CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Why were you hiding these from me?” His voice was low and thick, like a dam holding back the words of accusation I knew he wanted to say.

I opened my eyes and faced him, forcing myself to raise my chin. “I should ask you the same thing. Why was your dirty handkerchief hidden in the back of your drawer? Did you use it to wipe your fingers after burying the letterbox from the attic?”

I waited for him to answer, my fingers clutching the lowboy behind me. To my surprise, he gave a low chuckle, but there was no mirth in it.

“Do you mean to say you are standing here acting like a hunted fox because you found a dirty handkerchief belonging to me?” He threw back his head and laughed. “I am a planter, my dear wife. I get my fingers dirty quite often, which is why I always carry a handkerchief. Feel free to interview the laundress, and she will inform you that, yes, I always have dirty and muddy handkerchiefs that need her attention.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, all traces of laughter gone. “Now you might answer a question of my own. Why is that key on a chain, and why would you hide it from me?”

I felt suddenly foolish and found myself staring at him dumbly, unable to find any words that would defend myself.

He leaned closer to me and I felt his heat. “I thought we had an agreement between us. An agreement to trust. It was even you who said you could not have a marriage without it.”

I nodded, my eyes stinging at his chastisement. He moved his head lower, his lips close to my ear. “I want you, Cat. But I want your trust even more. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice barely audible. He was pressing me against the chest while his hands slowly raised my skirts. I wanted to protest, but I wanted him as much as I wanted his forgiveness for doubting him.

His moist lips moved to my neck as his fingers deftly raised my chemise. “I want you . . . now,” he whispered against my throat.

I was too aroused to tell him to stop, too enflamed by his passion to even want him to, but something in the back of my head told me that propriety should make me ashamed and disdainful of what we were about to do.

Instead, I allowed him to lift me on top of the low chest. “Cat,” he whispered into my ear, and he moved his hands to my hips and slid me closer. I moaned into his mouth, and as he whispered my name again, time seemed to stop. He pressed me backward until I felt the wall behind me, my hair tumbling about my shoulders. I should have been ashamed, but all I could think of was my wanting of this man and his desire for me, and I pulled him closer.

I felt him shudder at the same time as my passion consumed me, leaving me trembling as I fell back down to earth. We held each other for a long moment, he with his lips on my hair and my fingers clutching his shirt. Finally, he lifted me off the chest and my legs slid down to the ground. He didn’t let go of me, and I was grateful for his support because I was sure my legs would have otherwise buckled.

He looked honestly chagrined as he studied my face. “I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. Gently, he pulled me toward him, kissing me softly on my forehead. “I am sorry,” he said again. “I did not mean for that to happen. But this wanting I have for you . . .”

I felt the sting of tears in my eyes—but they were not tears of shame. The fire we had shared was new to me, new and liberating, and he had made me feel wanted again. I knew, once I was alone again, I would be shocked at our behavior, but now I was simply grateful. He had made me a woman to be desired, not pitied, scorned, or accused. Robert’s suicide had done all those things to me, had, indeed, deadened all emotions in me. John made me feel alive again, allowed me to feel passion and heat, to see colors where I had once only seen black and white.

He saw my tears and looked stricken. With the pads of his thumbs he gently wiped them away. “Forgive me, Cat.”

I grabbed his wrists, stilling his hands. “There is nothing to forgive.” I kissed his palm, then cradled my face in his hand.

He placed his lips on the hair at my temple, now damp from the sweat of our lovemaking. “I will send Marguerite to help you dress.”

Drawing back, he adjusted his clothing, then left the room. As I watched the door close, I realized with a start that he had never actually denied burying the box. He had certainly implied it by giving an explanation as to how a dirty handkerchief would come to be shoved in the back of his drawer, but that was not a claim to innocence. I wanted to trust him, but I knew asking him would never allay my suspicions. I would need to discover the truth on my own before I could lay to rest all of my doubts.

I stooped to pick up the key, intent now on finding the contents of the box and why somebody was so determined that I not discover it.

As I moved toward the door, it opened and Marguerite came in, her strange eyes regarding me dispassionately. “I’ve ordered bathwater to be sent up.”

“Thank you, Marguerite.”

As she moved to the armoire to lay out my dinner gown, I slid the key into a drawer, then turned around and asked for her assistance with unbuttoning the back of my traveling costume. When she didn’t approach, I faced her. “Is there something the matter?”

Her face remained impassive, but her eyes were alive with a hidden light. “I brought you a message from Dr. Lewiston. He asked me to tell you to keep it private and away from Mr. McMahon.”

I looked at her, startled. “For me? Are you quite sure?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes, ma’am. I am used to delivering messages for Dr. Lewiston.”

“Thank you, Marguerite,” I said, wondering at her implication, but knowing I wouldn’t ask her. She was playing a game with me, I knew, except I refused to take a turn. I took the sealed note and left it unopened on my dressing table, waiting to open it in private. I was baffled by Daniel’s actions, but from what I knew of the doctor, I felt confident that he would have a sound explanation.

I bathed and dressed for dinner, waiting until Marguerite left until I opened the note. It had tested the limits of my patience to wait so long, and I ripped it with a savage tear and took the note from the envelope. It read, I am concerned for your welfare and would like to speak to you in private. I will be in the grotto tomorrow at two thirty. It was signed simply DL.

Thoughtfully, I folded the note, then placed it under a tray in my jewelry box. Sliding open my drawer, I spotted the key I had hidden earlier and took it out. Ascertaining that I still had a few minutes before supper, I walked down the hallway to my old room and pushed open the door.

The blinds had been left down and no candle had been lit. Still, I was familiar enough with my surroundings to be able to feel my way to the bed and kneel beside it. As my fingers brushed the hard wood of the box, I heard John calling my name from downstairs. I froze, then stood quickly, hiding the key under the mattress. Confident that no one would be entering the room, I left as quietly as I had come in, walking slowly down the stairs, my calm demeanor belying the fluttering of my heart.

Supper was a peaceful affair, with Rebecca chatting excitedly the entire time about her new presents and about everything she had done while we were gone. I watched her animated face, and for a moment I saw my Jamie, telling me about the size of a fish he had caught or how fast he had gone on his pony. But the image faded quickly, leaving me with only the vision of this beautiful little girl, happily sharing with her parents the precious things of her life.

She still called me Aunt Cat, and I did not ask her to change it. It had not been so long since she had called Elizabeth Mama, and I had no intention of erasing that. If she chose, in future, to call me by another name, I would welcome it, but it would have to be in her own time.

After we ate, Delphine came to take Rebecca to bed, and John and I retired to the parlor. I played the piano for him, and he stood behind me, not touching but near enough that I could feel his heat. I smelled brandy mixed with his male scent, and I found the combination to be near intoxicating. I missed a note but continued playing. I had chosen a Chopin nocturne, its melody haunting, each key pressed a sensual ode to the evocative music.

He touched the pearls about my throat, then bent to kiss my exposed shoulder. My fingers collapsed on the keyboard, unable to continue. I turned on the bench and looked up at my husband, and I knew the desire in his eyes mirrored my own.

Without speaking, I rose from the piano and allowed him to escort me up the stairs. His hand never left my arm, and I burned from his touch. When the door closed to our bedroom, it was as if the afternoon’s events had inspired us both to a new height of passion. My need for him was as fierce as his need for me, and we were still partially dressed when he pressed me on the bed. It was not until after we were both completely sated that he began to make love to me slowly, taking off my remaining clothes bit by bit and loving my body with his hands and mouth until I shouted out with the pleasure of it.

We lay in each other’s arms long after the lamps had been turned down and we could no longer hear the stirrings of the servants. The room was in near darkness, and I rested with my back pressed up to John, staring out at my new surroundings. Moonlight lent an eerie cast to the various pieces of furniture, and, like a glaring reproof, illuminated the large empty space on the wall where Elizabeth’s portrait had once hung.

I waited until his breathing slowed to a deep and heavy pace before I stealthily slipped from the bed and put on my nightdress. I paused for a moment to stare down at my sleeping husband, feeling an unfamiliar tenderness. At that moment, I thought of my actions as a betrayal, but I quickly dismissed them. This was simply to ease my mind and to help me pack away my doubts forever.

Tiptoeing across the room, I let myself out and scurried down the quiet corridor and entered my old bedroom. Finding my way to the window, I opened the blinds, letting in the soft glow from the moon. In a yellow shaft of light I slid the box out from under the bed and sat on the floor next to it to avoid getting dirt on my nightgown. Fumbling my way through the bedspread, I found the key and, with no little effort in the murky light, fit it into the keyhole.

With my breath held, I felt the key slide into place and the latch click as I turned it. I waited for a brief moment for the pounding of my heart to settle before slowly opening the lid.

I blinked twice, wondering if the moonlight was playing tricks on my eyesight, but was rewarded with the same vision each time: an empty box, just the dusty brown wood staring blankly up at me.

I leaned back against the bed, disappointment flooding me. I did not know what I had hoped to find—evidence of Elizabeth’s descent into depression and desperation and of the thing she feared enough to write to me? Or perhaps evidence of John’s innocence? I no longer knew which was more important to me; all I knew was that I had nothing now but John’s words and my own suspicions of Elizabeth’s true nature.

I placed the key inside the box, the chain making a hollow clatter, before closing the lid and replacing it under the bed. With a heavy heart, I stood and went back to my own room, moving quietly so as not to awaken John.

I slid back into bed, trying not to touch him, then turned to watch his face. His breathing remained slow and steady as I studied his dark shape. He was still an enigma to me, his strange allure all-consuming. I told myself I trusted him, and ignored the small doubts I harbored deep in the recesses of my mind. Who buried the letterbox and why? And where are the letters?

I ignored the questions pressing into my brain and continued to watch my husband. His heavy breathing continued, a sign of deep sleep. Slowly, I lifted my hand and touched his cheek, the heavy stubble from his beard rough on my fingers. I traced the line of his jaw lightly with my finger, coming to rest on the sensual curve of his lips. John was usually so aloof and stoic in public that those lips seemed almost incongruous on his stern face. I doubted I was the only woman who had known the passion behind the man, and his mouth was certainly a hint of his true nature. I moved forward to press my lips against his and felt his hand grasp my wrist.

“Where have you been?”

I tried to pull my hand away, embarrassed not only that I had opened the letterbox in secret, but that he had caught me touching him when I thought he was asleep.

“I wanted to check on Rebecca. She kicks the covers off frequently and I did not want her to catch a chill.” The lie came easily, although I was not quite sure why I had not told him the truth. I again smelled the odor of fresh dirt in my memory, and a small doubt that had been hidden deep inside me wriggled free.

He let go of my wrist, his fingers sliding under the sleeves of my nightdress. Goose bumps rippled up my arms. He propped himself up on an elbow. “You seem to have caught a chill yourself. Let me warm you.” He kissed me, his hard body moving over mine, and I soon forgot all about doubts and trust and the stale smell of loose dirt.

*   *   *

I spent most of the following morning making a few steps forward in organizing the household. I interviewed the servants to discern what their assigned duties were, reassigning them where responsibilities overlapped. I devised a cleaning schedule, including a long-overdue spring cleaning that would involve taking down all the drapes and beating them outside. I wondered how the old house would react to having the drapes down and all the sunlight creeping inside, trickling into its dark corners.

The hall clock chimed twice, alerting me to the time. Daniel’s note had said two thirty, and I did not want to be late. His secrecy seemed odd to me, but I was sure he would explain it once we met. I knew that his objective was to speak to me without John being present, so I took pains to avoid being seen as I left the house and skirted the pond before heading out across the back lawn to the grotto.

I had arrived first and sat upon the bench to wait for him. As I waited, I thought I heard rustling in the bushes behind me and jumped up, remembering the cottonmouth. But I saw nothing, and settled back down to wait.

I did not wait long before Daniel appeared on the grotto path, his friendly smile warming me. I hoped that I would soon be able to claim Clara as a close friend. Because of my fondness for her husband, I wanted to be equally comfortable with both.

He kissed my hand as he had done on the last occasion when we had met at the grotto. “You are a picture of loveliness, Catherine. Marriage suites you.” He tilted his head, an odd look on his face. “I remember many times seeing Elizabeth sitting here just like that. The resemblance is uncanny, you know.”

A shadow passed over his face, drawing away the warmth of his smile. He sat down next to me and I turned to him. “You miss her a great deal.”

Nodding, he looked away toward the thick greenery blocking our view of the house. “Yes. We were good friends. . . .” His voice trailed away and he did not say anything else.

I touched his shoulder, feeling his sadness. “Is that why you brought me here today—to talk about Elizabeth?”

He faced me, his clear gray eyes dimming. “Not exactly. I wanted to talk about you.” His lips turned up in a slight smile. “And please forgive my secrecy. I love John like a brother, but he is rather possessive when it comes to you. I wanted to speak to you in private and I could think of no other way.” He pressed my hand, then let it go. “Thank you.”

Daniel stood, as if preparing for a speech. “I have known John for a long time, and I know him to be a good man.” Bracing himself with one hand against a tree, he leveled me with his gaze. “There might be . . . aspects of his personality that you are not aware of, but perhaps should be.” He took a deep breath. “John has a fierce temper—I have certainly witnessed it myself growing up with him in Boston. But here, well, you must know how servants talk, and there were stories brought to us about the arguments he and Elizabeth would have.”

I felt my blood cool in my veins. “Did he ever . . . harm her?”

Daniel shook his head. “No—not that I ever heard. And Elizabeth never mentioned it, either.” His eyes clouded. “But she was afraid of him—she told me that much.” He began to pace, his boots crunching the dead leaves and pine straw underfoot. “Elizabeth was not as strong as you, Catherine. She was emotionally . . . vulnerable. She craved love and attention, and when she did not get it from John, she sought it elsewhere.”

Again, I imagined I heard a soft crunching of ground cover from behind me, but when Daniel showed no sign of noticing, I dismissed it. Lots of small animals lived in the pine forests that dotted West Feliciana Parish, and even though I would have avoided the dark and shadowed ones surrounded Whispering Oaks, the deer and raccoons would not.

I shifted uncomfortably on the bench, feeling myself flush at the mention of Elizabeth’s infidelities. Daniel came and sat down next to me again and took my hand, holding it in his warm palms. “I am sorry to be indelicate, but I thought you should know. Even if it is only to understand why John would be so possessive of you.” He smiled again, his eyes brightening. “It is so amazing how much you resemble her. But one only has to be in your presence for a few minutes to know that the similarities end with your beautiful face.”

I pulled my hand from his and pretended to rearrange my skirts as I slid to the edge of the bench. He seemed to notice and his demeanor sobered considerably.

“Catherine, I am sorry. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to warn you.”

“Warn me? About my own husband?”

“Yes, and to offer you refuge. I know I have said this before, but if there is ever a time that you need to seek sanctuary, please know that you have a place at Belle Meade. I will welcome you there without questions.”

I noted his omission of Clara’s name. “I thank you for your concern, Daniel, but I can assure you that I am not my sister and I have no intention of raising my husband’s ire. And, as you mentioned, I am stronger than she was. I can handle his temper without fleeing to the nearest neighbor.”

He studied me carefully for a moment before speaking. “You defend him so readily.”

“He is my husband.”

Daniel dropped his head and stared at his hands. His fingers were long and slender, almost delicate. They were the hands of a doctor, unused to physical labor. So unlike John’s, which were strong and powerful, hiding their remarkable tenderness. “And he was Elizabeth’s husband, too, and now she is dead.”

I stood, anger flooding me. “What are you implying, Daniel?”

He stood, too. “I am not making any accusations, but in Boston I witnessed John kill a man when thoroughly provoked. I could not say he would not do it again.”

“It was in self-defense!”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes, it was. But if John had left the man alone instead of inciting his anger, the man would still be alive.”

I shook my head. “But that is in the past and has nothing to do with Elizabeth or me.”

I thought of the baby Elizabeth carried and John’s knowledge that it was not his, and could only imagine his anger. With a steady gaze, I said, “You were her doctor and knew of the baby she carried. Did she tell you the identity of the child’s father?”

His face blanched and he stared at me for a moment without speaking.

“I am sorry,” I said. “That was rather rash of me. Then I assume you did not know?”

“Yes, of course I did. I was her doctor, and everything she told me was held in confidence. I just did not expect you to know.”

“John told me—before we were married. I suppose it was his way of letting me know that the Elizabeth I had known was not the same Elizabeth she had become.”

“I am sorry. It must have been a great shock for you.”

“Yes, it was. But I would rather know the truth.”

He turned away for a moment, studying the small trickle of water under the dilapidated bridge. “So, does John know the identity of the child’s father?”

“He said she had many lovers and that it would be difficult to name just one.” I took a deep breath. “We have put Elizabeth to rest. There is no need to continue delving into a past that no longer matters.”

He smiled again. “Yes. I am sure you are right. I just want you—and John—to be happy.” He came toward me and placed both hands on my shoulders. “And you certainly are a picture of happiness. I am glad. You both deserve contentment in your lives.”

I warmed to him. “Thank you, Daniel. We are lucky to have such a friend as you. And please do not worry about me. I appreciate your concern, but I am not afraid of my husband, and there is no cause for you to worry. Remember, I am not my sister.”

He dropped his hands from my shoulders, his face sobering. “No, Catherine, you certainly are not.” He studied me for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. “I do not even know if I should tell you this, but I think it would be important to you. As much as Elizabeth’s behavior is reprehensible to us both, there was a reason for it.” He continued to study me, making me shift uncomfortably. “Never having met you, I did not understand it at the time, but now I do. She was extremely envious of you.”

I stepped back. “Of me? You must be mistaken.”

Daniel shook his head. “Oh no. She all but admitted it to me. She envied your happiness—or should I say your ability to be happy. You did not need material things to be content. She said a blue sky or a smile from your father would set you adrift on a sea of contentment, as she put it.” His face darkened. “But it was never that easy for her. She needed things—not just material things, but the undiluted attention of everyone she met. I do not think it was easy for her growing up in your household and having to divide your father’s affections.”

I shook my head. “I still cannot believe it. Elizabeth had everything. . . .”

“Everything but happiness. It hurt her deeply that that which she sought so vainly came so easily to you.”

“I never knew. . . .”

His voice was gentle. “But now you do. It certainly does not excuse her behavior, but perhaps it will help you to understand it.”

I nodded and thanked him, then allowed him to escort me to the edge of the grotto. Taking my hand from his elbow, he faced me. “I think it best that we not be seen together. I have hidden my horse over by the levee and I can walk through the forest to get to her.”

As he was saying goodbye, I happened to look toward the lane of oaks and spotted a man sitting on a horse. The man’s mount stomped the ground, then stilled. Squinting my eyes, I realized the man was looking in our direction. There was something familiar about him, and I pointed him out to Daniel.

Daniel stepped back into the shadow of the grotto while staring hard at the man on horseback. After a moment, he said with distaste, “It is Philip Herndon. If he knows what is good for him, he will get off of John’s property before he is spotted.”

“I will go see what he wants.”

Daniel stilled me with a hand on my arm. “No, Catherine. That could only fuel John’s anger. I will go get my horse and approach the lane as if I am just getting here for a visit. I will see what he wants and get him to leave.”

I nodded, seeing reason in his suggestion. “All right. Just tell me later what he is up to.”

He bent to kiss my hand. “I will be sure to do that. Goodbye, Catherine. Take care of yourself, and I will see you soon.”

Feeling fortunate to have found such a good friend so quickly, I turned and began walking back toward the house, my skirts brushing the brittle summer grass. My good spirits dimmed as I approached the looming white structure, the windows like foreboding eyes warning me away. But I had no intention of fleeing. Instead my determination to change the house deepened, and I marched toward the front porch with confident steps.

John met me in the foyer, a look of concern on his face. “Where have you been? I have been waiting for you. I have something to show you.”

“I went for a walk,” I said, hating my half lie. I pushed aside my guilt, justifying it by assuring myself that when our marriage was not so new it would be strong enough to handle unpleasantness. But for now, I was reveling in our honeymoon period, and I did not want to cast any shadows on it.

I went to him and reached for his hands. He immediately pulled me into an embrace, and I was lost in his touch completely.

“You are overheated. Perhaps you should go upstairs and change first.”

I looked into his face and saw his mocking smile. “John,” I said, pretending to be shocked. “It is the middle of the afternoon.”

“Mrs. McMahon, I am insulted that you could think I would be such a cad as to be suggesting anything other than changing your clothes.” He bent to kiss my ear. “Of course, what I want to show you is upstairs in the bedroom. . . .” His voice was smothered as he rained kisses down my neck, my bones melting in his hands.

Footsteps in the back passage made him straighten in time to see Marguerite approaching with two freshly polished candelabra in her hands for the dining-room table. She sent me a knowing look, and I flushed. I was not sure if the look was intended to remind me that she knew of the note from Daniel, or if she knew what John and I had been discussing.

I headed up the stairs, John following close behind. When we reached the bedroom, he closed the door behind him, then locked it.

“John—”

He held his finger to his lips. “Sshh. Let me show you your surprise now.”

He went to a door on the far wall that had led to a small sitting room in my grandmother’s day. I had not yet been inside, assuming it to be unused. He opened the door and indicated that I should enter.

I held my breath as I walked in, my face flushing with pleasure. The windows had been stripped of their heavy drapes, leaving them bare for the sunshine to pour in through slatted blinds. A large chest stood open on the opposing wall, its shelves displaying my paints and brushes. In the middle of the room were two easels, each holding a blank canvas.

John came to stand behind me, his hands on my arms. “I had Mr. O’Rourke and Marguerite fix this room for you while we were in New Orleans. I put the paints and brushes in myself today, seeing as how they were still in a box on the floor of the bedroom.”

I could not speak, afraid that I would burst out crying if I did. Instead I walked toward the window and raised the blind. The view was of the long stand of pines that hid the grotto from sight. I knew if I turned to look out of the right corner of the window, I would see the pond, its dark, placid waters still a place I did not willingly visit.

I turned to John, wrapping my arms around his neck, happiness flooding my spirit. “This is the most precious gift anyone has ever given me. How can I ever thank you?”

He reached for me, his powerful hands caressing my back. “Let me show you.”

I felt his fingers beginning to undo the buttons on the back of my dress and I pressed myself against him. Unbidden came Daniel’s words to me about John’s temper and his penchant for violence.

As John’s hands found my bare skin, Daniel’s words faded into nothingness, lost as I was in my husband’s gentle touch, thoughts of his anger easily forgotten.