CHAPTER ONE

Grief cannot be apportioned as if measuring flour for a cake. But when Jamie died, my husband claimed the lion’s share of it, leaving me with only a handful to mull over and sift through my fingers. I was not entitled, he insisted, because I had killed our beloved son.

What was left of my husband after the war was quickly destroyed by Jamie’s death, and I watched the destruction with pitied frustration until his final act of obliteration and revenge. I found him in his gray uniform, his sword still in its scabbard, his revolver lying next to him on the pillow in the bedroom. The blood seeped crimson into the white sheets of the bed, hiding their purity in a gruesome display. I gathered the sands of my grief and held them close to me, tucking them inside, where I would never allow anyone in to see.

My anger and the gnawing of hunger pulled me from my bed each morning. My fields, where the finest-quality Sea Island cotton had once grown, now lay as barren and trampled as my soul. The old house, the house in which I had lived first with my parents and then with my husband and son, lay in heaps of ashes. The odd fragment of brick or china shone like bone in the scorched earth, the only remains of my once-happy life.

There were fewer friends and neighbors huddled around Robert’s casket at Christ Church Cemetery than had been at Jamie’s memorial service. I supposed that many, facing the same devastation as I, had left our beloved island of Saint Simons to seek refuge inland. Even as the pastor’s words droned on to their inevitable conclusion, I knew I could not leave. My anger was as fresh as the newly turned dirt, and my leaving would be like forgiveness—and anger was something with which I was not yet ready to part. But the hunger pains gnawed on.

I thought often of joining Jamie in the surf off our island, of feeling the shifting sand beneath my bare feet as I walked slowly into the dark depths of the ocean. But, perhaps akin to the stubbornness of my fellow countrymen who would not recognize defeat, I held firm to life. I would stare out over the ocean, the salty air stinging my cheeks, and refuse to look behind me. Whatever lay ahead did not frighten me. I had nothing left to fear.

I had sought shelter in the overseer’s cottage. Mr. Rafferty had abandoned it in the first year of the war, leaving in the middle of the night. The Yankees who had encamped on Saint Simons had left it intact, finding the simple furnishings not valuable enough to steal. But to me, it was a roof over my head and a place to lie down at the end of each day.

Two weeks after Robert’s funeral, while scrounging around the overgrown vegetable garden for a forgotten or only half-rotten potato or onion, I heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats pounding down the road.

Will Benton took off his sweat-soaked hat when he saw me, then gingerly slid from the saddle, his wooden leg not seeming to hamper him overly much. His gaze flickered over me, and I was surprised to see sadness instead of the pity I was used to. Perhaps he, too, was remembering the old days, when we were not too much younger, days when we danced in the ballroom of the old house; he with two legs, and I in a satin gown with ribbons in my hair.

I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, realizing too late that dirt had crusted on my knuckles. “Hello, Will. This is a pleasant surprise.”

A ghost of a smile haunted his face, an apparition of the boisterous smiles of his carefree youth. The youth he’d had before the war had come and robbed us all. “Hello, Cat. That is nice of you to say.”

Will looked behind me at the crude structure of the tabby cottage and then back at me, his eyes focusing on the faded black cotton of my dress. “I brought you a letter. I did not know the next time you would come to our side of the island, and I thought it might be important. It is from Louisiana.”

My heart constricted slightly. I had not heard from my elder sister, Elizabeth, during the long four years of the war. Three months after the firing at Fort Sumter, she had been bundled and packed away to her husband’s home state of Massachusetts, leaving behind the beautiful home on the Mississippi that had been left to her and her new husband by our grandmother. I had not even sent news of Jamie and Robert, not knowing if my words would ever reach her.

I tried not to look at my dirty hands as I opened the envelope, too starved for news of my sister to worry about my bad manners in making Will wait.

My dearest Cat,

My situation here is intolerable, and I have no one with whom I can share my thoughts and feelings. There is something evil here that I do not understand, something heavy in the air.

Oh, Cat, you have always been my constant, the one who helped steer me from trouble. It is hard to imagine sometimes that I am the eldest! I am afraid I may have made quite a mess out of things, and I need your guidance.

Please, if it is at all possible, do come to me. You can have your old room, and I will grant you as many favors as you request if you will just come. If your Robert is back from the war, I would welcome his presence, too. He has always given a feeling of strength and security, as have you, and I need that now, more than you can know.

I have taken the liberty of sending a coach and funds for your journey. It should arrive within a week or so of this letter. I know how you hate to leave your precious island, but I have nowhere else to turn.

I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid.

Affectionately,

Elizabeth deClaire McMahon

My gaze met the concern in Will’s. “Everything all right, Cat? You look like you have been spooked by a ghost.”

I shook my head. “Yes, I am fine. It is from Elizabeth. She wants me to come for a visit.”

Will’s face was grim. “About time, if you ask me. No offense to your sister, but it is just not right for you to be living out here alone like this. Not right at all.” He turned toward his horse, then vigorously closed up the mailbag. “I am sure that Yankee husband of hers has been holding her back from asking you to visit.”

I did not know much about John McMahon other than that he was the second son of a wealthy Boston merchant. On a business trip to Saint Simons, he had taken one look at my sister and decided that he had to have her, along with the bales of cotton he was purchasing from our father.

Elizabeth had been transfixed by the dark brooding eyes and the tall stature of the Northern stranger. I had caught those eyes watching me several times, an unreadable emotion lingering in their dark depths, but he always turned away whenever I would acknowledge him. I believe I hated him on sight with all the fierceness a fourteen-year-old girl could muster. It was not for anything he had ever done to me directly, but for the simple reason that he had decided that he needed my sister more than I did. It did not matter that his inscrutable face softened and his cold ebony eyes warmed when he gazed upon her. She was as much a part of me as the island, yet John McMahon separated us for the first time in our young lives when he married Elizabeth and took her to Louisiana.

Too hungry and tired to disagree with Will, I said goodbye and watched him ride off in the late-afternoon sun. Buttery light pierced the trees and the veils of Spanish moss, and I sighed heavily. How could I ever leave this place? I stilled for a moment, straining to hear the quiet murmur of the ocean. I began walking toward it, needing to feel its tranquillity and contemplate whether my sister’s letter would be my salvation or my ruin.

*   *   *

Puffs of dirt sailed out from under the wheels of the coach like little whispers of goodbye. I stared down at my hands, not wanting to watch my life pass by outside the window. My mother had once told me that if you stared after somebody until they disappeared, you would never see them again. I refused to think of this parting as permanent, and so I kept my gaze fastened on the worn black leather gloves.

My sister’s words traveled with me each day of the long, arduous journey. I knew in my bones that something was dreadfully wrong, and I had to reach Elizabeth as soon as possible. The driver, a Mr. O’Rourke, deferred to my comfort, frequently asking whether I needed to stop. But I urged him on, conceding to stop and rest only when the horses were near exhaustion. My aching bones and muscles protested each mile, but my sense of urgency pressed us on. If I were not worried about the driver needing his sleep, I would have demanded that we drive day and night, not stopping until we reached the welcoming arms of my sister.

My mother would have been scandalized by my lack of a chaperone, but my circumstances had changed. I simply did not have the resources left to worry about social niceties. Patrick O’Rourke, a ruddy Bostonian, was courteous and protective, and I felt quite safe in his presence.

As we drove farther and farther inland, the heat and humidity pressed in on us, and I found myself missing the cool breezes of the ocean. The prick of tears began behind my eyelids, but I willed them away by pulling at my anger like an old wound, making it swell again inside me.

Twilight fell on us as we neared the outskirts of New Orleans and the final leg of our long journey. A spattering of rain slapped the roof of the coach, as if small hands urging us on. The coachman pulled up on the reins and stopped on the road near a muddy swamp visible in the dim light. He climbed down from his seat and opened the door of the coach to speak with me. Something screeched high in a tree.

“The road is very wet, and I do not want to risk going farther in the darkness. If it has been raining for a while, the river could have overflowed its banks and washed out the road. We would do best to find a place in town to stay and start off again tomorrow morning.”

I sat on the edge of my seat, listening to the croaking tree frogs and creatures of the night. I sniffed deeply but raised my hand to my nose when I smelled the murky miasma of the muddy river instead of the salty air of home. It had seemed so familiar for a brief, heartbreaking moment.

The rain fell harder as something screeched again, beseeching, pleading, crying. My skin tingled with the sound of it, hearing in it a spoken plea for help. I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. It was as if Elizabeth spoke to me through the wild animal, begging me to continue on.

Facing Mr. O’Rourke, I said, “No, we must go on. I am afraid this is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

His face, mottled with dark shadows and yellow light from the coach’s lanterns, looked down at me. “No, madam. We are turning back.”

I grabbed at his sleeve and leaned toward him, not caring about the rain soaking my traveling gown and cloak. “No. It is urgent I see my sister—tonight. And if you will not take me, then I shall rent a hack and complete the journey on my own.”

He stepped back as if to gauge my seriousness. I grabbed my carpetbag from the seat across from me and stepped out of the carriage, nearly tripping on my skirts.

“Please be so kind as to tell me the way to the city.”

The rain pelted on my bonnet and dripped onto my face, but I stood resolute.

The man shook his head. “Mr. McMahon will have my skin if I let you do such a thing. Please, madam, it is for your own good. Please get back into the coach.”

I jerked my arm away from him, the night sounds pressing close, the pulsing beat a rhythm of urgency. “I will only get back in if you promise to take me to Whispering Oaks. Otherwise I am walking.”

He turned around to face the darkness that eluded the small circle of lantern light. A guttural growl echoed in the distant swamp, pressing an unseen finger of fear at the base of my skull. I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. I made a move toward a lantern to remove it from its hitch.

Mr. O’Rourke stared at me, then pressed his lips together. “Fine, then. But do not say I did not warn you if we get stuck on the road.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Rourke.” Without waiting for his assistance, I stepped back into the carriage, afraid he would see the abject relief on my face.

The rain continued its steady pace, making the carriage sway to and fro more violently than before as the mud greedily sucked at the wheels. I closed my eyes in a futile attempt at rest and to still the chattering of my teeth. The humidity weighed on my person like a log, but my body shivered uncontrollably. From what, I could not say.

It happened before I had time to realize I was in danger. Mr. O’Rourke shouted, but before the sound had even reached my ears, a sickening thud came from the front left of the coach, followed quickly by the splintering of wood. The coach lurched to the side as the lantern light disappeared, sending me in a spiral through total darkness. I hit my head, disorienting myself momentarily, and then realized I was lying on the roof of the carriage, my skirts and feet under about a foot of water.

I shouted for Mr. O’Rourke, but only the incessant patter of rain and the interminable night sounds of the river answered me. Something splashed in the water outside the half-submerged carriage, and I called for Mr. O’Rourke again. This time, I heard his voice very faintly. I struggled to the side of the coach and fumbled with the upside-down door handle. It turned, but the door could not be opened.

“Help me! I cannot swim!” Mr. O’Rourke’s voice sounded stronger.

My blood stilled. It was as if I were hearing my Jamie’s voice again, crying for help from the water. I remembered jumping in to save him, feeling the pull of the water on my skirts, my arms cutting through the waves, strong and sure. But I could not save my son. And now the water taunted me, daring me to try again and surely fail.

The two horses whinnied, stamping their feet in the water and trying to pull away from the waterlogged coach. Something was out there. Something they did not like. I willed myself to move. I had to get to Mr. O’Rourke. With trembling fingers I removed my cloak and hat, then tore at my skirts.

Relieved of my cumbersome clothes and wearing only my underpinnings, I slipped easily through the window and found myself in water up to my knees. Tall grass reached up to my shoulders, brushing against me with deceptive sweetness. A faint light shone above me, and I looked up what appeared to be an embankment. The light seemed to be coming from one of the coach’s lanterns that had fallen during our plunge downward.

The plaintive cry of the driver came again. “Help me!”

I struggled through the tall grass, the blades tearing at my skin, then up the embankment. I used my hands to claw my way to the top, the dirt caking under my nails. “Mr. O’Rourke, where are you?”

The rain had slackened, and I listened closely for his voice. Something moved behind me, and a large splash broke the silence. I ran for the lantern and held it high over my head. The light picked up something white in the darkness, and I realized it was a leg waving from a scrubby tree high on the other side of the flooded road.

I clamped down on my teeth to cease their chattering, then spoke. “I will come get you—do not move.” My confident voice almost deceived me.

The earth reverberated with a muffled thudding coming up from the ground, racing up my legs, and matching the pounding of my heart. I strained my eyes in the darkness, my mind tricking me into seeing would-be rescuers.

Rushing water and swishing reeds sounded from below the embankment to where the carriage lay upside down. The horses screamed, stamping up and down in the water. Thundering hoofbeats bore down on me as something slithered outside the realm of my lantern. A movement skittered past me and I startled, dropping the lantern, the light disappearing as suddenly as if a hand had closed on the flame. The water tugged at me, pulling at me, rendering me useless, just as it had once before. The water had beaten me yet again and I could not save Mr. O’Rourke.

The rain lessened as heavy clouds shifted above, uncovering a three-quarter moon and lending the tall reeds and scrubby oaks a blue cast. Bobbing lights attached to the thundering hooves grew larger, and I forced my legs to move, my feet slipping in the mud and mire as I ran toward the sound and lights.

“Elizabeth!” a man’s deep voice called out as the large form of a horse and rider took shape.

I reached toward him and felt strong hands grab me under the arms and lift me onto the saddle in front of my rescuer. The horse snorted and reared as other men on horseback arrived. A gunshot and then another rent the air. I struggled against the hard chest that seemed intent on smothering me.

“We must get the coachman—he is in a tree. He cannot swim.” I pointed to where the white of Mr. O’Rourke’s shirt shone in the darkness.

The man stiffened, then pulled me against his chest again and began barking orders. More shots were fired up in the air as a horseman rode across the submerged road to rescue Mr. O’Rourke.

His voice was hard and deep, as if used to delivering orders. The men followed his directive without question. My face was pressed against a smooth linen shirt, the smell of starch mingling with cigar smoke, leather, and the smell of a man—a smell I had once enjoyed and now pulled away from like a skittish horse. But muscled arms held me fast, and I sat rigid, trying to limit the contact between our bodies. He twisted in his saddle and I found myself enveloped in a large wool cloak.

Another horseman pulled alongside. “It does not seem to be robbery. The coachman is our Mr. O’Rourke. Is the woman Elizabeth?”

My rescuer grunted. “No.” His fingers worked their way around my jawbone and tilted my face to his. He raised a lantern and his breath hissed as he sucked it in, his face wearing the shock of a man who had seen a ghost. “Who are you?”

I recognized him then, the coal black eyes glittering in the lamplight. John McMahon, my brother-in-law. A small tremor passed through me. “I am Catherine, Elizabeth’s sister. Where is she?” Running water moved under us, the small rippling teasing my ears as I waited for his answer.

He lowered the light, casting his face in shadow. “She is gone.”

I gathered the cloak under my chin. “What do you mean, gone?”

His warm breath brushed my cheek, making me shiver, and I felt those dark eyes on me again. “She has disappeared, with no indications as to where she might be. No one has seen her for four days. She is simply . . . gone.”

He reined in his horse and turned it around. Holding me tightly against him, he urged on his mount, the thundering hoofbeats resonating like a distant nightmare.