CHAPTER THREE

For the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon, I was left to my own devices. I wandered through the house, noticing the dust on the dark wood of the furniture and the scuff marks on the floors. The black marble on the fireplaces looked pasty, as if the mantels had not been polished in quite some time. I tried to listen for the voice of the child Rebecca or that of servants, but I heard none inside the house.

The windows were covered in a thin coating of dirt, muting the sunlight that tried to eke its way in through the cracks of closed velvet draperies. In the front parlor I had opened them, only to find myself choking on the dust I had stirred up with the movement of fabric.

Despite my love for my grandmother, I had always hated coming to this house as a young girl. The light here was full of shadows, never quite making it inside the dark corners of the large rooms. It made it seem as if the house had no soul, only lurking secrets.

Elizabeth said it was because our great-grandfather had built the house on the highest piece of land he could find this close to the Mississippi River. Legend said the rise in the land was due to an ancient Tunica Indian burial mound. Some said he knew the legend but built the white-columned mansion anyway, piling any bones they found in a heap and burning them. I had been told by my sister that an Indian woman carrying a crying baby was seen many times walking across the grass at the back of the house, toward the pond, then disappearing into thin air. I peered out the dirty window of the library at the murky water of the pond, wondering if my sister had shared the same fate.

Mary called me in for supper, and I ate in complete silence, noticing again the piles of food. I wondered where it would go when I finished with my portion, and if the master of the house would be joining me. But my meal progressed without interruption, and when I finished, Mary cleared the table.

I wandered out into the foyer, my hands fidgeting against my skirts, frustrated at being idle when so much needed to be done. The front door opened and I turned, surprised to see a man in the doorway.

He was slightly taller than I, with light blond hair and a heavy mustache. His clothes were simple but well tailored, his black boots polished to a high sheen. He clutched a black felt hat to his chest as he slammed the door behind him. When he spotted me, he seemed to sigh with relief, then strode toward me.

“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice more of a breath than words. As he neared, his steps slowed as he regarded me with curiosity. He stopped, examining me closely, his head tilted to the side.

“Elizabeth?” he said again, this time as a question.

His eyes were dark gray with black specks in them. They were kind eyes, and I warmed to him, in desperate need of a friend. Pale lashes blinked as if to clear my image.

“No,” I said. “I am Catherine deClaire Reed—Elizabeth’s sister.” I stared at him for a moment, wondering if I had seen him before. “Have we met?”

He took a step back. “No, I do not believe so.” He gave me a deep bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Daniel Lewiston, country doctor, gentleman farmer, former Yankee, and friend and confidant of John McMahon.” A deep dimple appeared on his right cheek as he smiled at me. He took my hand and kissed my wrist, his mustache tickling the skin on the back of my hand.

I felt an unfamiliar smile creep to my lips. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Lewiston. But I am afraid that if you came to see Elizabeth or John, neither of them is here at the moment.”

A shadow seemed to cross his face before disappearing as quickly as it had come. “Then perhaps we should use this opportunity to become better acquainted. Shall we, Mrs. Reed?” He offered his arm.

I paused for a moment, looking closely at his friendly face. Needing someone to talk to, I took his arm. “Yes. Thank you, Dr. Lewiston.”

He led us outside to the front porch, where we settled into wooden rockers and eyed each other politely. Leaning toward me with his elbows on his knees, he looked up at me, his gray eyes lighter in the bright daylight.

It felt good to be outside the dreariness of the house. A cerulean sky had replaced the dark clouds and rain of the previous night, bringing with it a hint of temporary coolness, not uncommon for late spring in the Delta. I stared past the lane of oaks toward where the great Mississippi River lay, breathing in deeply to catch the brackishness of it. I had hated the smell as a child, a constant reminder of how much I missed my faraway home.

To the east lay the wide fields of sugar cane and the sugar mill. I remembered my father saying it took a very rich cotton planter to be a very poor sugar planter. I wondered at my brother-in-law’s success. He had known nothing about planting until he had moved here with Elizabeth to take over the running of the former cotton plantation. My father said he had brought with him the luck of the Irish. Years without flood or frost, and protection against enemy invasion, certainly made John’s success appear lucky. But if Elizabeth’s disappearance was any indication, it would seem his luck had finally run out.

I turned toward my visitor. “I assume you have heard about my sister.”

He nodded, a dour expression on his face. “I did. I could not come sooner because I was with Mrs. Brookwood, delivering her twins. I am afraid I might not know any more about the situation than you do, however.”

I rocked steadily in my chair. “Mr. McMahon will tell me nothing. All I know is that my sister disappeared from here five days ago and has not been seen or heard from since. It would appear my brother-in-law has sent out search parties, but no one has found any trace of her.”

Dr. Lewiston looked toward the ancient oaks and spoke almost absently. “That would have been Thursday. She came to my office that day.”

I sat up. “Was she ill?”

He did not look at me. “I am really not at liberty to say. Everything between a patient and her doctor should be kept in strictest confidence.” He turned to me with a smile that evaded his eyes. “I am sure she will tell you all you need to know when she returns.”

I placed my hand on the arm of his chair. “Do you really think she is coming back?”

He smiled reassuringly as he patted my hand. “Yes, I am certain of it. And I am sure there will be a good explanation for all of this. You will see.” He sighed heavily. “She has to. It would kill John to lose her. He loves her so much.”

I wondered at the strange tone of his voice. When he did not say any more, I settled back in my chair and diverted the subject. “You said you were a former Yankee. How did you come to be here?”

His mustache bristled as he smiled. “John and I were boyhood friends in Boston. We have known each other since we were still in the nursery. Shortly after his marriage to Elizabeth, I accepted an invitation for a visit down here, and while at Whispering Oaks, I met my wife. Clara and her father were visiting from their cotton plantation in Saint Francisville and were invited to dinner.” His pale eyes looked down at his hand and the band of gold on his third finger. “I suppose it must have been love at first sight, for we were married within three months and I had become a Southern planter.”

He sent me a rueful grin. “To be honest, I am not much of a planter. Clara’s father had more than thirty thousand acres in cotton and people to run just about all of it. Most of it survived the war, too, largely due to John’s influence. But, as far as I could see, my father-in-law did not really need me. Besides, medicine is my calling, and I continued to practice in my field up until the war. I was conscripted into the Confederate Army and became an army doctor. Which is a good thing, since I could not see myself taking up arms and firing on my own countrymen. I am surprised John still speaks to me.” There was no mirth in his voice.

Dr. Lewiston seemed kind and affable, but his voice was so forlorn, I took pity on him. It had been so long since I had been able to give comfort, and I reached over and placed my hand on top of his.

A dark shadow fell over our hands. My brother-in-law stood towering over us, a cool expression on his face.

I released Dr. Lewiston’s hand and he stood to greet his old friend. “John,” he said, extending his hand. “Your lovely sister-in-law and I were just discussing this business with Elizabeth. I am here to offer whatever help I can.”

John took his hand and shook it. “Thank you, Daniel. But I do not think there is anything else anybody can do right now. I have got my men going all the way to New Orleans and Baton Rouge. I can only wait here for word of her.” He concentrated on pulling the riding gloves off his fingers. “Clara tells me that Elizabeth came to see you last week.”

Dr. Lewiston’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well, yes . . . Yes, she did. But you could have asked me, you know, instead of my wife. I would have given you the same answer.”

John appraised his friend with narrowed eyes. “I am sure you would have. But you were with Mrs. Brookwood and I did not want to disturb you.”

“Yes. I was.” The doctor clamped down on his teeth, and I could see his jaw muscles working.

“Was my wife ill, Daniel?”

The doctor looked his friend squarely in the eye. “I am not at liberty to say. Elizabeth can tell you herself when she returns.”

John took a step forward, but the doctor refused to step back. “And if she does not come back?”

The doctor squared his shoulders. “Then we will discuss it. But she will return. I know it.”

John’s eyes clouded as he stared out across his sugar fields. “I wish I were as confident as you, Daniel. But I have my doubts.”

Despite the heat of the day, I shivered. I stood, ready to confront him with his reasons for doubting Elizabeth’s return. I paused in midbreath as the front door swung open with a crash and a young girl, about four or five years of age and clutching a doll that was nearly as big as she was, ran out onto the porch, neatly colliding with Dr. Lewiston.

Unbound blond hair, reaching almost to the child’s waist, hung limp and wet with sweat, the girl’s cheeks reddened with exertion. Marguerite followed her closely out the door but pulled up abruptly when she saw the three adults.

“My apologies, Mr. McMahon. I am trying to get Miss Rebecca to learn her letters, but she keeps running away from me.”

The girl clung to the doctor’s knees, refusing to relinquish her grasp. Dr. Lewiston stroked her hair and murmured comforting words while keeping a wary eye on his friend.

I watched as John’s face softened, resembling the look I remembered him saving for Elizabeth when they had first met. He knelt, bringing his tall frame down to a more approachable level for a child, and held out his arms. Rebecca lifted her face, then ran with her doll to John with outstretched hands.

His transformation from a brooding ogre was completed as he kissed the bright blond head and lifted her into his arms. She put her head down on his shoulder and stuck a thumb in her mouth.

“Perhaps, Marguerite, you should attempt to make the lessons more stimulating for a child. For heaven’s sakes, she is running away from you, not her lessons. Play with her. Make her laugh. God knows there is not enough of it around here.”

Marguerite’s mouth tightened. “You are undermining my authority, Mr. McMahon. I have raised children before, and I know what is best.” She stepped forward as if to take the child, but John held tight.

“Please do not touch her—can you not see she is upset? It is time for her nap. I will take her upstairs.”

I raised my hand to stop him. “Please wait. I would like to see her.” I walked toward the child and brushed the blond hair away from her face. Her coloring was so different from Elizabeth’s, but the eyes, almond-shaped and a vibrant blue, were identical. I touched the back of my hand to her cheek, then jerked it away. They were also Jamie’s eyes. If her hair and brows were darker, it could have been my child.

She stopped sucking on her thumb, those eyes regarding me closely. And then she began to scream.

I stepped back, astonished at her reaction, wondering if she had sensed any of my sadness and disappointment that she was not the child I wished her to be.

John pulled Rebecca away from my reach, then entered the house without a glance back. I sat down in my chair, trying to catch my breath.

Dr. Lewiston spoke softly to me. “Do not worry, Mrs. Reed. Rebecca is a high-strung child and is overtired at the moment. I am quite sure it had nothing to do with you.”

I nodded, still unable to speak, and wondered if my own animosity toward the child was a random event or a personal reaction to a child who resembled my son so much that I could feel nothing but resentment toward her.

I rocked in silence as Dr. Lewiston approached Marguerite. “It is good to see you again, Marguerite. Clara still misses you and sends you her best.”

Marguerite gave him a tight smile. “Thank you, sir. She knows I feel the same. But we do manage to see each other often enough, I suppose.”

A subtle change flickered over the doctor’s expression. “Really? Clara has never mentioned it to me.”

Lids lowered over pale green eyes. “You were most likely too busy tending to your doctoring to notice such things.” She reached for the door handle. “I must see to my duties. It was good seeing you, Dr. Lewiston.”

With a small swish of her skirts, she disappeared inside.

The doctor leaned against a column, his arms crossed over his chest. “She raised my wife from birth. Clara considers her almost her mother.” He pulled a gold watch out of his watered-silk waistcoat and looked at it for a moment before replacing it. “Had to sell her during the war—needed the money—and Elizabeth certainly needed the help. Your sister was not as . . . strong as she would have liked to be, and she needed another female here at Whispering Oaks. Soon after purchasing Marguerite, John freed her.” He took a deep breath, his face sad. “I suppose she will stay on for Rebecca’s sake. Until Elizabeth returns,” he added hastily.

I rubbed my temples with the pads of my fingers, the start of a headache beginning to pound behind my eyes.

The doctor’s voice was soothing. “Will your husband be joining you?”

I blinked at him in the sun, unable to find the words. Finally, I managed, “He will not be. I am . . . I am in mourning.” I took a deep breath, needing sympathy from a kind soul. “For my son, too. He drowned.”

He stood, swallowing, and I saw the kindness in his pale gray eyes. “I am sorry, Mrs. Reed. You, well . . .” He looked down at the celery green gown I had borrowed from my sister. “You are not dressed in mourning.”

“My clothes were ruined in an accident. This is Elizabeth’s dress.”

“Yes, I just realized.” He stood near me. “I am sorry for your loss.” I looked into his eyes and saw that he meant it. He took my hands and squeezed them.

“Yes, well . . .” I dropped my gaze and stared at his pale hands covering mine, the skin as soft and smooth as a girl’s. Gently, he let go.

“I must be leaving. Would you please do me a favor?” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a short rope of licorice. “Rebecca loves these. I always give her one when I see her. Would you be so kind as to pass this along to her?”

I did not want to, but I realized I could not avoid the child forever. Perhaps this would serve as a sort of peace offering. I nodded and took the piece of candy.

“Thank you, Mrs. Reed. It is greatly appreciated.” He bowed, placed his hat over his head, and descended the steps. As an afterthought, he turned toward me as he reached the bottom. “Do call on us soon. My Clara would love to meet you. She and Elizabeth were great friends. We are straight down River Road in Saint Francisville. Barely thirty minutes by horse.”

I smiled, ignoring his past-tense reference to my sister. “I will. Thank you.”

He waved as he walked toward the stables, and I turned back to the house.

I paused in the dim doorway, hearing the strange humming again. The tune vibrated against my own lips, so taunting in its familiarity, yet its identity still beyond my grasp. With the licorice held tightly in one hand, I slowly ascended the stairs, following the haunting melody hummed with such sadness by a young voice.

The door to Elizabeth’s room stood open and I approached it with caution. Quietly, I peered in, not sure what I would see.

Rebecca sat on a small chair in front of a dressing mirror, wearing nothing but her camisole and bloomers, her large doll leaning against her legs. I remembered that she was supposed to be napping, and wondered what she was doing in her mother’s room.

She sat brushing her fingers through her long, fair hair as she stared transfixed into the mirror. The lingering scent of lavender made me turn my head, as if my sister had just walked through the room. Only dark corners and rose-colored satin bed linens met my gaze.

The humming ceased, and I focused back on the little girl. Her blue eyes widened with fear as she spotted me, and she scrunched her shoulders as if trying to disappear into the dressing table. Oh, Jamie, I thought, and breathed, the crushing sadness upon me again. I turned to leave, then stopped. She was only an innocent child, my sister’s child. Perhaps she needed comfort now as much as I did.

Slowly, I turned to face her. Not quite managing a smile, I approached, the licorice held in front of me. When I stood before her, I knelt, remembering her father’s action.

“Dr. Lewiston asked me to bring this to you. He says it is your favorite.”

Her head was down, dimpled hands folded on her lap. I touched the back of a hand with the piece of candy. Without looking up, pudgy fingers opened up and took it.

I was so close, I could smell the sweetness of her. My heart broke again as I remembered holding Jamie and burying my face in his little neck and crying with the joy that he was mine.

My voice faltered but I swallowed, clearing my throat. “Do you know who I am?”

She shook her head, still looking down.

“I am your aunt Cat. Your mama and I are sisters.”

That brought her head up as two piercing blue eyes stared at me intently. I forced myself not to look away.

I patted the yellow yarn hair of her cloth doll. “What is her name?”

“Samantha.” Her voice was clear and high-pitched. So much like Jamie’s.

“She is beautiful. Where did you get her?” I lifted the doll to get a better look and noticed the painted-on bright blue eyes.

“My papa. She is my friend.” She grabbed the doll and hugged her close.

Abruptly, she slid from the chair and ran past me and out of the room.

I stood to follow her, then halted. Turning around, I looked down at the dressing table. Except for a nearly empty bottle of perfume, it was bare. Dust outlined where a hand mirror would have lain, and long, dark strands of hair littered the top. But there was no sign of my sister’s comb, brush, or mirror.

I walked toward the large armoire and threw it open. Ruffles and flounces of every type of silk, satin, and linen filled the entire space, hiding the back of the armoire. It would have been impossible to determine if something were missing. I pushed two dresses aside and peered into the back of the armoire. An empty brass hook, made to hang a dressing gown, winked at me. I looked on the floor of the armoire to see if it might have fallen, but there was nothing there except a pair of evening shoes. The scent of stale lavender permeated the small space, almost gagging me.

The humming commenced again, so I closed the armoire behind me and followed Rebecca to her room down the hall. She stood before a tall chest and was tugging on a bottom drawer. I knelt next to her and helped her open it. She looked at me with grateful eyes, imparting a tender thread of trust in me.

I gasped in surprise as I looked at the contents of the drawer. It was filled with licorice ropes identical to the one I had just given her. With little aplomb, she dumped her latest addition to her collection.

“Are you saving them?” I asked, curious.

She shook her head, blond hair swinging. “No. I do not like them. But Mama says I will hurt Dr. Lewiston’s feelings if I say no. So I keep them here.”

“I see,” I said, brushing hair off her face. She didn’t flinch.

We both turned at a sound from the door. Marguerite stood there, a frown on her face.

“Mrs. Reed, it is time for Rebecca’s nap. It would be much better for the child if you would leave and let her rest.” She came over and took the doll from Rebecca’s arms and tossed it on the bed.

I opened my mouth for an explanation, then closed it. She was right: The child needed her rest.

I rose, resisting the impulse to pat the little girl on the head, and left. The door shut abruptly behind me, and as I walked down the hallway to my own room, I heard the haunting melody drift through the house once more.