CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I awoke the following morning feeling as if I had not slept at all. I could tell from the brilliant white-yellow glow of the sun peering in between the wooden slats that it was late morning. Slowly, I sat up. It was then that I noticed the black box on my night table.

Reaching over, I picked it up and flicked open the lid. Inside lay the pearl necklace, and I did not doubt for one moment how it had come to be in my bedroom. I wondered how long he had stayed, watching me sleep, if he had stayed at all. But I knew why he had felt compelled to leave the box instead of waiting until morning. He was not a man accustomed to having his wants and desires curtailed in any way. If he wanted me to have the necklace, then have it I would.

I rang for Marguerite to help me dress. While outwardly she continued with the appearance of the dutiful servant, I watched her closely. According to Clara Lewiston, Marguerite had been Elizabeth’s confidante, and I wondered how much Marguerite knew of Elizabeth’s secret life and of her death. I felt like a mouse, and Marguerite seemed like a cat—toying with me while I tried to pry loose a morsel of truth.

“Marguerite, how well did you know my sister?” I sat at the dresser, waiting for her to fix my hair, and watched her in the mirror.

She smiled faintly. “I was her maid. I suppose I knew her no more or no less than other maids know their mistresses.”

“Did she ever tell you anything personal—something only you were privy to?”

She lifted my hair off my shoulders, smoothing it down my back with her hand. “She told me lots of personal things.”

I waited for her to continue, but when it was apparent that she would not, I said, “Did she ever tell you anything that might have been some clue as to why she would want her life to end?”

Her eyes glittered in the mirror with an indecipherable emotion, and I imagined that her loyalties toward her former mistress still held firm. Gently, I said, “She is gone now, Marguerite. I only try to understand a sister I loved dearly, to make some sense from her passing. To manage to find peace with the knowledge that I will never see her again.”

She took a deep breath. “Miss Elizabeth was not a happy woman, no matter what she had. There was nothing that could make her happy. She was like a child crying for the moon, and even if Mr. John had roped it and brought it down for her, Miss Elizabeth would have quickly tired of it.” She pulled the brush through my hair in a long, slow stroke. “And she did not care whose life she made miserable while she was searching for her happiness.”

“Do you mean John? Was their life together really that unbearable?”

She shrugged. “There are some who bear it better than others and some who just look until they find a way out.”

She fixed my hair in silence, allowing me to mull over our conversation and John’s words of the previous evening. If it were true that Elizabeth had not been a virgin on her wedding night, then Elizabeth had been set in her ways long before she married John. I felt no little relief at the thought. I did not want to think that my soon-to-be husband had anything to do with Elizabeth’s restlessness. Then again, since she and I had been raised in the same home, would I, too, be susceptible? Or were Elizabeth’s demons hers and hers alone?

Due to the lateness of the hour, I ate breakfast alone. The quiet darkness of the house smothered me, and I made a mental note to do something to brighten the interior soon. I listened for Rebecca’s voice, but only the brooding silence of the house answered.

After eating, I found Rebecca and took her for a jaunt along the levee in her mother’s small buggy. I enjoyed listening to her laugh and hearing her stories of her life on the plantation. It did not escape my notice that she never mentioned her mother at all.

When we were through, I placed her in Delphine’s care while I retired to John’s study to attend to some personal correspondence. Since my arrival at Whispering Oaks, I had not yet written to my friends and neighbors on Saint Simons. I had been putting off telling them that I would not be returning, but the time had come. John had given me a wedding date two weeks hence, and I needed to adjust myself to my new situation. Writing our names together with a wedding date in a letter seemed to be a prudent way to go about it.

I had been writing for more than an hour when I heard the front door open. Heavy footsteps approached the library, and I chastised myself for the excitement I felt when I recognized who it was.

John seemed surprised to see me at his desk, but his surprise was quickly replaced by a smile. He clutched a medium-sized traveling trunk he held in his arms.

“I am afraid I have been caught.”

“Caught?” I raised an eyebrow.

He stepped forward and placed the trunk on the floor by the desk. “Yes. I drove into town to pick up your wedding present. I asked for these from an artist friend in New Orleans shortly after your arrival here. And now I have a reason to give them to you.”

I stared at the trunk, unsure of my response. “I thought the necklace was my wedding gift.”

He sent me a knowing look, as if realizing we were both thinking of the box sitting on my night table. “No, seeing you wear it is your gift to me. This is my gift to you.”

I stood and walked around to his side of the desk, trying to give all my attention to the trunk. But it was hopeless. Whenever he was near me, I could scarce remember to breathe, much less take note of anything else.

“Here—you might find use for this.” He reached down and flicked one of the latches with his fingers.

“Oh yes. Of course.” My fingers fumbled as I tried to unlatch the two metal loops on the front of the trunk. I managed the first, but I couldn’t seem to get my fingers to do the second.

John seemed amused, as if he knew the source of my discomfiture. He stooped to help me. “How about I do this for you?”

With ease, he flicked open the latch and lifted the lid. Stepping back, he indicated the open trunk. “I remembered shortly after you arrived here you mentioned that the Union soldiers had destroyed all your canvases and paints. And that there was nothing left for you to paint. I hope that my gift will soften your heart for at least one Yankee.”

Cautiously, I peered inside. When I recognized what it was, my first instinct was to cry. It had been so long since I had received a gift, much less a gift so personal and so full of meaning. Cradled inside wadded mounds of newspaper lay an artist’s palette and an array of small glass jars filled with different colored paints. Rolled and fitted neatly in the corners of the trunk were canvases of various sizes.

John stood close to me, studying my face as if to gauge my reaction. When I did not speak, he said, “I had some of the paint pigments already mixed for you—and I hope I chose the colors you would have. I tried to re-create the colors of your home—of the ocean and sand and the marsh.”

I waited for a moment, trying to find my voice. “This . . . this is extraordinary.” I found it hard to find the appropriate words.

“I want you to be happy here.”

I looked into his eyes and wondered if he were thinking of his first wife and her desperate unhappiness. I felt hurt that he would again confuse me with my sister. I gently closed the lid of the box, not wanting him to see the longing in my eyes as I contemplated painting again. “I am not Elizabeth, John. You do not need to bribe me to keep me here.”

He stiffened, and the hope I had seen in his eyes was quickly hidden by his usual sardonic smile. He took a step away, as if to distance himself from me. “My dear, I thought the offer of my bed was enough of a bribe to get you to stay. This gift is merely gravy.”

I stepped back, the gift nearly ruined for me. He had cut me deeply and I did not want him to see it. I moved to walk past him, but he grabbed my arm.

“I am sorry, Catherine. I should not have said that.”

I faced him, trying to keep my fury under the surface. “I am not my sister, and I do not expect you to treat me as if I were. Whatever was between you two, it is past. And if you expect a real marriage between us, then you had best remember it.”

He pulled me closer to him, and my wanting of him nearly consumed me. He angered me, yet I still could not resist him. “Forgive me,” he said, and before I could contemplate what he was asking forgiveness from, he covered my lips with his, obliterating all thought.

The world seemed to spiral out of control for a moment as my hands grabbed his hair and pulled him closer. He pressed me backward against the desk, our bodies touching intimately. With visible control, he pulled himself back, disentangling my arms from around his neck. His eyes burned as he watched me try to find my breath. “I could never mistake you for Elizabeth. Only a fool could do that.”

Embarrassed again by my easy acquiescence to his touch, I backed away from him and then fled up to my room. I paced for a few moments before my gaze caught sight of a piece of Elizabeth’s riding habit stuck in the doors of the armoire. Yanking off my clothes, I pulled on the habit, struggling in my haste with the row of tiny buttons up the back. I desperately needed to burn off the energy that John’s presence created in me. Perhaps then I could be calm and impartial when next he approached me.

As I pinned the riding hat to my hair, I recalled the glimmer of hope in John’s eyes when he had given me the paints. John McMahon was a difficult man to fathom, but the very gesture of the gift told me that perhaps within the dark depths of his soul lay a kind and tender heart. A side to him, if it existed, he was not at all comfortable in letting others see.

Not sure why I did it, I slipped the lodestone into my pocket before walking quickly to the stables. I spotted Mr. O’Rourke and greeted him warmly. He still treated me with aloofness, due to the accident on the flooded road, no doubt, which was why I always gave him my biggest smile. I had the strong feeling that I would need as many friends as I could find if I were to make a home for myself at Whispering Oaks.

He saddled Jezebel for me and allowed me to go by myself only after I solemnly promised to stay on the levee road and not venture anywhere else. I gave Mr. O’Rourke a bright smile; then Jezebel and I took off at a brisk walk.

I kept a sedate pace as we passed through the lane of weeping oaks, then gave Jezebel the lead as we raced toward the levee. I loved the feel of the wind kissing my face and tugging at my hair. I was a little girl again, with no concerns or worries, my future laid out ahead of me as sparkling as the sun-dappled river.

Slowing my mount, I allowed her to trot along the levee road as I stared into the murky depths of the Mississippi. How tranquil the water seemed, yet I knew of the strong undercurrents that could sweep one under without warning. Unlike my ocean, who showed his wrath with froth-tipped waves, the river was an insidious thing; so unassuming on the surface yet turbulent and deadly underneath.

As I turned my horse to head back, I caught sight of another rider approaching me. The rakish angle of his hat and foppish dress gave away his identity before I even recognized the face of Philip Herndon.

His face seemed unusually pale as he drew alongside me, and for a moment he did not speak. Finally, as if remembering his manners, he doffed his hat and bowed low. “My dear Cat, forgive me my manners. I was so struck by your beauty that I was paralyzed for a few moments.”

The stunned expression on his face made me almost believe his words until I recalled that I wore Elizabeth’s riding habit. From a distance, I must have resembled her greatly.

“Hello, Philip. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

He nodded, his smile wary. “Are you alone?”

“Yes, I am. But only because I promised not to get into trouble.” I smiled, but it was not returned.

He leaned close to me. “Forgive the impudence, but I am glad to find you alone. I need to speak with you, and I would not be able to speak candidly if you had company.” It was clear from his implication as to whom “company” referred.

Jezebel stepped forward to nuzzle Philip’s mount as if they were old friends. He continued. “I heard from the Lewistons that there is to be a wedding soon at Whispering Oaks.”

I lifted my chin. “Yes, there is. John and I are to be married.”

His face darkened. “How could you, Cat? Especially after what he did to Elizabeth!”

“Whatever happened to Elizabeth, Philip, was of her own doing. I do not hold him responsible.”

He scoffed, looking up to the sky momentarily. “Not responsible? But she is dead! Can you honestly tell me that you do not believe he had anything to do with it?”

“Yes, I can.” I realized with a start that I was telling the truth. Despite all the unknowns, I had believed John when he claimed innocence in Elizabeth’s death.

Philip grabbed Jezebel’s bridle and leaned close to me. “Do not believe him. He is a dangerous man, Cat. And a Yankee. He’s not to be trusted.”

Growing impatient, I pulled away. “It is none of your concern, Philip, and I would appreciate it if you would not be intent on spreading unfounded rumors. I have Rebecca to think of.”

His eyes softened. “Yes, Elizabeth’s child. Thank God you are here to see to her upbringing.” Somber again, he said, “If you are intent on marrying him, just remember that I am only a short ride from you. Do not hesitate to call on me if you should need anything. Anything.”

I wondered at his words as he bowed again and replaced his hat. “It is best that I leave now. Good day, Cat.” To my surprise, he reached for my hand and held it to his mouth, his lips lingering longer than necessary. Jezebel stepped back, and I pulled away. His eyes darkened as he regarded me, but there was something in them that told me he was not seeing me but some distant vision from his memory. I wondered if it had anything to do with Elizabeth. He looked past my shoulder and then, without another word, he bowed again and took off at a canter.

In a contemplative mood, I stared after him until he was out of sight, oblivious to the pounding of hooves approaching me from the rear. At the last moment, I turned to see John approaching, his face a mask of fury. He drew up his horse quickly, making it rear.

“So, we are not yet married and you are already having assignations. If you are to meet with men other than your husband, at least have the decency to choose a more worthy adversary. That fop is not even worth the energy of pulling out my pistol.”

I was dumbfounded for a minute as I contemplated his implication. In an unaccustomed rage, borne of weariness and anxiety over the recent and dramatic turns in my life, I raised my hand to strike out at him. He leaned back, avoiding the blow, and I lost my balance, tumbling over the neck of my horse and down the embankment toward the swirling river below.

The abject terror of touching the water consumed me, and I acted as a wild woman, scraping and clawing at the grassy mud, trying to find something of which to grab hold. My struggles were rewarded when I managed to grasp a withered root, its frizzled ends reaching out from the dark mud like a groping hand. With desperation I hung on with all my strength.

“Catherine!”

It was then that I remembered I was not alone, and I clung to John’s voice with hope. The relief nearly weakened me, but I dared not let go.

“Hold on—I think I can reach you and pull you up. Just do not let go.” I saw his gaze travel to the slurp and splash of the river below me. He disappeared for a moment and then returned.

“I have tied myself to my horse so there is no danger of me falling in and taking you with me.” He lay on his stomach and inched himself slightly over the precipice, his hands reaching toward me, his fingertips nearly touching mine.

“Give me your hand.”

I hesitated, thinking back on Philip’s words. Could I trust this man?

“Cat, give me your hand.”

His dark eyes bored into mine. With a deep breath, I let go with my right hand and placed it into John’s strong palm. His fingers closed about mine in a firm grip, and I had no more doubt. Without waiting for him to ask, I let go with my other hand and placed it into his other palm.

His face contorted in strain and concentration as he began to pull me up. I used my feet to find footholds, using them for leverage as John slid back toward his horse. Slowly but surely, I inched my way up to the top, and when we were both safe, we lay on our backs, panting.

John sat up and reached for me, pulling me into his lap. I did not resist and allowed him to cradle me in his arms, much the same way I had seen him holding Rebecca, and I felt him tremble. I was warm and safe in his care, and my doubts of marrying him began to fade. “You called me Cat,” I said foolishly. Only my family and those who had known me since childhood called me by that name, and I found his use of it oddly comforting and familiar.

“Yes. I did.”

I felt his lips on my hair as we huddled together, his arms tight around me.

We rode back together on his horse, leading Jezebel, as John would not be separated from me. When we arrived, Mr. O’Rourke took the horses and John insisted on carrying me up to my bedroom.

Despite my assertions that I was quite all right, I was still surprised that John did not suggest we call for Dr. Lewiston. As he settled me on the bed, he said, “There is no need to send for Daniel. I am quite capable of taking care of you, and he would only look upon your accident as another reason for you to stay at Belle Meade.” He tried to force a grin but failed. “It would not do to have the neighbors thinking that you might be in some sort of danger from me.”

I found his words odd, especially after having spoken with Philip and Judge Patterson. But John had saved my life, and I now knew their concerns to be unfounded.

Marguerite helped me undress and settled me into bed with an herbal tea to help me sleep. I felt like a child but acquiesced, realizing that the afternoon had taken a toll on my nerves. The soothing brew settled in my brain like a warm blanket, and I was soon fast asleep.

It was near dark when I awoke, and I knew that I was not alone. John sat on the edge of my bed, watching me. His expression was grim, his face pale.

“I came close to losing you today, and know I am partially to blame.” He took a deep breath, and it almost sounded like a sigh. “I wanted to offer you an apology.”

I sat up, pulling the blankets along with me to cover my nightgown. I was all too aware that I was barely dressed and alone in my bedroom with this disturbing man. “I met with Philip today simply by accident. It was not planned.” I took a deep breath. “John, I am learning to trust you, and you should be doing the same with me. I do not know if I can marry you if you are going to interpret every innocent action or remark as something circumspect. A marriage without trust is like a prison for the soul.”

My heart clenched as I recalled the painful weeks following Robert’s return from the war when he had learned that our Jamie had drowned. Robert had gone to his grave believing that the woman to whom he had entrusted the care of his only son had betrayed him. And his harsh words had me almost believing him. I met John’s troubled gaze. “I would rather have my destitution on Saint Simons than live in such a prison again.”

He took my hand and held it to his lips. My pulse leapt through my veins at his gesture, my breath quickening. “There are reasons for my behavior, some of which you understand and some of which I hope you never try to fathom. But I swear to you that I will do my best to be more trusting.” His dark eyes bored into mine. “And you must do the same. I am not the evil man that some are eager to make me appear.” His thumb stroked the top of my hand, and I wondered if he could hear the scattered beating of my heart. “I can be quite gentle, if given the chance.”

Reluctantly, I pulled my hand away. “Do not try to seduce me with your words. I will pack my bags and return to Saint Simons tomorrow if you have no intention of building trust into our marriage.”

“Then I give you my word.”

I bowed my head so he could not see the hope I knew must be shimmering in my eyes. “Then I will marry you as we planned.”

He took my hand again and squeezed it. Bending close to me, he kissed me chastely on the cheek. My skin burned where his lips had been, and I looked up as he stood. “I will have a tray sent up for you. I think you should remain in bed until morning.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“For saving my life.”

“Then I must thank you for the same reason. Sometimes I think that you may have saved my own as well.”

With a brief bow, he left. My hand went to my night table, where I had placed the lodestone when getting undressed. I rubbed its cool, smooth hardness as I contemplated his words, until Marguerite arrived with my tray.

Halfway through my meal, I looked up to see the door of my room slowly being pushed open.

“Hello?” I called.

I saw Samantha’s head first, shortly followed by Rebecca’s blond head, her face covered by her doll. Without answering or waiting to be invited in, Rebecca climbed up on the footstool by the side of my bed and plopped herself down at the foot, Samantha in her lap.

I stopped chewing, noticing the doll’s face. It was completely covered in dirt, and the yellow yarn of her hair had fared no better. Rebecca’s hand rested in Samantha’s lap and her nails were caked with dark earth. When the child peeked around her doll’s head, it was hard to tell the two apart, so filthy were the usually rosy cheeks.

“Rebecca, what has happened to you?”

She giggled, that high, appealing child sound that I had come to love. I tried to look stern and admonishing, but it was so difficult when faced with so much guileless charm. I pressed my napkin to my mouth to hide my smile.

She pretended to pout. “Samantha is all dirty. She made me get dirty, too.”

I nodded solemnly. “I see. And how did she make you get dirty?”

Rebecca pursed her lips into a perfect rosebud shape and placed her little finger against them. “Sshh. It is a secret.”

I tilted my head. “I promise not to tell.”

She shrugged, her gaze wandering around the room, apparently losing interest in the direction of our conversation.

I continued. “Well, whether or not you tell me your secret, you should not be getting yourself and Samantha so dirty. Where was Delphine?”

She shook her head, her blond curls bouncing, a mischievous smile on her lips. “I ran away from her when she was not looking.”

I put down my fork, feeling anxious. I remembered the cottonmouth snake and knew that dangers lurked everywhere for small children. Even under the serene waters of the ocean—or a pond. “Promise me, Rebecca, that you will never do that again. I do not care that you are all dirty, but I do care if you get hurt. That is why you must never run off by yourself. Do you understand?”

She looked at me as if she were about to cry, and I realized that my tone had taken on a sense of urgency. I reached out and took her hand. “I care about you, Rebecca, and I do not want anything to happen to you. Can you understand that? And can you promise me that you won’t run off again?”

With a small sniff, she nodded. I patted her hand, noticing again the dirt-encrusted nails. Gently, I asked, “Are you sure you won’t tell me where you and Samantha have been?”

She looked up at me with those clear blue eyes, and my heart skipped a beat. I fleetingly wondered if I would ever be able to look at this child and not see the one I had lost. “Somebody is buried under the orange trees, and me and Samantha were trying to dig it up.”

Something hit the floor, and it took me a moment to realize that it was the lodestone that had slipped from my hand onto the wood floor and now lay cold and still. I thought I saw a movement by the door and imagined the sound of stealthy footsteps walking down the passageway outside. I hastily moved aside the tray and slid from the bed. When I stepped outside my bedroom door, all was still and quiet in the darkening house.

I walked down the passageway, not caring who might see me in my nightdress. I continued down the corridor toward John’s room but saw no one. I returned and peered down the hallway toward the attic door, but nothing stirred.

I returned to my room to find Rebecca gone. I had not heard her leave, nor had she passed me on the way to her room. When I bent to look for the child under my bed, I noticed that the lodestone was missing from my floor. Looking up, I spotted it on my night table, a diminutive statue full of secrets and hidden meaning, surrounded with a sprinkling kiss of dirt.