CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I wanted a long engagement, to at least give a show of mourning for Elizabeth. But John was impatient and I knew he was a man used to getting his way. I did not fight him on the matter, although I refused to admit even to myself the anticipation I felt. It was anticipation tinged with alarm—not admirable emotions for a soon-to-be bride. I found now that I could not be in a room with him without watching his hands and wondering how they would feel touching me. He would catch me staring and I would flush, causing a devilish grin to spread over his face.

My doubts would consume me once I was out of his presence. I spent many a night tossing and turning, wondering over all the missing pieces in the puzzle of Elizabeth’s existence at Whispering Oaks and of her death. John had allowed two weeks before we announced our engagement, and I intended to use that time to truly consider my alternatives.

On a warm afternoon while Rebecca napped, I found myself in the old grotto once again. Despite my deep musings, I kept a wary eye out for snakes, not ready to replicate the disaster of my last visit. I could see that someone had been there clearing out the underbrush and removing debris that many years of neglect had brought. Heavy foliage created a verdant screen from the wilting sun, and I sat down on a crumbling bench nestled against an ancient oak tree, and turned my face up toward the subtle warmth.

A crunching of dead leaves alerted my senses. I looked around, wondering who was near, but saw no one. I heard another footfall and stood, peering through the overgrown foliage. “Hello? Is anybody there?” Irrationally, I thought of the ghost of the Indian lady and her baby, and felt a chill of apprehension creep up my spine.

A tall figure pulled back the thick fronds of a fern and stepped into view. I smiled with relief, recognizing Dr. Lewiston.

He gave me an apologetic grin. “Sorry if I frightened you. I was just riding up for a visit when I saw you coming here, so I followed. I hope you do not mind.”

I was genuinely glad to see him. “No, of course not. Come sit over here with me. It is quite cool in the shade.”

I made room for him on the bench and he sat next to me, removing his hat. A shard of sunlight glinted off his head, making it shine like gold. I remembered longing for hair like that as a child and grinned to myself, thinking it wasted on a man’s head.

With a gallant gesture, he pulled a bloodred tea rose from his lapel and offered it to me. “I brought a beautiful flower for a beautiful woman, hoping it would make her smile in her sadness. She does have the most ravishing smile.”

“Thank you,” I said, blushing at his compliments. It had been so long since anyone had made me feel pretty, and my mere words of thanks could not adequately describe my gratitude. Instead, I reached toward him and squeezed his hand where it rested on his knee.

He squeezed mine back, then let go quickly. His eyes, so cool and gray, studied me closely. “It is amazing, you know, how much you resemble her.”

“Elizabeth?”

He nodded. “Yes. She was so beautiful.” He looked away for a moment. “It is hard to imagine her taking her own life.”

I studied him. “I have learned, since coming here, that Elizabeth showed a different face to everyone who knew her.” I leaned back against the ungainly oak, its monstrous roots rerouted to make room for the small creek that oozed from the bottom of the grotto. “I remember one summer when our grandmother took us to a carnival in New Orleans. They had a house of mirrors, and Elizabeth was captivated by it. I was rushing along the hallways, trying to find her. I would see her face and run toward it, only to find it an image of her.” I sighed into the tepid air, the distorted image of Elizabeth haunting my memory. “She was vastly amused by my pursuit. I think that is how she pictured her life: sitting back and laughing at those of us who would try in vain to find the real Elizabeth. I wonder if she is laughing at us now as we try to sort this out.”

His eyes hardened to a steel gray, reminding me of the sky over the ocean before a storm. “How different you are from her—but you have that same ethereal beauty. It is almost like . . .” He paused, as if realizing he had spoken aloud. Covering my hand with his, he faced me with a concerned expression. “I hope you do not find this forward of me, but if you should be afraid of staying here . . .”

“Afraid? Why should I be afraid?”

He patted my hand. “Nothing I can really say, but with Elizabeth’s death, despite the coroner’s verdict and John’s suspicion of suicide, there seem to be things here at Whispering Oaks that just are not right. Besides, there is the matter of a lack of a chaperone. In your grief you might not have noticed how . . . improper it is for you to stay here. I really feel, as a close friend of the family, that a move to our home would be the right thing to do under the circumstances.”

His concern warmed me, and I placed my other hand on top of his. “Thank you, Daniel. I really cannot express how much your concern for my well-being touches me.” I squeezed his hand. “But I do not think—”

“Daniel!”

We both startled at the sound of Clara Lewiston’s voice. For such a small woman, her voice was loud and commanding. Standing directly behind her was John McMahon, a scowl darkening his features and his gaze focused on our entwined hands. Not knowing why, I guiltily slipped my hands from Daniel’s and stood.

Daniel stood, too, and I could feel the tension in the thick air as he spoke. “Clara, John. This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

Clara’s nose twitched like that of a small rabbit, but her voice was level as she answered her husband. “My father told me you had come to call at Whispering Oaks, and it seems that you have forgotten our supper plans with the Herndons. John was helping me find where you might have run off to.” She sent a reproachful look to Daniel.

The doctor forced a laugh as he approached his wife. “My dear, I have not forgotten anything nor have I run off anywhere. I was just following Catherine into the grotto. I have invited her to stay with us.”

Clara’s pale mouth had formed itself into a perfect “O.” “I . . . well . . . Of course Catherine is welcome at Belle Meade. And I must apologize for not thinking of it first.” She smiled at me, and I judged her offer to be sincere.

John had come to stand by me, and I felt his hot gaze. Without acknowledging him, I spoke. “It is very kind of both of you, but I must decline. With Marguerite and the other servants, I find myself adequately chaperoned. And I do feel that it is best for Rebecca if I stay here with her.”

John placed a hand on my shoulder. “I must agree with Catherine. It is best for Rebecca to stay among familiar surroundings, and equally important for Catherine to remain close by.”

Out of sight of the Lewistons, John’s thumb traced circles on my back, caressing the thin fabric of my dress as if it were my bare skin. I could not pull away without making it obvious, and I was almost glad of it.

I heard the hint of amusement in his voice as he added, “And I promise as a gentleman to behave as one.”

Dr. Lewiston flushed. “Really, John, acting as a gentleman has never been your forte. I find I must insist, for the sake of Catherine’s reputation, that she return with Clara and me to Belle Meade. And I invite Rebecca, as well, if that is your wish.”

John’s hand stilled on my shoulder, but he did not remove it. In a very controlled voice he said, “No. Rebecca stays here and Catherine with her. I will hear no more arguments—the matter is settled.”

John placed his hand on my arm to lead me along the path out of the grotto, but I held back. I felt uncomfortable with John’s dismissal of their offer and felt I needed to smooth any ruffled feathers. “Will you please join us for some refreshments? We would very much enjoy your company.”

Clara spoke first. “Thank you, Catherine, but we must be getting back. I left in the middle of doing an inventory of my spices and I hate to leave them out from under lock and key for so long. Not to mention that we have supper plans for later. But thank you very much. I hope to return the invitation as soon as your mourning permits.”

I nodded. “Thank you. I shall look forward to it.” I found myself frowning and quickly straightened my features. But I could not help but wonder as to why she had not sent a servant to fetch Daniel—and why it was so important to remind him of supper plans now. It was barely past noon. I studied her plain face for a moment and the way it nearly glowed when she looked at her husband, and thought I knew the answer.

As John turned to allow us to pass in front of him, he stopped before the tea rose I had left behind, its brilliant red an odd splotch of color against the cream-colored bench. He retrieved it and held it up. “Clara, this looks like it came from your renowned rose garden.” He sniffed it and smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about the gesture. “Here. Let me return it to its rightful owner.” Ignoring Daniel’s outstretched hand, John approached Clara and affixed the wilting flower to a button. “I hope, Clara, that you will do us the honor of letting us use some of your beautiful roses for our wedding.”

I turned to him with a look of anger, but he ignored me. He seemed intent on watching Dr. Lewiston.

Both of the Lewistons appeared startled, but good breeding quickly changed their expressions to polite interest. Clara’s pale eyes seemed to shrink despite her smile. “Then let me be the first to congratulate you. I will be happy to have you as our neighbor.” She laid her hands on my shoulders and brushed her lips against my cheek.

Dr. Lewiston stepped forward. “Yes, of course. Congratulations are certainly called for. It is just a bit of a shock, especially after . . .” His words fell away, but each of us knew the implication.

John inclined his head. “I thank you for the congratulations. The wedding will be small, under the circumstances, but you will be receiving an invitation soon.”

Without further comment, John placed his hand at my elbow and led me out of the grotto. I asked the Lewistons again if they would stay, but again they declined. I did not know why it was so imperative not to be left alone with John, especially since I had agreed to be his wife. But the feeling persisted.

After the Lewistons left, John turned to me, a knowing look in his eyes. “I am hoping your eagerness for guests has nothing to do with there being something lacking in my company.”

Heat enflamed my cheeks at having been read so accurately. “Not at all. I merely enjoy their company.”

He raised an eyebrow but made no further comment. Instead, he bowed slightly and said, “Please excuse me. I have business matters to attend to. I look forward to seeing you at supper.” With an amused glint in his eyes, he raised my fingers to his lips. Instead of kissing the top of my hand, he turned it over and let his lips brush the inside of my wrist. The sensations that swirled through my veins at his touch nearly undid me. With a knowing glance, he turned and left. I tried to force myself not to stare after him, but found I could not.

I retired to my room and tried to read, but my thoughts were too easily diverted. I tried to gauge the Lewistons’ reaction to John’s announcement, and wondered if it was because it was simply too soon after Elizabeth’s death. But then there was Daniel’s veiled warning to me, and even Judge Patterson’s, and it was clear that both men believed there to be something at Whispering Oaks over which I should be alarmed. It was not clear to me, however, if both warnings had been referring to the same thing.

Absently, I picked Rose’s lodestone off of the dressing table and felt its cold smoothness against my palm. I recalled the older woman’s words about the two men in my life and of a great betrayal, and wondered anew at her meaning. Had she been referring to Robert? His suicide had been the greatest betrayal I had ever faced, the bullet that had killed him having shattered my own life, leaving me with mere fragments to try to piece together again. But who was the other man? I was contemplating sharing my life with John, but could she have been speaking of him? Or was she referring to someone else—someone whom I would love and want to share my life with?

But I was afraid my battered heart had no room for such a fickle affection—an emotion that rode the waves of one’s life, lifting a person up to the highest frothy crest and then plummeting her below, creating a frantic struggle for air beneath the surface. I set the lodestone back on my dresser, determined not to let such silliness affect my reasoning.

The window in my room had been opened to let in the late-summer air, bringing with it the heavy odor of the river. I watched as the sky picked up its darkening hues, an unseen hand painting strokes of magenta and burnt sienna across the horizon. It reminded me of the sunsets at home, and I surrendered myself to the glory of it. It was time to dress for supper, but the lovely image of the sunset transfixed me, and I sat in peace for the first time since my arrival. The irony that my first moments of serenity had come only with a memory of home did not evade me.

I sat up suddenly, my ears straining to hear the faint notes of music that crept in through the window. The fine hair at the nape of my neck bristled as I recognized the odd tune and Rebecca’s voice. I stood and left my room to find my niece, even though the humming had stopped abruptly.

I stopped in front of Delphine, who was waxing the foyer floor. “Have you seen Rebecca?”

“Yes, ma’am. She be in her room, resting afore supper.”

I shook my head. “But I just heard her singing and it was most definitely not coming from her room.”

“That be where I puts her, Miss Catherine, and she cain’ get by me without me seeing her, so she must still be there.”

Confused, I stepped past her until I reached the rear door. I found Rebecca on the back steps with Samantha on her lap. She did not look up as I approached but stared out at the gathering gloom. I sat down next to her and began smoothing her hair with my hand.

“How did you manage to sneak past Delphine?”

I saw her cheek crinkle in a smile but she still did not look up at me. Night had completely descended, leaving only the moon and the stars in the sky, like a queen with her court. “It is a secret.”

“A secret? Does that mean I cannot know?”

She looked at me finally, her bright eyes shining like two more stars in the moonlight. “Not yet, Aunt Cat.”

I nodded, not wanting to press her. “It is too dark for you to be outside and I do not want you to catch a chill. Why do you not come inside now and get dressed for supper?”

She shook her head vehemently, her coiled curls shaking in agreement. “No—not yet. It is too dark in there.”

I put my arm around her small shoulders and drew her closer. “But it is darker out here. Inside we have the lamps lit.”

I felt her shiver under my hands. “No, Aunt Cat. Inside there are dark places I am afraid of. There are shadows that live in the corners and I do not want them to get me.” Her wide eyes shone as she raised them to mine. “Like they got my mama.”

I wanted to refute her words, but I could not. I knew the dark shadows she spoke of, had felt them even as a child, and could not deny them now as an adult. As much as I wanted to dismiss her fears as a child’s fancy, I could not. They were all too real to me. Instead, I held her close and patted her head.

She pointed a chubby finger up to the moon, full and round like a ripened peach. “Marguerite says that on nights with a full moon, the Indian lady walks with her baby.” She tilted her head, as if trying to hear a far-off sound. “If you listen real good, you can hear the baby crying. Marguerite says the baby cries because she and her mama were buried under the house and they want to get out.”

I raised my ear to the slight breeze, listening intently, and I heard it. A high-pitched cry, shifting in and out at the whim of the wind. I stood and moved down the steps to hear it better. I heard it again and I started, a mother’s first reaction at the sound of a crying child. My own child’s cries were forever stilled, yet the plaintive cry reached out to me with silent fingers of need.

“Do you hear it, Aunt Cat?”

I nodded and stepped slowly off the bottom stair. Then I remembered the glass bottles and realized where the sound was coming from. I turned to Rebecca. “It is the wind blowing through those old bottles that are hung on the trees. It sounds just like a baby crying.”

Her wide-eyed look was one of certain disbelief, but she did not say anything. Taking her hand, I said, “Come on. Let us go get dressed.”

She placed her hand inside mine and followed. As I guided Rebecca up to her room, I thought of the Indian woman and her child buried under this house, their spirits crying to be free. And I thought of Elizabeth, her spirit just as wistful and strong, and wondered if her time here made her feel as if she had been buried within the four walls of this dark house and had ached to the point of desperation to be set free.

*   *   *

The evening meal passed slowly. I felt John’s constant gaze upon me and was grateful for Rebecca’s presence. The child charmed me, and I found myself seeing more of her than just the things that reminded me of Jamie. Her blue eyes would still suddenly catch me off guard at times, causing a cascade of grief that I struggled to keep hidden. But her indomitable spirit and sweet hugs had begun to take the chill out of my cold heart.

When Delphine arrived to take Rebecca to her room, I rose, too, eager to excuse myself. But John stayed me with his hand. “Please wait. I have something I wish to give to you.”

I nodded and allowed myself to be led into his library. He strode over to his desk and, after unlocking the top drawer, took out a black velvet rectangular box. He returned to stand in front of me again, but made no move to either present the box to me or to open it himself.

“I first met your father in New Orleans. It was at my club there, and he had been invited by an associate of mine to discuss business. I found him a very charming man, and was especially enthralled with his stories of his beautiful Saint Simons. I think that he loved it almost as much as you do.”

He smiled at me gently, as if he knew that speaking to me of my father and of my home needed to be handled with great care. “But I soon realized that what he loved most of all were his two daughters. He spoke of you both, but the one he spoke most about was the daughter who loved openly and freely, whose beauty was inside and out, and whose nature was as wild as the waves she liked to race into with bare feet. She was an artist who painted the natural beauty of her island with a lover’s touch.” He lowered his eyes, staring at the box. “I think I fell in love with her then. She seemed so foreign and exotic compared to the prim Bostonian misses my mother had been tossing in my direction since I had grown out of boyhood.” His gaze met mine again and I caught sight of an emotion I thought I recognized before he hid it again from me.

Holding up the box, he opened the lid. “I had these made for that girl, before I had even met her, knowing I wanted her for my wife.”

I looked inside and held my breath. The double-strand necklace was composed of the most perfectly formed pearls I had ever seen, faultless in their round, creamy beauty. They circled the strand, each in graduating size before coming to an end in a large, tear-shaped ruby. I didn’t move, but continued to stare at the necklace.

He continued. “I pictured these on her flawless skin and against her long black hair.” He reached behind me and began to loosen the pins in my hair. I heard them fall one by one to the floor behind me, each one a discarded drop of my resistance.

“Did Elizabeth ever wear it?” I held my breath, awaiting his answer.

His eyes darkened. “No. I never gave them to her.”

I waited for him to continue, my lungs filling with unspent air and a distant hope.

“Your father never told me how young you were. It was not until my visit when I saw you that I realized. But it was too late then. I had come for a wife, and I was not a man used to disappointment. And Elizabeth . . .” Slowly he raised the pearls from their black box. “Elizabeth used all her charms on me, making me believe that she and you shared more than just appearance.”

I did not move as he placed the pearls around my throat, leaning over me to clasp it in back. He lifted my unbound hair and placed it about my shoulders, then studied me closely, his warm breath brushing my neck. “Yes,” he whispered. “This is how I pictured you.”

I stepped back, my defenses rallying at the first taste of hope. “I am no silly virgin so easily seduced.”

He moved toward me and bent his head near my ear. “Neither was Elizabeth.”

I looked up at him in shock. “You lie!”

“I am no liar, madam.” He took a deep breath, his gaze locked with mine. “And that is the last I shall speak of it.” He moved his lips down to my throat, almost making me forget the implications.

“Why did you not press for an annulment?” I had to force the words out, my lungs gasping for air.

“Because I fancied myself in love with her.” He lifted his face to look into mine, his emotions completely hidden from me. “But for you and me, Catherine, our motives to marry are much more tangible, are they not?”

My hope crumbled with the hairpins at my feet. I tried to push away, but he would not allow me.

“My dear Catherine. We have made our decision. Now let us make the best of it.”

He lowered his mouth to mine and I discovered I had no more will to fight him. I eagerly opened my lips to his, letting him devour me with a passion that seemed to fill us both. His hands swept down the bodice of my dress, pulling me closer in an intimate embrace. His hands teased my hips, sliding upward to my waist. I felt as if I should stop him, but my traitorous arms wrapped themselves around his neck instead, pulling him even closer.

Suddenly, he stopped, and he lifted his face to give me a mocking look. “Madam. It would seem that you are as impatient for our wedding as I.”

Ashamed to have to admit the feelings that he stirred in me, I said nothing.

Abruptly, he stepped back, only a sheen of perspiration on his forehead belying his true emotions. “I will not be bothering you any more this evening. You are free to retire.”

He bowed, then left the room, but not before I caught sight of a satisfied smile on his face. I was not sure what his game was, but I was quite certain I did not like being a part of it. Perhaps he was testing me—to see how much alike I was to Elizabeth. I wondered at his abrupt dismissal of me, and if my physical response to him had been an affirmation or a warning.

My hands reached up to the chilled beads on my neck, their touch like cool fingers of warning. Slowly, I undid the clasp, then dropped the pearls into their coffinlike box, leaving them on his desk to find in the morning. Turning down the lamp, I climbed the stairs to my room, ignoring the deepening shadows that seemed to reach out to me from the darkened corners of the house.