows lurking in every corner and where dark secrets did not obscure the purity of love.
I did not know when I had come to the decision to take Rebecca with me, but even with a heavy heart I knew that I had made the right choice. The walls of this place emanated deceit and danger, and I knew she would be in peril if she should remain. Leaving would save both our lives; of that I had no doubt. John would grieve her loss, for his love for her was greater than I had ever seen from a father toward his natural child. But that broken bond, I could not consider. The remembered pain of losing a child weighed heavily on my heart if I did, and I would not carry John’s grief for him. For if I did, my scarred heart would surely break open, spilling out my resolve to leave along with the only chance of saving our lives and our very souls.
* * *
Rebecca’s fever broke on the fifth day. I waited in the hall as Daniel examined her and then reappeared, a shadow of a smile on his face.
“I think she is well on the road to complete health. There seems to be no damage to her sight or hearing, and I expect her to have a full recovery.”
Relief flooded my bones, making me shake. I wanted to throw my arms around him but restrained myself. “Thank you, Daniel, for caring for her.”
He put a calming hand on my arm. “I need you to take care of yourself, too. If you show the first sign of fever, you are to call me immediately. I do not think you realize the danger to your unborn child.”
Unbidden, my hands went to my bodice. “I will,” I promised. I walked the doctor down the stairs, my heart lighter for the first time in more than a week.
Daniel paused for a moment at the door, a perplexed expression darkening his brow. “I thought you might want to know that Marguerite is at Belle Meade now. We cannot afford to pay her, yet Clara insists that she stay, and Marguerite seems satisfied with a room and food. I hope that does not dismay you too much. John has told me of some of the doubts you harbored regarding Marguerite.”
I closed my eyes, shaking my head. “As long as she is out of my house, her whereabouts do not concern me, but thank you for telling me. I know she practically raised Clara, so I cannot fault either one of them for their closeness.”
I opened the door and he stepped out onto the porch. The late-afternoon sun glinted off his hair and I paused in midsentence, staring at it. It was so much like Robert’s—all the gentle shadings of gold and yellow. So much like Rebecca’s. I grabbed his arm and he turned, his gaze focused on my tight grip.
“What is wrong, Catherine?”
“You, Daniel. You . . .”
I could not seem to form the words. I thought back on Rebecca’s secret place behind the burned plantation house, and how she had disappeared to a secluded place so Daniel and I could be alone. As if she had done it many times before.
He turned to face me, his expression one of worry. “What is wrong? Do you need to sit down?”
I shook my head. “No. No, I do not.” I could not tell him. I did not want to acknowledge it. Because then I would have to tell John. Regardless of what I believed John capable of, my heart could not stand the knowledge that he would lose not only his wife and child, but his best friend as well.
His eyes remained guarded. “Are you quite sure?”
“Yes. Really, I am fine. I am just tired, I think.”
He kissed my hand, his gray eyes warm. “You are so strong, Catherine. John and Rebecca are very lucky to have you.” A deep and abiding sadness seem to cross his face for a brief moment, quickly replaced by his smile. “Take care of yourself, remember. It will take a long time for Rebecca to completely recover and regain her strength. You will have need of your own strength to see her through.”
I thanked him, grateful for Rebecca’s recovery but concerned over the delay in my departure. “How long do you think it will be before she is well again?”
He brightened. “By Christmas, I expect. She loves the bonfires along the levee, and she should be well enough by then to join in the festivities.”
By Christmas, then. I had plenty of time to finalize my plans. Daniel said his goodbyes, and I watched him get into his carriage, his hat not completely hiding his hair, the sun glinting off those beautiful yellow-gold strands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
With Rebecca out of danger, the darkness that had seemed to be hovering over me lifted, although my troubles did not go away. John had been sleeping on a small pallet in her room, but now she no longer needed him there. I could not allow John to return to my bed. His touch had a way of lowering my defenses, of creating breaches in my wall of reason. I wondered how long it would take John to demand my presence in his bed again.
On a chilly November evening, John and I sat facing each other at the dining-room table. I forced myself to eat for the sake of the baby, whose presence was now made known by a small mound under my loosened corset. John also seemed to have other thoughts on his mind. From the corner of my eye, I saw him eat little but refill his wineglass three times. When I forced myself to look at him directly, I found his black eyes scrutinizing me as a hunter watches his prey.
I excused myself before dessert, with plans to change for bed and be fast asleep before John came up. He had begun the habit of retiring to his study for a cigar and brandy, thus giving me ample time.
As I ascended the stairs, I felt a presence behind me and turned. John had followed me and was walking up the steps in my wake. I headed down the hall toward our bedroom, hoping he would go to Rebecca’s room. Instead he followed me, even opening the door of the bedroom for me.
I moved to ring for Mary, but John stayed my hand. “I will help you with your dress.”
Knowing I had no choice, I bent my head forward and allowed his hands to unfasten the buttons and slide the gown over my shoulders. Long fingers slid down my chemise, sliding forward to cu
p my breasts, now heavy and swollen from my impending motherhood. One hand slid down farther, touching the mound of my stomach as he moved me against him.
I wanted to turn in his arms, to forget all that had happened between us and all my doubts and suspicions, but I could not. I owed it to the child that grew inside me, as well as to Rebecca, to make sure they were safe forever.
I stepped away, pulling up my fallen bodice to cover myself. “Stop. Please.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “Why, Cat? I know you miss me as much as I miss you.”
“It is . . . the baby. I do not think we should.”
Stepping forward, he lifted my chin and stared into my eyes for a long moment, his own eyes dark and secretive. “Is that really the reason?”
I closed my eyes and turned away from him. “Of course it is. I do not want anything to happen to this baby.”
He was silent, and I moved to my dresser to remove a nightgown, keeping my hands busy so I would not have to listen to my heart.
He moved so silently that I was not aware of it until I felt his hot breath on the back of my neck. I closed my eyes, recalling the passion we had shared for such a short time, and a longing to recapture it pulled at my resolve. He held my heart, for I had seen the goodness that resided inside him. But there was darkness, too, one I fleetingly wished I could cut out like a surgeon’s knife on a cancer. I had tried and failed, and now I knew I had to escape the darkness that threatened to suffocate me like a heavy cloak.
For the long years of the war and the time afterward, I had lived in such a shadow that I would rather die than return to it. Rebecca and the child growing inside me were my light, guiding me through the blackness that encroached, moving me toward the brightness that beckoned at the end of my journey home.
