Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  “You cannot deny me, Catherine. It is not the child—there is something else.” His soft voice caressed my skin, the temptation pulling at me like fingers in honey. “Tell me.”

  I straightened, making him step away. “It is the child, John. It is not safe for me to share your bed until he is born.”

  His hands were rough as he forced me to turn and look at him. “I know that is not true.” He lowered his face close to mine and I could feel his all-consuming heat. “Marguerite is gone. What is it that you fear?”

  I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. The images of Elizabeth’s letter, John’s glove, and the empty letterbox jumbled in my mind, and I nearly suffocated with the urge to shout out all my suspicions. But I held back, knowing if I did, I would jeopardize all. In the deepest part of my heart, I knew that he would not give me answers. And his reticence would be for reasons that my soul could not bear to contemplate.

  I stared into his eyes as they flashed with anger. He dropped his arms but did not step back. “What about this trust between us that you hold so dear? Practice what you preach, Catherine, and tell me why you suddenly have no desire to share my bed.” His lips narrowed as his eyes became guarded, blocking out all emotion. “Have you found someone else who stirs your passions more than I?” His gaze slid down to my stomach, coming to rest on the small mound.

  I sucked in my breath, shocked to hear him so blatantly voice his suspicion. I drew back my hand to slap him, but he grabbed my wrist. I knew I was being a hypocrite; at least he had the courage to speak of his doubts. But I knew my own truth, whereas his truth was muddied and twisted like the grass in the fields after a hard rain.

  He let go and turned away, and my arm fell to my side, useless. He glanced back at me from the doorway. “I do not want you to leave Whispering Oaks without me or Mr. O’Rourke. And if you should leave with Mr. O’Rourke, I want to know about it beforehand.”

  I took a step toward him. “You want to make a prisoner out of me! I am not a slave or your kept woman with no mind of her own. You cannot do this.”

  He opened the door. “As your husband, I can. It is for your own protection. Philip Herndon has not been found, and I know he has sworn to harm me and those I love.” His gaze flickered to the swell of my abdomen once more. “And I will not suffer the embarrassment of having you seek him out.”

  The implication was clear. My anger, softened by his mention of love, rekindled itself. “Is this why Elizabeth was trying to get away from you? Because you accused her of vile things and then tried to keep her locked in this prison? I am not Elizabeth, though I do not think you will ever understand that. But maybe, finally, I think I can understand why my sister behaved the way she did.”

  His face paled. Inexplicably, I felt sick with the knowledge that I had hurt him badly. I wanted to go to him, to tell him I was sorry, but my pride, anger, and suspicion held me back.

  Slowly, he opened the door. “From the first day of my marriage to Elizabeth, I thought that I had married the wrong sister. And now I see it really did not matter.”

  Words strangled my throat and my eyes blurred as I watched him walk through the doorway and close the door behind him. The last image of him was of his eyes—eyes of a wildcat who had been hunted into a corner, but whose intention was to fight to the death those who threatened him.

  * * *

  I did not see John for two weeks. I learned from Mr. O’Rourke that he had gone to Baton Rouge on business. I slept in our bed, safe in the knowledge that John was far away, and had the pallet removed from Rebecca’s room. She was out of danger from the fever but still very weak. But for this, I told myself, I would take advantage of the opportunity of John’s absence and flee.

  As it was, I did not leave the plantation. The threat of Philip Herndon lingered, although to a lesser degree, since he seemed to have vanished. I knew John had hired guards to keep watch over the plantation night and day, and it offered a measure of security. Mr. O’Rourke found excuses to work close to the house, and I wondered if it were for my protection or to keep John informed of my whereabouts in his absence.

  Even with John gone, I did not sleep easily. Several times I would lie in bed and imagine I heard footsteps in the hallway. When I rose to investigate, I would find nothing. Twice I thought that I detected the faint smell of lavender, reminding me of Elizabeth. I would stare out into the hallway, cloaked in night, for long moments, as if waiting for my dead sister to appear. Always disappointed, I would close my door and turn the key before returning to bed for another restless night.

  Two weeks after John’s departure, I awoke with a start out of a dark dream in the deepest part of night. The sound that had brought me awake had been the distinct noise of a door latch snapping into place. I blinked my eyes, trying to identify the dark shapes of the furniture.

  Rain pelted at the glass like unseen fingers tapping to gain my attention. I left the bed and moved to a window, pulling aside the curtains and staring out into the rain-clogged fields. As a child I had always loved the heavy rain from the ocean-born tempests. My father had made a habit of pacing the front porch of our house during storms, as if to guard the house from lightning and wind, and at a very early age I had joined him.

  Our waterlogged conversations had created a bond between us, a bond that even Elizabeth could not traverse and which was not broken until his death. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, missing him as suddenly as if he had just died, and feeling more alone and adrift than I had in my entire life.

  A movement by the pond caught my attention and I squinted, trying to see through the blur of raindrops. A light, as if from a bobbing lantern, glittered through the rain for a brief moment and then extinguished. I stared out the window for a long time, not knowing if it had been my imagination. I thought I saw a brief flicker moving toward the pond before that, too, disappeared. My eyes strained to see into the eternal darkness of the night, but saw only the blackness pressing in on me.

  My nape prickled, and I realized that the blackness came from within the house as well, as if it were a dark soul whose menacing presence infested the very air I breathed. I slowly backed away from the window, convincing myself it had been my imagination and pressing away more morbid thoughts. Will I, too, soon be hearing voices of the dead calling me to come to them?

  I took a lit lamp and walked quickly out of the room and down the hall to Rebecca’s. I pushed open the door and held the lantern high, my heart tumbling with relief when I spied her small body tucked under the covers, Samantha pressed against her cheek.

  I left the room and noticed for the first time the strong odor of something burning fill my nostrils. Moving toward the stairs, I sniffed deeply. Too strong to be the lingering odors from the burnt mill, and definitely not the scent of burning wood. I would remember that smell until the day I died, as I had good reason to never forget it.

  Gingerly descending the stairs, I followed the scent to the library. John’s pipe sat in an ashtray and I lifted it, feeling the warmth of the bowl. The fire in the grate still burned strong, as if recently tended, and I moved near, seeking warmth.

  Putting down the lamp on the desk, I stood in front of the fireplace, my hands outstretched. My fingers straightened and clenched, then stilled as if of their own accord as my gaze rested on the pile of ash under the grate.

  I knelt and reached in a hand, pulling out the corner of one of several burnt envelopes, its edge raw and sooty. A black slash of ink from a pen formed part of a word, the remainder obliterated forever by fire. The stroke of penmanship seemed oddly familiar to me, but there was not enough of it to identify. It gnawed at the back of my mind as I gazed at the heap of ashes, the heat from the fire burning my face.

  Grabbing a poker, I scraped out what remnants of letters I could find, realizing with disappointment that no piece was large enough to be of any use.

  I stood, the inevitable questions filling
my mind. Are these Elizabeth’s letters? I reached my hand in again, desperate for some word from my lost sister, but my hand got too close to the flame and I burned my finger and rapidly withdrew.

  Stepping away and sucking on my singed finger, I stared into the fire, my mind in deep thought. Grabbing the lamp, I made my way cautiously up the stairs to Rebecca’s room. Even without the light from the lamp, my body screamed in awareness of John’s presence, betraying my resolve that I stay immune to him.

  “Good evening, wife.”

  His voice held a note of flippancy, but I sensed a deeper, darker emotion—more akin to grief and loss.

  “John,” I stammered, his presence filling the room and shaking my senses. “I did not know when to expect you back.” A brutal gust of wind knocked at the house, jarring me further.

  He did not respond but leaned forward in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees. Finally, he spoke, but his gaze rested on the sleeping child.

  His voice sounded tired and very far away. “When I first saw Rebecca, she was well past the newborn stage and already had a look of you about her.” He rubbed his hands over his face, the sound of skin against beard stubble rustling loudly enough to be heard over the tapping of rain.

  “And as she grew, she became more and more as I remembered you—the girl you had been when I first saw you. Not so much in the way she looked, but her free spirit and her sweetness and joy for life. She reminded me so much of the girl dancing barefoot on the beach in Saint Simons, her hair loose in the wind. I wanted to spoil Rebecca by giving her all the love and attention that I would never be able to give you.”

  I fought the urge to go to him, to lay my head on his knee. To touch him. His words moved me, showing me the man I knew lived deep inside his forbidding form. But the darkness lurked within him, too, and I pulled away.

  John continued, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the splattering rain. “And then as Elizabeth and I grew farther apart, Rebecca became even more important to me. She was mine to love unconditionally, and she freely shared her love with me. It was the first time I had ever experienced anything like it. Even my own mother had not seemed capable of it. All her love seemed to begin and end with my older brother, with not even scraps left for me. Which is why I left my home as soon as I could and have never been back. Not even for my mother’s funeral.” He lifted his eyes to mine, and they shimmered in the lamplight with potent meaning. “I do not take rejection easily.”

  My heart reverberated in my chest, crying out for this man at the same time my mind reeled with warning. I went to him and knelt before the chair. Tentatively, I reached for his hands and he grabbed them, pressing tightly.

  His voice was gruff. “It is not good between us now, is it? And I do not know how to make it different. I thought that two weeks away from you would make my need for you lessen somehow, but it only made it stronger. I have been searching for some trace of Philip Herndon, hoping my mind would be occupied by something other than you.” He paused for a moment, the tapping of the rain marking the passing time. “I almost hoped that you would be gone when I returned. Your rejection of me cuts deeper than a knife, wounding my soul. But now that I am back and I see you here, I know that I could never let you go. Never.”

  The pressure on my hands increased and I winced, but he seemed not to notice. I stared at him in the darkened room, listening to the rain beat against the house, almost smelling the salt air and the damp cotton of my beloved home and knowing that to return, I would lose part of my soul. Or worse.

  I yearned to give him another chance, an opportunity to restore his soul—and mine. I leaned toward him, hearing the urgency in my own voice. “Tell me, then, John. The burned letters in the grate. Were they Elizabeth’s?”

  I felt more than heard his quick intake of air, but he made no move to answer.

  “Tell me now, John. I am stronger that you think. There is nothing in her letters that can harm me now.”

  He let go of my hand and touched my cheek. “You do not know what you ask.”

  I leaned into his touch, feeling his heat. “Yes, I do. I ask that there be trust and truth between us. For without it, we have nothing.”

  Dropping his hand, he leaned back in the chair, his dark gaze resting on me. He said no more, and my heart and mind receded from him, resigned as to my course of action. His eyes widened as if he could read my thoughts, and I turned away. Slowly, I stood and walked toward the door.

  “I am sleeping in the master bedroom and I keep it locked at night.”

  “I know.”

  The bluntness of his response startled me.

  I looked at Rebecca, still peacefully asleep, then back at John. “Good night.”

  He did not respond, but I felt his brooding gaze on my back as I lifted the lamp and left the room.

  As I took several steps, my foot slipped and I realized that the floor was scattered with small wet spots that resembled footsteps. Curious, I held the lantern high, following the spots for several feet until they dead-ended into a wall. Intrigued, I turned and followed them back in the other direction, realizing with a heavy heart that they led to my bedroom. Were John’s hair and clothes wet from the rain? I could not recall, the emotions and words having obliterated all other senses. I stared at the small puddles traversing the hallway to my bedroom.

  I turned the handle and pushed it wide. I held the lantern high, looking behind me to see if John followed. Reassured that he had not, I entered the bedroom. The wet footsteps stopped at the side of my bed and it did not take me long to realize why.

  In the middle of the pulled-back coverlet lay a large black ball of wax. I knew without looking closer that it was a conjure ball. Some were said to contain human flesh, and my own skin rippled at the thought. Smooth pins stuck through the black wax made an even arc over the ball, and stripes of something wet and dark like blood or paint slashed across the side.

  My knees trembled as I stared at the ball and I inadvertently cried out. I knew they were meant to bring death or misfortune to a household, and the fact that it lay in the middle of my bed gave me no doubt as to whom the harm was meant to befall.

  I backed out of the room, mentally prepared to grab Rebecca and steal away into the night. But as I moved backward, I bumped into something hard and solid and looked up to find myself staring into the cold black eyes of my husband.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I faced John, noting for the first time his wet hair. Quickly, I glanced down at his feet and saw that he had taken off his boots. I noted, too, the absence of his jacket and coat. Had he seen them dripping in the hallway and taken them off?

  I pushed at his chest, forcing him to step back through the doorway.

  He caught my wrist. “What is wrong? I heard you shout.”

  “Leave, John. And do not pretend you do not know the reason why.” My voice shook with hurt, anger, and fear. Please deny it. Please do not let me believe the worst of you.

  “Let me in.” His voice held a note of warning.

  My heart sank low in my chest. “No. I have already made that mistake more than once and I will not do it again.”

  He stood perfectly still, his gaze hard and unreadable. Is he simply warning me with the conjure ball? His voice held no malice. “Then I shall not trouble you again.” Soundlessly, he turned away and strode down the corridor toward the stairs.

  I closed the door, pressing my back against it, and stared at the insidious thing in the middle of my bed. I do not take rejection easily. I thought of Elizabeth and the price I suspected her of paying for the ultimate rejection of leaving him. My gaze strayed to the lower drawer of the dresser, where I had been gathering things to pack for my journey with Rebecca. His words crept unbidden into my mind. And I pity whoever would try to separate us.

  I wrapped the evil conjure ball in one of John’s linen handkerchiefs, ensuring that my fingers
never brushed the object of my dread. Dragging a chair in front of the door, I crawled into it and stared at the brass door handle until the morning light touched the walls of my room.

  * * *

  The light of day did little to scatter the dark shadows in my mind. I quickly dressed before cautiously opening my door. With relief, I saw that the hallway was empty, then hurriedly crossed the corridor. Sliding into my old room, I placed the conjure ball under the bed, then left the room as silently as I had arrived and headed toward the stairs.

  I paused at the top, hearing that ethereal humming sound again. It was certainly Rebecca’s voice, so I approached the open door to her room. She was out of her sickbed, as evidenced by the wrinkled sheets and indentation on the pillow. Her nightgown lay on the floor, so she must have dressed. But she was nowhere in her room.

  The humming came to me again and I turned to follow it out into the corridor. I spied the lodestone on her night table and picked it up as an afterthought. I would be needing it much more than she in the coming weeks.

  I stepped out into the hall, and the humming abruptly ceased. I paused, listening, and caught sight of Samantha lying on the floor. She was crammed tightly against the wall, and as I stooped to pick her up, I realized that the doll lay in the exact spot where the wet footprints had disappeared into the wall the night before.

  Stunned, I pressed my palms against the plaster. I knocked to see if there would be a hollow sound, and was surprised to hear someone knocking back, quickly followed by girlish giggles.

  “Rebecca? Are you in there?”

  I heard a slight click and then a small door opened in the wainscoting. The seams of the door had been perfectly hidden in the woodwork, rendering it virtually invisible. I wondered how many other such doors might be hidden in this house.

  Rebecca stuck her face out of the opening, a bright smile crowning her lips. “You found my secret place, Mama!”