by Karen White
I nodded, my doubts satisfied. I glanced down at the scarlet camellias, their showy blooms staring out from among the glossy green leaves and the climbing weeds. Taking pity on the vain flowers, I knelt down and began plucking as many as I could fit in my hand. The weeds would soon choke out their beauty, withering their buds on the vines. I brought the cluster close to my face and closed my eyes, feeling the velvet softness of the flowers against my chin. These blossoms were so much like my dead sister: brash and vibrant, yet so vulnerable to the weeds of vanity and the fruitless search for happiness that had finally choked out her life. For a moment, I felt only pity for her instead of the anger that had resided in my heart since her death—my anger at her desperate and ultimately selfish act of leaving me completely and utterly alone.
A gentle touch on my arm made me open my eyes, and I saw Daniel’s compassionate ones staring into mine.
“Are you well?”
I nodded, then buried my face in the blooms again until I felt Elizabeth’s memory drift back into the dark recesses of my mind, where they belonged. “Let us go find Rebecca. We need to get back.”
We found her crouched in front of a thin rivulet, the water valiantly struggling over mud and rocks, creating a small, dripping waterfall that had entranced the little girl. It lay in the middle of an unexpectedly large clearing. I noticed with delight that the old camellias had found their way into this place and were pushing their heads toward the daylight sky.
Rebecca squealed in delight as Daniel swung her up on his back. I noticed the pockets of her pinafore bulged and I laughed. “Did you find many treasures, sweetheart?”
She nodded exuberantly. “Oh yes. No eggs today, but lots of pretty things.”
I smiled at her childish enthusiasm. “That is wonderful. You will have to show me everything when we get home.”
Daniel added, “We need to leave now, before people begin to worry.”
I looked at him with alarm, knowing to whom he was referring. “Yes, let us leave. I want to paint Rebecca in this light, and I probably have less than an hour before it changes.”
Following them down the dirt trail, I glanced at the camellias clutched in my hands, their stems sticking to my sweaty palms. They no longer seemed beautiful to me but, rather, were sad reminders of Elizabeth’s life and untimely death. They were also one more thing to explain to John, and I had no desire to travel that path.
Slowly, I opened my palm and let the flowers fall from my hand, scattering the bright red petals on the dirt path like spilled blood.
* * *
Daniel escorted us as far as the lane of trees leading up to Whispering Oaks. As we waved goodbye and watched him ride off for home, I again heard the keening cry of a baby. My skin chilled as if a breath had been brushed against the back of my neck.
Rebecca touched my arm, her eyes wide, and then I remembered the glass bottles. Turning in my seat, I spied Marguerite, half-hidden behind a tree trunk, a roll of twine and empty bottles at her feet. A movement from a low branch caught my attention, and I looked up to see Delphine clinging to a branch, a newly tied bottle dangling below her.
Marguerite looked at me for a moment, then turned her head in the direction in which the doctor had ridden. When our eyes met again, hers were all-knowing. Quickly, she bowed her head. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
“Good afternoon, Marguerite.” I looked past her toward the bottles hanging in the tree and swaying in the wind, their ghostly cry spiraling among the gnarled oaks. “Does Mr. McMahon approve of having these here?”
“I do not know. I have never asked him.”
“Nor did you ask me, and I do not approve. The sound frightens Rebecca.” I looked up at Delphine so she would understand I was speaking to her, too. “I want all of these removed right now, and I do not want to see them again.”
Marguerite stared at me in silence for a long moment before nodding and saying, “Yes, ma’am.”
Not wanting further discussion, I picked up the reins and headed toward the house. In the short time since we had left the gazebo, heavier clouds had moved in, obscuring the light and changing my plans for painting Rebecca. I was not completely disappointed. I had been battling fatigue for more than a week, and I was happy for the excuse to lie down when Rebecca napped.
After a quick midday meal, eaten without John, who had remained at the mill office, I slowly climbed the stairs and put Rebecca to bed, barely able to keep my eyes open. When I reached my room, I collapsed on the bed, not taking the time to remove my clothes, and quickly fell into oblivious sleep.
When I awoke, John sat on the foot of the bed, staring at me with a contemplative look. My smile was not returned, and he morosely moved off the bed and went to the window, staring out at the pond.
Unease bled through my body, and I wondered if Marguerite had told him of my being with Daniel. I sat up, willing to do battle and defend my freedom and innocence. “What is wrong?”
He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “While you were out with Rebecca, Philip Herndon came to call.”
My unease scattered into relief. “What did he want?”
He turned to face me. “I do not know. It was you he wanted to see.”
“After our confrontation in New Orleans, I truly have no desire to ever speak to the man again.”
Without comment, John faced the window again. “He gave me the same threats he has given me before, and I told him I would shoot him if I ever found him on my property again. Not that I think I would. The man is not mentally stable, I am afraid, and I need to speak with his parents about seeking treatment for him.”
I slid off the bed to stand near him. “Surely not, John. I know you do not want to hear this, but he . . . cared for Elizabeth very much. He is grieving.” I touched his sleeve, willing him to look in my eyes. “Let someone grieve for her as she deserved.”
He touched my face with a gentle caress. “You are too kind and loving to people who are not deserving of it.”
“She was my sister, John. That will never change.”
He flinched slightly, and I was about to ask him why when the door was flung open. Rebecca stood in the doorway, her underclothing wrinkled from her nap and her unbound hair flying in all directions. She wore a wide smile, given only to those she loved the most, and in her chubby hands clutched two bright red clusters of camellias.
My heart skidded when I spied them. I remembered her bulging pockets and, knowing her love for flowers, it would have been inevitable that she would have wanted some to bring home with her.
John walked to her and knelt by her side. “These are lovely, Rebecca. Who are they for?”
“For both of you,” she said with glee, thrusting out her hand to John.
I stayed where I was, paralyzed, a sick feeling of nausea burning my stomach.
He took them from her and gave her a hug and kiss. “And where did you find such beautiful flowers?”
“Dr. Lewiston took me and Mama to our secret place, where these pretty flowers grow. I knew you would like them, so I picked a lot.”
An abrupt stillness seemed to fall on John, and Rebecca sensed it, too.
“What is wrong, Papa? Do you not like them?”
He had to clear his throat before getting the words out. “Yes, of course. Now, you go find Delphine to help you dress. I need to speak to your mama.”
She gave him a loud kiss on the cheek before skipping out of the room, taking all the warmth with her.
Slowly, John stood and faced me. “Well?”
I tried to push back the wave of nausea and squared my shoulders. “Well, what? I took Rebecca for a ride, and we ran into Daniel quite by accident. He showed us to the most lovely spot, and we chatted for a while before returning.”
His eyes flickered but he remained silent.
“For God’s sake, John! Daniel is your best friend, and I am
your wife. Do you really think for one second that either one of us would ever betray you? I pity you if you cannot find it in your heart to trust those of us who love you best. And Rebecca was with us. Do you doubt my love for your child so much that you think I could be so despicable as to place her in that sort of situation? Maybe Philip Herndon is not the only one who is mentally unhinged. Perhaps you both should seek treatment.”
He placed his fingers under my jaw, his hand trembling from trying to control his emotions, and brought my face up to meet his. His words were harsh. “I can believe the worst of people for a reason. Remember that, my dear wife.”
His eyes flashed as they bored into mine for a long moment before he dropped his hand. With great deliberation, he raised his other hand and closed it tightly, crushing the fragile blooms inside, then letting them drift to the floor.
I trembled from hurt and nausea and his coldness, and was glad when he left the room without another word. I barely made it to the washstand before I vomited, taking the last of my energy. Collapsing to the floor, I sat there for a long time, feeling anger, hurt, and grief wash over me in continual succession. When numbness finally seeped into my heart and brain, I stood and cleansed my face. As I slowly dried myself, I spotted the lodestone sitting on my dressing table amid my brushes and jars of perfume.
Picking it up, I rolled it in my palms, noticing how my touch did not warm it. Instead it remained a frigid lump in my hand, as if my blood had chilled to such a degree that there was no more warmth to give.
Still clutching the stone, I slipped a pair of earbobs into my pocket, then left the room, intent on finding Rose. I was too exhausted to contemplate my next course of action, but perhaps she could help me find my way.
I found her alone in the kitchen, and she looked up as if she were expecting me. The black pot over the stove simmered, creating that oddly pungent odor I remembered from before. She greeted me, then motioned for me to sit while she stirred the pot, whisking the steam toward her face and breathing in deeply. Reaching into a glass jar on a high shelf, she pinched a crimson-colored powder and threw it into the pot, making it hiss and bubble.
Dipping the ladle into the pot, she poured the contents into two tin cups, then handed one to me. I turned away from the bitter brew, the odor making my stomach twist. Looking up, I caught Rose watching me closely, her eyes wide and knowing.
She sat down at the stained wooden table in the same seat she had used before and closed her eyes, the smoke from her cup rising in front of her and distorting her face like a reflection in old glass.
When she spoke, her deeply accented voice had once again transformed itself, its grainy thickness calling to mind moist river silt, carrying fertile words heavy with meaning. “Does your husband know you secret?”
I raised an eyebrow, my breath held. Until this moment, I had not even ventured to hope, but now joy leapt inside me and I knew. “No. I was not sure. . . .”
She waved her hand, her eyes tightly shut in her dark, wrinkled face. “You be giving you husband a son.” A corner of her mouth tilted up at a vision unseen by me. “That chile will be dark like his father, so Mr. McMahon don’ need to wonder no more about your true feelings for him.”
I flinched as her eyes flickered open and she stared at me, unseeing. “But there be many bridges to cross afore you can find that happiness you be searchin’ for.” She placed her elbows on the table and leaned over to me. “You and that girl chile be in terrible danger. She need you love and protection now, and you need it more than her. But you needs to know who you friends be and who not you friend.”
Her hand crept across the table like a large, dark spider. She grabbed my hand, prying open the fingers. She touched the lodestone, and it seemed to burn in my hand. I let it roll off my palm, and she replaced it quickly. “You carry always. You need it for protection now. And you needs to find out who you friends be.”
The cloudiness in her eyes passed and she gave me a clear gaze. “There be things you don’ know, that people wants to keep hidden. But you needs to know these things so you can understand the true nature of those closest to you.” She patted my hand. “You be hurt, but you soul mate—he be the one to get you through ’dis dark time.”
I cleared my throat. “You mentioned before two men I share my life with, and one who betrays me. Is there any more you can tell me?”
She sat up and wrapped her fingers around her mug. “No. I only see what I suppose to see. It be up to you to figure out what I means.”
Nodding, I stood, clutching the edge of the table for support. Leaning heavily on it, I thanked her and handed her the pair of earbobs Robert had given me to show my appreciation. Turning to leave, I felt a touch on my sleeve.
Rose’s eyes seemed to flicker in the dimness of the kitchen. “You watch Marguerite. Her power be much stronger than mine. And don’ you forgets to carry that lodestone.” Her fingers tightened over my hand with the lodestone and squeezed tightly. “You be needin’ it now more than ever.”
I thanked her again and left, the joy of my impending motherhood mixed inexorably with Rose’s dour warnings. Needing fresh air, I walked around the house, avoiding the pond, toward the front. As I passed the side, I looked up, a movement in a window capturing my attention. I realized the window belonged to Elizabeth’s old room, and there was no reason for anybody to be in there. Watching closely, I saw an almost imperceptible swing of the blinds, as if somebody were gently replacing them against the window.
I raced around to the front of the house and took the steps two at a time until I reached Elizabeth’s room. The door was shut and I flung it open, waiting for the bang as it hit the wall.
The room lay still and empty, just as Elizabeth had left it, her hairbrush and bottles now gathering dust on her dressing table. I blinked my eyes, noticing something dark and round hovering behind a wooden jewel box. Walking closer, my breath caught. I stared at the object for a long time before finding the nerve to pick it up. Lifting it toward the light creeping in from the blinds, I examined it closely. It appeared to be a short, thick, and twisted root of some kind, and it emitted an acrid odor, as if it had been soaked in some sort of oil. The object was dark and slick, the roots intertwined on one another and oddly resembling an old and withered face.
Staring at it, I nearly dropped it. Carefully laced in between the sinews of the root was a thin gold chain—my chain that I had left in the letterbox under my old bed, the key to the empty box hanging from the middle.
My hand shook as I held the gris-gris away from me. I had no doubt who had left it, and it was time to face my husband and his demons and hopefully put to rest some of my own.
Squaring my shoulders, I left the room, closing the door firmly on the emptiness inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I had heard John come in and I knew he was somewhere in the house. After searching the library and his study, I paused in the foyer, listening to distant voices. Many of the windows had been raised to let the cool air cleanse the house, and I realized that the voices were being carried in from outside.
Walking to the back door, I quietly opened it, then stopped. Sitting on the top step was John, his daughter cradled in his lap while he read to her from a book. Her fingers curled on his shirt collar and her head nestled comfortably in the crook of his arm. She laughed at something he read, and when he looked at her, my knees weakened. It was a look so open, so warm, and so full of love that I knew then why I had to be strong and fight whatever forces were pulling me away from him and this place of secrets. His ability to love this child so completely, thus showing his true heart, had stolen my own heart. I loved him, I realized, so fully and utterly it took my breath away. At the same time it instilled a fear so terrorizing, I was afraid to even acknowledge it. For I had learned that to love so fiercely could bring loss and grief just as fierce.
Placing my hand over my still-smooth abdomen, I took a deep breat
h. For the sake of not only Rebecca, but also for the child I knew grew inside, I could not give up. The hope of a future with John and our growing family consumed me, giving me something to fight for—something I had not had since Jamie’s death.
I tucked the gris-gris in among the folds of my dress, unsure as to how to proceed. If John were still willing to keep Marguerite at Whispering Oaks even with her threat to Rebecca, the power she held over him had to be something so awful that I could not even consider it.
John turned his head and saw me, and my heart lurched. Had I imagined that he looked at me with the same glow in his eyes with which he had regarded Rebecca? If only I could erase all the blackness and doubt that lingered between us—thin and wispy like smoke, but as impenetrable as a brick wall.
I joined them on the step, sitting close to John. Rebecca reached with her free hand to hold mine, and we listened to John’s deep voice as he finished the story. By the time he had finished, Rebecca had fallen sound asleep.
Slowly, John rose, his daughter gathered in his arms, and I followed him up the stairs to Rebecca’s room. He laid her on her bed, and I gently covered her with a blanket. We stood there for a long moment, watching her sleep, before leaving.
I waited for him to close the door behind him before speaking. “John.”
He looked at me with shadowed eyes, the emotion I had seen on the porch hidden away from my view. Had I imagined what I had seen? Could I truly expect to fight for us and our family if he were not willing to stand by my side and fight with me? I almost blurted out my news then, but something made me hesitate. Perhaps it was the knowledge that if he knew of the baby, I would be tied to him forever, living in this prison of distrust and jealousy.
Silently, I held up the root, the gold chain winking in the light from the window.
He sucked in his breath. “Where did you find that?”
“In Elizabeth’s room. I know it came from Marguerite, and you and I both know what it is. It is bad gris-gris. And whether or not we believe in it, it is proof that she means us harm in some way. What have I done to her to make her hate me so?”