by Karen White
“Do you have any idea where she could have gone? Did she leave a note?”
He stood abruptly, the chair rocking in his wake. “No. We have searched the area and questioned our neighbors. Nobody has seen her.” He strode to the door. “As for a note, there were none. At least none for me.”
He opened the door, but I held him back with a question.
“How did you know I was not Elizabeth when you found me on the road in the dark?”
He contemplated me for a moment, then took another swallow of spirits. “Because you showed kindness and concern for Mr. O’Rourke’s welfare.” He paused. “My wife would have shown neither.”
As he closed the door, the draft extinguished the small flame on my candle, throwing me into complete darkness. I lay back on the pillows, listening to his footsteps disappearing down the stairs and wondering at his words.
* * *
Brittle morning sunshine crept through the windows when I next opened my eyes. The sound of jangling horse harnesses and the low murmur of male voices brought me out of bed and to the window.
I looked out at the expanse of front lawn leading toward the alley of oaks and saw several men and horses milling about, tin cups grasped in hands. John McMahon stood in the middle of one group, and my gaze was irrepressibly drawn to him. He struck an imposing figure even from a distance. He stood a good head taller than the next man, his form solid and lean but pulled taut like well-honed leather. As if sensing an unseen audience, he stopped speaking and twisted around, looking directly at my window. A current moved through me like a flash of light, filching the wetness from my mouth. I stepped back, aware that I was not only staring, but also wearing only a thin nightgown. I held tightly to the curtain panel, willing it not to swing and hoping I had not been spotted.
A dress had been laid out for me, and the pitcher filled with clean water. The dress was a soft blue silk, and I felt a guilty spark of pleasure at wearing something other than black cotton. I wondered whether this meant they had not been able to recover my bag from the submerged coach. I could not deny that I would not miss any of its contents overly much.
I picked up the gown, wondering if any scent of my sister might still linger. It was faint but still there, and I closed my eyes, remembering the times of our childhood we had spent in this house. It had been one of the first plantation houses built on the River Road. Despite the threat of the ever-encroaching Mississippi River, it had remained intact since its original construction in 1800.
Our mother had been born here, as had our grandmother. But deaths outweighed the births at Whispering Oaks, and I always wondered what we had done to be so cursed. Yellow fever had taken my mother’s five brothers and then returned for another visit two years later, taking my grandfather when it left. The names on the mausoleum in the small cemetery in the woods behind the house were all that remained of my aunts and uncles. When we were children, Elizabeth told me stories of how the dead would rise from the crypt and come into the house to watch the living. I would lie awake, far into the night, never doubting the veracity of her story.
Grandmother Delacroix had faced the withering sun of her grief, the petals of her strength refusing to shrivel and die. My mother said that I reminded her a lot of her mother, but I had my doubts. Grandmother’s heart had remained soft and loving, a constant in my and Elizabeth’s lives until the day she died. But my own grief had turned my heart into a cold, hard orb in the center of my chest, and I doubted I would ever find the warmth to nourish it back to health.
I laid the dress back on the bed and went to the washstand to clean my face. As I poured the water into the basin, a peculiar sound reached my ears. I held the pitcher tightly, listening closely. It sounded as if a small child were humming a tune—a tune that was hauntingly familiar to me. I knew it yet I did not. Perhaps it was a song from my distant past, long since forgotten.
I walked to the door and opened it a crack. There it was again—that humming. It was definitely a child and it was coming from the L-shaped corridor to my right. I stepped out into the hallway, my bare feet padding gently against the wood floors, and followed the sound. The low murmur of a female voice accompanied the humming, and I followed the sound until I stopped at a closed door at the end of the corridor.
Curious, I pressed my ear against the door and listened. The humming became more frantic now, faster and higher-pitched. I recognized Marguerite’s voice, soft and soothing, as if attempting to comfort a child. A sudden crash came from inside the room, and the humming turned into a loud and piercing scream. I jumped back and found myself pressed against a warm, firm body.
I jerked around and stared into the unreadable eyes of John McMahon.
His voice was gruff. “What are you doing here?”
“I . . . I heard a sound. I wanted to see what it was.”
He released his hold on me. “This was Elizabeth’s room. There is nothing in there that might interest you.” I noticed his use of the past tense, and I took a step backward.
Straightening my shoulders, I attempted to still the shaking in my voice. “But perhaps there is. I am Elizabeth’s sister, and I ask that you allow me to help find her. There might be letters or a journal or something that might give us a clue as to where she might be.” I turned toward the door, my hand on the knob. “And there is somebody in there with Marguerite, and it sounds like a child.”
His hand closed over mine, and again I felt the current ripple from my fingertips and surge through my blood. “Please let go of me.” My voice shook.
His gaze flickered over me and I was made aware once again of my undressed state.
“Go get dressed. I will send Marguerite to help you. Breakfast is waiting for you in the dining room.” His eyes were hard, making it clear that opposition to his wishes was not recommended.
Slowly, his hand slid away and I dropped mine from the doorknob. Being in a somewhat precarious situation, I decided not to press the matter. Not yet. I began to walk away, but turned back when I heard the door open without a knock. Inside I spied Marguerite on her knees, picking up small porcelain fragments, and a blond, wide-eyed child staring up at the man in the threshold. The door quickly shut, blocking the scene from my view.
* * *
I sat alone at the foot of the long dining-room table, mounds of food heaping the polished surface. A young woman with red hair and freckles and a thick Irish accent introduced herself as Mary. She stood at attention by my chair and waited until I was seated before beginning to pile food on my plate.
I wanted to turn away in disgust at the wasteful abundance, remembering my recent months on Saint Simons, relying on the charity of friends and neighbors and whatever I could find in the abandoned gardens. Every waking thought had concerned itself with where my next meal would come from.
Such thoughts had no place in my life anymore. I had to eat to survive, and survive I would. I lifted my plate and allowed Mary to serve me.
As I worked my way through my second helping of grillades and grits, my brother-in-law strode into the dining room. Without a greeting, he moved with a panther’s grace to the server and poured himself a cup of coffee. The small china cup looked out of place in his long, lithe fingers. I saw the power in the muscles and bones in the back of his hand, and pictured them shattering a cup with very little effort. I lifted my gaze to meet his.
“I have sent some of my men to salvage what they can from the coach. As soon as we can get all your things cleaned and dried, we will have you on your way back to Saint Simons. There is nothing you can do here.”
I dropped my fork with a clatter. “I beg to differ.”
Mary, who had been in the process of pouring my coffee, began to shake so badly, the teacup rattled in the saucer. I took them from her with a look I hope passed for understanding. She left the room with small, hurried steps.
He placed his cup back in the saucer with forced control
. His gaze darkened as he regarded me. “You, madam, are in no position to argue with me. You were invited by someone who is not here, making you an uninvited guest. I will be more than happy to see you taken safely home.”
I slid my chair back, heedless of the scraping on the wood floor. I fairly shook with emotion as I faced him. “How dare you, sir? My sister is missing and she may be in grave danger. I cannot—nor will not—return to my home before I know that she is safe.” Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “If I have to sleep on the front lawn, I will not leave.” I swallowed thickly, forcing back the anger, and turned to reason. “I have no one else, sir. I have lost everything. Even my home. I will not easily give over my sister, too.”
Something passed over his face—pain? Regret? It softened his features for a moment, allowing me to see inside him, and what I glimpsed did not frighten me. For that brief moment, I recognized something as cold and barren as my own soul, and I connected with it. I made a move to leave the dining room, but his words made me halt.
His voice was almost kind. “Do not go. Please finish your breakfast. You are too thin.” I drew in my breath as he placed his cup and saucer on the sideboard. “You may stay—but you must keep to yourself as much as possible. I do not want you interfering in the search, nor do I want you making the servants nervous with any questions. If you do have questions, you are to bring them directly to me.”
I lowered my head. “Agreed.” I looked back up at the sound of his retreating footsteps. “Who was that child upstairs with Marguerite?”
He stopped without turning around. As if holding his breath, he said, “That is Rebecca, your niece.” He began walking away from me again toward the front door.
“My niece? Elizabeth’s child?”
His only answer was the slamming of the door.
CHAPTER THREE
For the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon, I was left to my own devices. I wandered through the house, noticing the dust on the dark wood of the furniture and the scuff marks on the floors. The black marble on the fireplaces looked pasty, as if the mantels had not been polished in quite some time. I tried to listen for the voice of the child Rebecca or that of servants, but I heard none inside the house.
The windows were covered in a thin coating of dirt, muting the sunlight that tried to eke its way in through the cracks of closed velvet draperies. In the front parlor I had opened them, only to find myself choking on the dust I had stirred up with the movement of fabric.
Despite my love for my grandmother, I had always hated coming to this house as a young girl. The light here was full of shadows, never quite making it inside the dark corners of the large rooms. It made it seem as if the house had no soul, only lurking secrets.
Elizabeth said it was because our great-grandfather had built the house on the highest piece of land he could find this close to the Mississippi River. Legend said the rise in the land was due to an ancient Tunica Indian burial mound. Some said he knew the legend but built the white-columned mansion anyway, piling any bones they found in a heap and burning them. I had been told by my sister that an Indian woman carrying a crying baby was seen many times walking across the grass at the back of the house, toward the pond, then disappearing into thin air. I peered out the dirty window of the library at the murky water of the pond, wondering if my sister had shared the same fate.
Mary called me in for supper, and I ate in complete silence, noticing again the piles of food. I wondered where it would go when I finished with my portion, and if the master of the house would be joining me. But my meal progressed without interruption, and when I finished, Mary cleared the table.
I wandered out into the foyer, my hands fidgeting against my skirts, frustrated at being idle when so much needed to be done. The front door opened and I turned, surprised to see a man in the doorway.
He was slightly taller than I, with light blond hair and a heavy mustache. His clothes were simple but well tailored, his black boots polished to a high sheen. He clutched a black felt hat to his chest as he slammed the door behind him. When he spotted me, he seemed to sigh with relief, then strode toward me.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice more of a breath than words. As he neared, his steps slowed as he regarded me with curiosity. He stopped, examining me closely, his head tilted to the side.
“Elizabeth?” he said again, this time as a question.
His eyes were dark gray with black specks in them. They were kind eyes, and I warmed to him, in desperate need of a friend. Pale lashes blinked as if to clear my image.
“No,” I said. “I am Catherine deClaire Reed—Elizabeth’s sister.” I stared at him for a moment, wondering if I had seen him before. “Have we met?”
He took a step back. “No, I do not believe so.” He gave me a deep bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Daniel Lewiston, country doctor, gentleman farmer, former Yankee, and friend and confidant of John McMahon.” A deep dimple appeared on his right cheek as he smiled at me. He took my hand and kissed my wrist, his mustache tickling the skin on the back of my hand.
I felt an unfamiliar smile creep to my lips. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Lewiston. But I am afraid that if you came to see Elizabeth or John, neither of them is here at the moment.”
A shadow seemed to cross his face before disappearing as quickly as it had come. “Then perhaps we should use this opportunity to become better acquainted. Shall we, Mrs. Reed?” He offered his arm.
I paused for a moment, looking closely at his friendly face. Needing someone to talk to, I took his arm. “Yes. Thank you, Dr. Lewiston.”
He led us outside to the front porch, where we settled into wooden rockers and eyed each other politely. Leaning toward me with his elbows on his knees, he looked up at me, his gray eyes lighter in the bright daylight.
It felt good to be outside the dreariness of the house. A cerulean sky had replaced the dark clouds and rain of the previous night, bringing with it a hint of temporary coolness, not uncommon for late spring in the Delta. I stared past the lane of oaks toward where the great Mississippi River lay, breathing in deeply to catch the brackishness of it. I had hated the smell as a child, a constant reminder of how much I missed my faraway home.
To the east lay the wide fields of sugar cane and the sugar mill. I remembered my father saying it took a very rich cotton planter to be a very poor sugar planter. I wondered at my brother-in-law’s success. He had known nothing about planting until he had moved here with Elizabeth to take over the running of the former cotton plantation. My father said he had brought with him the luck of the Irish. Years without flood or frost, and protection against enemy invasion, certainly made John’s success appear lucky. But if Elizabeth’s disappearance was any indication, it would seem his luck had finally run out.
I turned toward my visitor. “I assume you have heard about my sister.”
He nodded, a dour expression on his face. “I did. I could not come sooner because I was with Mrs. Brookwood, delivering her twins. I am afraid I might not know any more about the situation than you do, however.”
I rocked steadily in my chair. “Mr. McMahon will tell me nothing. All I know is that my sister disappeared from here five days ago and has not been seen or heard from since. It would appear my brother-in-law has sent out search parties, but no one has found any trace of her.”
Dr. Lewiston looked toward the ancient oaks and spoke almost absently. “That would have been Thursday. She came to my office that day.”
I sat up. “Was she ill?”
He did not look at me. “I am really not at liberty to say. Everything between a patient and her doctor should be kept in strictest confidence.” He turned to me with a smile that evaded his eyes. “I am sure she will tell you all you need to know when she returns.”
I placed my hand on the arm of his chair. “Do you really thin
k she is coming back?”
He smiled reassuringly as he patted my hand. “Yes, I am certain of it. And I am sure there will be a good explanation for all of this. You will see.” He sighed heavily. “She has to. It would kill John to lose her. He loves her so much.”
I wondered at the strange tone of his voice. When he did not say any more, I settled back in my chair and diverted the subject. “You said you were a former Yankee. How did you come to be here?”
His mustache bristled as he smiled. “John and I were boyhood friends in Boston. We have known each other since we were still in the nursery. Shortly after his marriage to Elizabeth, I accepted an invitation for a visit down here, and while at Whispering Oaks, I met my wife. Clara and her father were visiting from their cotton plantation in Saint Francisville and were invited to dinner.” His pale eyes looked down at his hand and the band of gold on his third finger. “I suppose it must have been love at first sight, for we were married within three months and I had become a Southern planter.”
He sent me a rueful grin. “To be honest, I am not much of a planter. Clara’s father had more than thirty thousand acres in cotton and people to run just about all of it. Most of it survived the war, too, largely due to John’s influence. But, as far as I could see, my father-in-law did not really need me. Besides, medicine is my calling, and I continued to practice in my field up until the war. I was conscripted into the Confederate Army and became an army doctor. Which is a good thing, since I could not see myself taking up arms and firing on my own countrymen. I am surprised John still speaks to me.” There was no mirth in his voice.
Dr. Lewiston seemed kind and affable, but his voice was so forlorn, I took pity on him. It had been so long since I had been able to give comfort, and I reached over and placed my hand on top of his.
A dark shadow fell over our hands. My brother-in-law stood towering over us, a cool expression on his face.
I released Dr. Lewiston’s hand and he stood to greet his old friend. “John,” he said, extending his hand. “Your lovely sister-in-law and I were just discussing this business with Elizabeth. I am here to offer whatever help I can.”