CHAPTER EIGHT

I knelt in the foyer, my sleeves rolled up, my hands covered in beeswax. I had been working for nearly an hour and had yet to cover even a quarter of the floor with wax. My back ached at the thought of then going back over it with a buffing cloth, but it felt good to be busy again, to be doing something useful. It was much more desirable than worrying about Elizabeth or letting my thoughts settle on her husband. Rebecca sat on the bottom stair, mimicking my silly alphabet song. Every once in a while she would stop, and I would look up at her and find those blue eyes watching me intently.

I bent my head back to my task, only to jerk it up suddenly as the child began to hum the old, haunting tune again. I listened for a while, then resumed my task, the little voice repeating the simple melody over and over. Although I still could not put a name to it, I found it strangely comforting, as if I had heard it as a child, during a period of my life where all was well and safe.

The night before I had sat down at the table with John, glad of Rebecca’s presence. He had informed us that Marguerite would continue with her household duties and assisting me, but that she would no longer be serving as Rebecca’s nanny. That responsibility was being handed over to me. I resented being told rather than asked. Then, peering at Rebecca’s waiflike face, I realized the good judgment behind his decision. Anything would be better than leaving her in the care of someone who would put a small child out in a thunderstorm as punishment for a minor infraction.

I questioned him as to why he did not let Marguerite go. He had regarded me with hooded eyes before explaining that Elizabeth was very attached to Marguerite and that they would decide what to do with her once Elizabeth returned. There was also an obligation to the Lewistons. Marguerite was like a member of the family to Clara, but Clara, like most of the families in the county, could not afford to rehire her if she ceased working at Whispering Oaks. She would have no place to go.

I looked up at the sound of the doors to John’s study sliding open and Rebecca’s joyful cry of “Papa.” John, dressed for traveling and carrying a valise, approached, his dark eyes distracted. He dropped the valise and bent to pick up his daughter, his hand absently stroking her blond plaits.

I stood suddenly, the blood rushing from my head. Dizzy, I put out my hand to steady myself and clutched John’s coat sleeve. His strong fingers gripped my arm. “Are you all right?”

Nodding, I pulled away. “I must have stood too quickly.”

He and Rebecca stared at me with the same penetrating gaze, one dark blue and one obsidian. “Did you eat enough at breakfast? I have noticed how very thin you are, and I feel it is my duty to see that you get enough to eat while you are here.”

“I can take care of myself. I do not need a nursemaid.”

“Perhaps you do.” He looked at the smudge of wax I had left on his sleeve. I did not apologize.

He glanced at the wadded rags and thick paste congealed on the wood floor. “And Mary or Delphine should be doing this—not you.”

“I am used to keeping busy, and this needed to be done. I want the house to be in order when Elizabeth returns.”

We shared a moment of silence as I watched his face. He seemed unsure of a response. Finally, he said, “I doubt your sister would want you cleaning floors. Do you not have a hobby or some other ladylike pursuit to occupy your time?”

I crossed my arms. “I did. I used to paint. Before the war. Before the Yankees burned my house and my studio and all my paints and canvases. Besides.” I looked down at my hand and scraped a clump of wax out of a fingernail. “There was nothing left to paint.”

Patrick O’Rourke appeared at the door, a hat crumpled in his hands. “If your bag is ready, sir, I will pack your horse.” His gaze flickered uncomfortably to me, then moved to Rebecca. Slowly, he raised his eyes to John.

“Thank you, Patrick. I believe I have everything . . . except for my pipe. I cannot seem to find it, and I am starting to think somebody may have made off with it.” He patted his coat as if hoping it might appear, then handed his carpetbag to the coachman. The man, with a look that was almost like relief, tipped his forelock and left, sliding his hat back over dirty hair.

John kissed his daughter on the cheek and let her slide from his grasp. Addressing me, he said, “I am going to Baton Rouge. I plan to be back with or without Elizabeth in three days. I expect you to keep an eye on Rebecca and see to her well-being.”

“That is something I need not be told. She will be well cared for, I assure you.”

His mouth turned upward in a smile, and I was amazed at the transformation. John McMahon was a handsome man, despite his brooding, dark nature. But when he smiled, he was devastating. “I am quite sure she is in capable hands.”

He picked up his hat from a hall table, then turned to leave.

I squared my shoulders, snatches of my conversation with Clara coming back to me with full lucidity. “But was my sister in capable hands?”

He turned slowly to face me, his black eyes glittering in the morning light streaming from the windows. “That would depend.”

I waited for him to continue. Rebecca moved to my side and wrapped her fist in my skirt. I broke the silence. “On what?”

“On whose hands she put her trust in.” He placed his hat on his head and opened the door. “Goodbye, Catherine. I will see you in three days. Perhaps Elizabeth can answer your questions better than I can. I am afraid she is as much a mystery to me as she is to you.”

He strode across the porch, and I followed.

“Why were you so near the attic the night I was locked inside?”

A dark eyebrow arched over an eye. “My daughter is wont to wander the house at night when she should be in bed.” He glanced briefly at the child, who stood as if attached to my skirts. “I went to check on her, and when I found her bed empty, I went in search of her. I heard the noise in the attic, which brought me to the door. If you are asking me if I locked it, no, I did not.” His eyes sparked. “If you are done with this interrogation, I must be leaving.”

I stepped forward. “What if you do not find Elizabeth? Then what?”

He looked down at his daughter and his face softened. Then a deep scowl covered his features. “Then my daughter and I will resume our lives. I daresay the absence of her mother will not have a detrimental effect on either one of us.”

Without another word, he strode down the steps and toward his waiting horse.

I stood, watching him walk away, wondering once again at his words. But the one person who could answer my questions had disappeared. I stopped my thoughts, realizing that I needed her presence more to reassure me that her husband had not harmed her than to be assured that she was safe. I bit my lip, ashamed, then looked down at the little girl who was tugging at my skirts. I wiped my hands as best I could with a clean cloth, then lifted her in my arms. “Come on, little peanut. Let us go find that box in the attic.”

I walked up the stairs slowly, trying to get Rebecca to talk to me. She rarely spoke, but I suspected she saw everything that went on in the house. I needed to earn her trust so that she would be more willing to share confidences.

“How did you know that box was in the attic? Did your mama show you?”

Those incredible eyes stared back at me, and she popped her thumb in her mouth.

I reached the landing and headed down the corridor. I recalled the sound of stealthy footsteps in the hall and her confession about how she liked to watch people without their knowing.

“Did you use to see your mother in the attic? And she did not know you were there?”

Without removing her thumb, she gave me an impish smile.

We reached the attic door and I stopped. I put Rebecca down on the floor and knelt in front of her. “I need you to stay here while I go up, just in case there are still bats. I do not think so. Mr. O’Rourke promised me he had chased them all out and mended the window. But I want to make sure you are safe, all right?”

She nodded, her luminous eyes wide.

I opened the door slowly, feeling the ghost of the apprehension I had felt the previous night. Pushing the door as far as it would go, I headed up the stairs.

The new boards in the window had darkened the attic considerably, and I had not thought to bring a light. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust, then moved to the spot I recalled seeing the letterbox.

It was not there.

I moved forward, my gaze searching the dusty floor, sure I was in the right spot. I saw the trunk it had fallen from and my extinguished lamp—even the dust appeared disturbed on the floor in front of it—but the letterbox was conspicuously absent.

I lowered myself to my hands and knees, determined to find it and refusing to accept the implication if, indeed, it were missing. I crawled among the trunks and old furniture, disturbing years of accumulated dust, making it rise from the floor like a cloudy phoenix, sparkling in the sliver of light from the boarded window.

Worry and a nagging fear tugged at me. I knew where the box had been, and it simply was not there. I stood, ready to give up, when a small object caught my attention. It lay not three feet away from where I searched, its obvious position in the middle of the floor indicating that perhaps it had been dropped rather than hidden. Stooping, I picked it up and held it between my fingers. It was a gentleman’s pipe.

I tapped the bowl against my palm and let the tobacco sprinkle into my hand. The scent rose to my nose—a pungent, leaflike smell that suddenly reminded me of my father. A pang of homesickness engulfed me for a moment, weighing heavily on my spirit. I shrugged it off and let the tobacco fall to the floor.

Somewhere in the house a door shut, the sound reaching me almost like a jolt of air. Putting the pipe in my pocket with the key, I walked toward the top of the steps and called down. “Rebecca? Are you still there?”

After hearing no answer, I walked down the steps to the hallway, looking for my niece.

“Hello? Is anybody home?” a female voice called from the foyer. I was quite certain I recognized the voice.

“Clara? Is that you? I will be down in a moment.”

I closed the attic door behind me, then brushed the dust off my dress before heading for the stairway. I patted my pocket and felt the outlines of the key and pipe as I descended the stairs.

Clara Lewiston waited for me in the foyer, breathing heavily, as if she had just walked a great distance. She dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief, blotting away perspiration. Her eyebrows lifted as she caught sight of me with my sleeves rolled up on my forearms like a cleaning woman. Her gaze moved to the wax and rags pushed against the wall and the half-waxed floor. Like any well-bred Southerner, she ignored the implication completely.

I had to still my breath so I could hear her quiet voice. “I apologize for letting myself in, but there does not seem to be anybody here to answer the door. And it is so hot outside.” She snapped open a fan and fluttered it in front of her face.

I flushed, taking her comment as an insult directed toward my sister. Before I could stammer out an excuse, she continued.

“Please, you need not apologize for Elizabeth. She told me all about her problems with the servants. Their superstitions are quite silly, but they do take them seriously.”

“What do you mean?” I recalled Marguerite mentioning the servants and their beliefs in the supernatural and wanted to hear more.

Her pale eyes shifted as she surveyed the room as if to ascertain we were alone. “Perhaps we should take a walk outside. These walls might have ears.”

My curiosity piqued, I excused myself for a moment to find Rebecca. She was in the kitchen, being plied with sweets by Rose. Her doll, Samantha, was conspicuously absent. “Where did you go, peanut? You were supposed to wait for me in the hallway.”

Her wide blue eyes stared up at me, a hint of mischief making them sparkle. “It is a secret,” she said, taking another bite of peanut brittle.

I felt Rose’s gaze on me and dropped the subject. I gave Rose instructions to keep my niece occupied and within her sight until I returned.

I found my visitor on the porch. As we walked, she slipped her hand companionably into the crook of my elbow. Watching her from the corner of my eye, I studied her appearance. Again she was awash in an unflattering, monochromatic beige. She did have beautifully smooth skin, but the sallow color was even further emphasized by the shade of her clothing. Pale eyebrows nearly disappeared into her forehead, and her lashes were almost nonexistent, lending an appearance of a blank canvas on which the artist had yet to apply color.

Again I wondered what had sparked the attraction of love at first sight for Dr. Lewiston. Even Clara’s personality seemed timid and droll against his warmth and charm. But I was no expert on what lay inside a man’s heart. I had been married for four years to a man I later learned I had not known at all.

We walked in silence down the avenue of oaks, a light breeze teasing the tops of the trees, making the leaves whisper like a hushed conversation. I waited for Clara to speak, but she seemed content to walk by my side, avoiding mud puddles and ignoring the heat that swallowed us as completely as a wave from the ocean.

“Clara, please tell me. What happened to all of the servants?”

She clucked her tongue, reminding me of an old woman I had known on Saint Simons. She had no teeth and had been wont to snap her tongue against her empty gums at the most inappropriate times. “I hope you do not think I am gossiping, but as Elizabeth’s sister, I suppose you should know.” She squeezed my arm in a reassuring manner, and I nodded for her to continue. “It all started innocently enough.” She looked down at our feet, as if wondering if this would be called gossip. “It began at the Blackmores’ annual masquerade ball. I suggested she rethink her costume, but I am sure you know how stubborn she could be. Elizabeth dressed up as that Indian princess who is supposed to haunt the pond in the back of your property. She even carried a doll to portray the poor dead baby. Her gown was absolutely shocking—it did not appear as if she wore stays or any petticoats at all. Just a doeskin sheath and her dark hair in plaits with feathers.”

She stopped walking for a moment and looked at me, her eyes blinking in the bright light. “She was very beautiful, and the men could not take their eyes off of her. I daresay most of the female population of the county was scandalized. But the servants thought she really was the ghost, and fled the house that night after seeing her.”

We paused again, tilting our heads back to gain access to the faint river breeze that moved among the oaks and down the lane. “Of course, that was not the only problem dear Elizabeth had with servants.”

She closed her mouth, as if she were done speaking. I cleared my throat. “What other problems did she have?”

Watery eyes looked into mine as a thin line of perspiration beaded her upper lip. “Well, some of them felt the need to approach her husband with problems they had with her. Elizabeth believed that they should do whatever she asked them at the drop of a hat, regardless of whatever other job they were expected to do.” She sniffed. “If they complained to John, Elizabeth made their lives so miserable that they would soon be compelled to leave.”

I stopped, tilting my head, straining to identify the odd sound coming to us on the breeze. “Elizabeth and I were not raised that way, Clara. I do not know what could have made her change so. But I love her, regardless of what she may have done, and I will welcome her back. And Rebecca needs her mother.”

I watched Clara as she pursed her lips and then turned her head, hearing the same sound I was. Her eyebrows knitted together, forming parentheses of wrinkles on the bridge of her nose.

“Do you know what that is?” I closed my eyes, concentrating on the faint musical chiming.

She dropped her hand from my arm and began walking briskly to the end of the lane. I followed her, noticing how the sound grew louder. She stopped under an oak and looked up under the veil of Spanish moss. I came and stood next to her and raised my eyes to the tree.

Five empty bottles, in an assortment of colors, hung by thin twine ropes from a tall branch. The breeze, in its effort to dance through the oaks, would whistle into the bottles before escaping again, creating an odd melody. I found them enchanting and turned to my companion to tell her so, but stopped.

Clara’s face had stiffened as she stared at the wind chimes with disapproval. “I would have your man Mr. O’Rourke take this down immediately. It is pagan and should not be allowed on your property.”

I looked up again at the bottles, trying to find anything ominous about them. “Do not be silly, Clara. It is just a wind chime.”

Her eyes widened to form perfect little circles. “Oh no. They are used to ward off so-called evil spirits.” She nodded her head knowingly. “Marguerite told me all about those African beliefs when I was growing up. It is dangerous and sacrilegious and is not allowed on my property. I doubt John knows about it.” She placed a trembling hand on my arm. “You do not suppose . . .”

She stopped talking, then looked directly into my eyes but did not speak.

Finally, I spoke, my voice strained. “You do not suppose this has anything to do with Elizabeth’s disappearance, do you?”

She glanced away as I looked furtively back at the bottles as they began to moan again in the wind.

She shook her head quickly, causing the thin ringlets on the sides of her head to bounce. A forced smile crept up her face. “No, of course not. I am sure everything is all right and this does not mean anything. Elizabeth will come home. You will see.”

The sky darkened suddenly, carrying with it a humid breeze, thick with the scent of rain. The bottles clanked against one another with reckless abandon, the sound filling me with apprehension.

A heavy drop of rain slid against my cheek. Turning around, I grabbed Clara’s arm and began to lead her quickly back toward the house, the eerie sound of the lost wind in the bottles diligently following us. As the tall columns of the house came into sight, I turned to Clara to ask her to clarify what sorts of evil spirits at Whispering Oaks might need warding off. I opened my mouth to speak, only to be silenced by an ear-piercing scream from somewhere behind the house.

I lifted my skirts, not caring what kind of undergarments I might be displaying, and ran as fast as I could around the house. I paused near the kitchen and saw Rose and Delphine coming out the kitchen door, their eyes wide with fright.

“Where is Rebecca?” I shouted. My stays pressed tightly into my chest, making it difficult to catch my breath.

They both looked past me, toward the pond. Delphine pointed. “She went to get her doll.”

Spots danced before my eyes, but I sucked in as much of a breath as I could and ran in the direction of the pond.

Something floated in the middle of the water. Something with a head and arms and legs. My head seemed to explode in white puffs of air as I reached the edge of the pond, the water just licking at my shoes. Raindrops dotted the water’s surface, making it move and sway like a living thing. My lungs refused to expand and I could not seem to breathe in enough air. The body continued to float in and out of my vision, my mind screaming to me to put a foot in the water and to dive under the cool depths and rescue whoever it was.

But I could not move. Huge black circles now hovered before my eyes, obliterating my sight. I fell to my knees and somehow registered the piercing wail again. Jamie, do not let me fail you again, I thought, sinking into the grass. The sweet smell of oranges filled my nostrils, so thick I could taste the fruit. Was I in my grandmother’s orange grove? The image of the body in the water flitted through my mind again. Rebecca?

Another voice cut through my consciousness. A man’s voice. “Catherine!”

Strong hands moved under my head. I gulped in air, my breathing calmed enough that I could fill my lungs again, clearing my vision. My eyes flickered open and I stared into John’s worried face.

“Catherine?”

I nodded my head to show I had heard him, then pointed toward the pond. “Rebecca.” Rain pelted my face, soaking it, dripping inside the collar of my dress.

He bent his head close to mine and said, “Rebecca’s fine. Somebody threw her doll in the water—that is all.” Warm hands brushed the rain and matted hair from my eyes as the fear gripping my belly eased its hold. But there was something in his eyes that told me all was not well.

“Why are you here? I thought . . . you were in . . . Baton Rouge.” I lay my head back against his arms, exhausted, still struggling to breathe, the stays cutting into my skin as I gulped in air.

“I was on my way but had not gone very far. Patrick O’Rourke rode out to call me back.” His jaws clenched.

“What is wrong?” I whispered.

His arm trembled beneath me. “They have found Elizabeth.” He looked away for a moment, then gazed down at me again, his eyes hard. “She is dead.”