CHAPTER NINE

The wind moaned through the oaks that surrounded the house and slapped the windows and roof with rain. A full day had passed since Elizabeth had been found, and she now lay in a hastily made pine coffin in the front parlor, lit candles burning at her head and feet and around the room. The house accepted her presence without even a stir, as nothing could make the pall in the old rooms darker.

The pinched, waxlike face of the woman in the pine box bore no resemblance to the beautiful sister of my memory. No wind teased her hair; no sun brightened her eyes and highlighted her hair—nor would it ever do so again. The sister I had known and loved was gone. But she had been gone long before her last breath had left her. The person who lay before me was a stranger, and I had no more grief to give.

I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. I leaned over the edge of the coffin and whispered, “What were you so afraid of, Elizabeth?”

A hand closed about my arm and I stifled a scream. I looked up into the steel gaze of Elizabeth’s husband. He abruptly dropped his fingers. “Why do you think she was afraid?”

I swallowed, the sound audible in the still room. “She . . . wrote me. She said that she needed me. That she was afraid of something . . .” I let my words drift away as my eyes strayed back to the woman in the coffin.

“Do you think it was me she feared?”

My head jerked back to regard him. I paused for a moment, searching for an answer. Finally, I said, “I do not know. She did not say. And now her secrets will be buried with her.”

He moved closer and I flinched. Something heavy and foreboding filled the room, not all of it due to the open casket. Leaning toward me, he whispered, “Perhaps some secrets are best buried.”

I held my ground, my back pressed against the smooth pine box. “Are you saying that the circumstances of her death are best kept secret?”

John took a step back, allowing me room to move away from him. He looked down at his wife, his face hidden in shadow. “Perhaps they are.” His eyes met mine again, and a chill tiptoed up my spine. “But not for the reasons you might think.”

I briefly wished for some semblance of fear to hold back the words, but that emotion had long been too elusive. “Did you have anything to do with Elizabeth’s death?”

He stared at me and said calmly, “No.”

I did not say anything, afraid my doubt would show in my voice. The rain continued to punish the house, reverberating on the windowpanes. I touched Elizabeth’s cold hand, the bones small and fragile and so much like my own. “Why is her skin still so perfect? She was left lying in the cane field for so long. . . .”

John turned to stare out the window, the shadows of raindrops covering his face. “I saw Elizabeth there. Nobody would go near her. There was not a mark on her—not even bugs crawling in the vicinity of where her body was found.” He turned his head toward his wife for a moment. “It was so odd. And then Rufus became hysterical and had to be taken away, mumbling something about her being fixed with a curse.” He faced me, his expression unreadable. “There is to be an inquiry. They will be taking her body tomorrow morning to determine the cause of death before we can have her burial service. I hope that it will not upset you overly much.”

I shook my head, mute for a moment, the image of Elizabeth’s pale, sightless eyes staring up from a sea of sugarcane vivid in my mind. “No. It will be a relief to be able to find some answers.”

A clearing of the throat brought our attention to the doorway. Dr. Lewiston stood, his hat in his hands, his eyes fixed on the dark box in the corner. A candle at the foot of the coffin fluttered, then died, leaving the acrid scent of burnt wax.

“Your man O’Rourke sent for me. My condolences, John, Catherine, for your loss.” He seemed to visibly struggle to move his gaze from the coffin to his old friend. “If there is anything I can do . . .” His voice died in the heavy silence.

John turned his back to the doctor and faced the coffin again. “Yes, Daniel. There is something. And I would like to speak to you in private.”

I nodded and left the room, closing the door behind me. I stood in the darkening foyer, listening to the murmur of voices behind me and of the windows rattling from the assault of rain. The crystal candelabra above had been lit to chase away the gathering gloom. With a start, I noticed the large mirror over the hallway console had been covered with a white sheet. I moved to stand in front of it and saw Marguerite hovering in the alcove below the stairs. She had been avoiding me ever since I had been given the responsibility of attending to Rebecca’s needs, and she must have stepped back in hopes of me not seeing her.

“Why has the mirror been covered?”

Marguerite stepped forward, the whites of her eyes almost glowing in the dimness. “To protect the soul of the dead. If a soul sees her reflection, then she will be trapped in the mirror forever.”

A shutter banged against the front of the house like a disembodied shout. The crystal beads jostled one another as the flames on the chandelier sputtered from an unseen breath.

“That is nonsense,” I said, trying to keep the edge of unease out of my voice. I reached up to try to pull the sheet off the mahogany acanthus leaves at the top of the mirror. They held fast, and I heard Marguerite’s throaty chuckle.

“They do not want you to take off that sheet, Miss Catherine.”

My hands stilled. “Who is ‘they’?”

Marguerite stepped closer to me, her voice almost a whisper in my ear. “The undead. They do not want you messing with what is theirs.”

I resisted the urge to move back. “My sister’s soul is in heaven. All of this talk is superstitious nonsense and it will serve no purpose except to frighten Rebecca.” I gave another tug to the sheet but it remained unyielding.

Her eyes flickered. “Then you best get down on your knees and pray for her soul. But I think you will be wasting your time. Only repentant souls are saved.” She stepped back. “I need to see to supper.”

I listened as her soft footsteps padded across the foyer. The men’s voices in the room behind me grew steadily louder. John’s voice, deeper, more stern, seemed to be asking the same question over and over, while Daniel answered with a strained voice, the volume of his words escalating each time he spoke. The one word I understood was “No.”

I left the sheet on the mirror, making a mental note to take care of it later. Quickly I walked toward the stairs, not wanting to be privy to the men’s conversation. My fleeting thought of staying and listening flamed my cheeks, and I hurried up the steps, intent on a brief respite of sleep.

As I reached the top of the stairs, a high-pitched keening sound struck my ears. I stopped, my hand clutching the railing as I listened closely. It wasn’t keening. Instead it was the old haunting tune that Rebecca favored, and my skin puckered as I heard the odd tune hummed at such a high pitch as to be almost a cry.

The sound stopped almost as soon as it had begun. With hesitating steps, I walked toward the child’s bedroom. I pushed open her door slowly and found myself staring into Rebecca’s empty room. A lamp had been lit, and I stayed in the threshold for a few moments, listening to the dying rain.

“Rebecca?” I called out softly.

The only answer was the running of small feet and a slamming door somewhere down the corridor behind me. I rushed out of the room and stopped suddenly. The doll Samantha lay sprawled on the floor at the end of the long hallway, her legs caught in the opening of the attic door.

Ignoring the blood thumping in my temples, I approached the attic door with purposeful footsteps. “Rebecca!” I called again. “Come here this instant. This is not the time for playing.”

Approaching the door, I picked up the doll, still damp from its adventure in the pond, and peered up the dark steps. “Rebecca! If you are up in the attic, I ask that you come down now, or I will have to punish you.”

Somewhere deep in the recesses of the great house, I heard the humming again, faint and liquid, oozing up the walls toward me. It seemed to come from the very plaster. Clutching the doll tightly against my chest, I stepped back and into a rock-hard chest. Strong hands held my arms. With a deep breath, I turned.

John’s eyes regarded me calmly. “Catherine, what is wrong?”

I swallowed and kept my voice steady. “I am trying to find Rebecca. I think she is playing tricks on me.”

He looked past me and up the attic stairs. “Do you think she may have run into the attic again?”

“At first I thought so, but I just heard her somewhere else in the house.” I indicated the doll. “But she had to have been here just a moment ago, because I found this here. She must be very fast, because she was able to run down the corridor and down the steps before I could even turn around.”

John took the doll. “I think I will take a look in the attic anyway.”

He stepped past me and took the stairs two at a time. The wood floor creaked as he walked overhead and softly called his daughter’s name.

I heard him at the top of the steps and watched as he slowly descended the stairs. His brow was furrowed as if in deep thought.

I wondered at his expression. “Is everything all right? Did you see any sign of Rebecca?”

He shook his head. “No. I didn’t see anything.” He stepped past me, still holding the oversized rag doll. It reeked of wet wool and pond water, and the old feeling of panic settled in my veins again. I placed my palms flat against the wall behind me, trying to steady myself.

John looked at me. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, forcing my breathing to return to normal. I searched for something to distract my thoughts. “I heard raised voices downstairs. Does Dr. Lewiston know anything more about Elizabeth?”

He turned his back to me as if preparing to leave but remained where he was, his attention on the damp doll in his hands. “Yes, actually. He did.”

I moved closer to him, my hand raised to place on his arm. I let it drift back to my side. Being this near to him affected my senses in ways I could not control, and to touch him might be disastrous. “What did he say?”

He tilted his head, an ebony brow cocked like a crow in flight. “I told you that some secrets are best buried with the dead. Perhaps this would be one of them.” He started to walk away, his boots thudding softly on the carpet runner.

I walked quickly toward him. “If this concerns Elizabeth, then I demand to be told. I am stronger than you seem to think and . . .” My words died in my throat as it constricted, and I thought for one horrifying moment that I might cry. Perhaps it was his brief look of sympathy as he turned to face me, or perhaps it was the shock of my sister’s death that suddenly paralyzed me, but I found myself standing in front of John, unable to speak a word.

Inexplicably, he reached a hand to my face, and I did not flinch. He wiped away a tear and let the back of his hand caress my cheek. “My dear Catherine. You have already been through so much.” His hand stilled as I trembled at his touch. “I am loath to add to your burden.”

I turned my head aside, making him drop his hand. “My burdens are not your concern. Tell me what Dr. Lewiston told you. I need to know.”

His eyes darkened as he stared dispassionately at me. “Elizabeth was with child. That was the reason she went to see Dr. Lewiston before she died.” He turned from me once more, the doll hanging limply at his side.

I raised my hand to touch his shoulder but let it fall. “I am sorry. This is a double loss for you.”

He shook his head and stepped away. “The child was not mine.”

His words reverberated in my mind as I watched him approach the stairs.

I followed on his heels and clutched at the railing. “Wait.” I nearly screamed the word. “What do you mean?”

I watched his jaw work, as if negotiating a difficult mouthful. “I do not wish to sound indelicate, but you have been a married woman and understand the affairs between man and wife. Suffice it to say that I know, without a doubt, that I could not possibly be the father of her unborn child.”

He paused for a moment, as if to gauge my reaction. Seemingly satisfied that I would not faint and take a plunge over the banister, he turned and continued his descent.

I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down on him, my mind reeling from the implications and trying to think clearly. “But, that would mean . . .” My face flushed hotly.

He turned to stare up at me, his eyes hard. “Yes, Catherine. Your assumptions would be correct.” He bowed slightly, then turned away. “If you will excuse me, then, I must go find my daughter and return her doll.”

I listened until his footsteps faded away. My gaze strayed to the closed parlor door, the stilled body of my sister lying behind it, and I wondered, not for the first time, what other secrets might have died with her. I fled for my bedroom. Lying on my bed, I stared up at the canopy until the beat of my heart had returned to normal and I could fill my lungs with air again. Finally, I turned to my side, my sister’s name whispered on my lips. “Was this why you were so afraid? And would this be reason enough for your husband to end your life?” I listened to the dying winds as they blew goodbye to the old house by whistling under the eaves, the sound eerily like that of a crying baby. I blinked, feeling the tears run down my face. “Who were you really, Elizabeth? I do not seem to recognize you at all.”

I let the tears fall until none were left. My gaze roamed the room, searching for what, I did not know. Finally I settled on the gown I had worn the previous day. Delphine had hung it outside the armoire to dry thoroughly before putting away. I sat up quickly, the room spinning for a moment. Slowly, I slid from the bed and approached the dress. My fingers crept to the large patch pocket and pulled out the gold key. Reaching in again, my hand closed over something smooth and hard, and I lifted it out. I opened my palm and stared at the pipe, the smell of tobacco still fresh. I recalled John’s puzzled expression as he descended the attic stairs and felt with certainty that I knew why.

I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. The pipe fell from my hand, landing with a small thud, and sprinkling dark tobacco on the cream-colored rug like spots of blood.

*   *   *

Soldiers came at dawn the next morning to take Elizabeth away. I did not venture downstairs, but watched from my bedroom window. I saw John speaking with familiarity to the captain. The captain squeezed John’s shoulder, and I wondered if they knew each other from the war and if their friendship might bear some weight on the proceedings.

I listened as the soldiers scuffled their way into the parlor and began carrying out the coffin. A man cursed and something crashed to the floor. With a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, I raced to the top of the stairs, clutching my wrapper tightly about me.

One end of the coffin had dropped, a deep gash in the freshly polished wood floor bearing testament to what had happened. The lid had slipped, revealing Elizabeth’s face, her sightless eyes now open and staring directly at me. I turned my face away, more from respect for the dead than from any fear I might have felt. Despite the vagaries of my life over the last few days, I stubbornly clung to my fearlessness. If war, starvation, and grief had not yet killed me, then surely they had made me stronger. For seeing the corpse of my sister, her clear blue eyes coldly appraising, did not scare me. But what had put her in her coffin certainly did—if not for my own sake, then for that of her child, Rebecca.

I turned back to see John placing coins over Elizabeth’s eyes to keep them closed. With impatience, he instructed the soldiers to seal the coffin again. They hesitated, and more than one remarked on the incredible preservation of the body. If not for the still chest, she appeared to be sleeping.

With the cloying scent of freshly hewn pine heavy in the air, they lifted the coffin once more and carried it out the door to the waiting wagon. I stayed where I was at the top of the stairs, listening until I could no longer hear the wheels rolling down the long drive. Before I could turn to go, John reentered the house and stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me with a shadowed face.

“You look like an avenging angel.” His gaze swept over me, lingering on the almost-transparent white fabric of my wrap that fell over my legs and then moving slowly upward until our eyes met.

Unbidden, my pulse raced faster. I clutched the fabric tightly under my neck. “Perhaps I am.”

His eyes darkened as he put one booted foot on the lowest step. “What do you mean?” He climbed another step toward me.

I did not back away. “I meant that perhaps I am here for a reason.”

He did not drop his gaze but continued to climb the stairs. When he reached the step below me, we were at eye level. I did not blink under his close scrutiny. “Tell me, then, Catherine. What do you think happened to Elizabeth?”

I dropped a hand from my wrapper and reached for the banister behind me. “I do not know. I think we all must wait until we learn of the cause of death.” My pulse raced and skittered, but not from fear. What I felt was much more of a curse.

He was close enough that when he spoke, his warm breath pushed at the fine hairs lying on my forehead. “Do you think I had anything to do with her death?”

I could feel my own heart beating. The need to ask him again pressed down on me. “Did you?”

His black eyes stared directly into mine. “As I told you before, and as I will doubtlessly be forced to say repeatedly, no. I did not.”

He stepped past me and into the upstairs hallway. I faced his retreating back. “Clara Lewiston said you shot and killed a man in cold blood in Boston.”

Stopping, he turned around. “It was self-defense—which was proven in a court of law. It is public record, if you should choose to question my word. As for idle gossip, you are bound to hear quite a bit. Unfortunately, speaking ill of the dead is not something the people around here shun. I would ignore it all. Although some of the rumors might hold a grain of truth, I will not justify them with any remarks and cause a scandal. I want Rebecca to hold her head up high when she is old enough to care about such things.”

As if summoned, a door opened down the hallway, followed by the quick scampering of small feet. “Papa!” John reached for Rebecca and scooped the child up in his arms, holding her close to him. His face softened as he held her, the love and adoration he felt clearly etched on his usually forbidding features. He was undoubtedly the same darkly handsome man who had the disconcerting habit of stealing my breath away, but he was almost unrecognizable when with Rebecca.

He faced me. “You need to get dressed, Catherine. They want you down at the town hall for questioning. I told the captain we would be there before noon.”

I nodded and watched as he carried Rebecca back to her room. His broad shoulders cradled her head, his strong fingers gently patting her hair. Could a man who loved a child as much as he obviously did also be capable of the ultimate act of violence?

A movement from downstairs caught my attention and I found my gaze drawn to the large mirror in the foyer. I had taken off the sheet and had heard no more about the subject from Marguerite. Something dark and shadowy flickered in the depths of the glass, and I started. Surely it had been a trick of the eye or the reflection of a bird flying outside the window.

I leaned over the banister to get a better look and spied Marguerite standing in the dining room doorway and watching me with a smug expression. I straightened and went to my room without acknowledging her, the sound of Rebecca’s humming suddenly flooding the house with its melancholy and mournful tune.