by Fine, Clara
Beneath the Black Moon
By Clara Fine
Copyright © 2013 Clara Fine
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
June 28, 1854
Mississippi
“There's a man at the barbecue who's asking questions.” Sunlight streamed in the open kitchen window and made Caro's black skin gleam like oil as a drop of sweat ran down her neck.
In the doorway, Cam’s father’s hound was deep in a dream. He whimpered and his back paws scratched against the kitchen door.
“Who?” Cam’s grandmother asked, her rocking chair creaking as she sewed by the window. Her needle flashed in the light, and her fingers moved with a deftness and speed that was uncanny given her age.
“One of those Anderson brothers. I don’t know which one.”
Just hearing the name mentioned made Cam uncomfortable. The dog whimpered once more and Cam snapped her fingers to wake him. He sat bolt upright immediately and surveyed the kitchen, his long ears swaying. When he was satisfied that all was well, he stood and ambled out onto the lawn to lie down in a patch of shade.
“Is he asking the right questions?” Grandma asked, focusing on Caro with piercing black eyes.
“Not yet.” Caro’s voice was calm, but she wouldn’t have mentioned the man if he wasn’t worrying her.
Cam shifted in her seat, trying and failing to find a comfortable position. She should have been out on the lawn helping her Aunt Beth host the barbecue, but her corset and crinoline were so heavy and hellishly hot that she felt like she was melting where she sat.
“The Anderson brothers?” Grandma repeated questioningly, turning to Cam. Grandma had stopped keeping up with county events many years ago. She relied on her granddaughter and Caro to keep her informed.
“The elder brother, John, bought the Wickers Plantation not two months ago,” Cam said, fanning her neck with her hand. The sounds of pleasant conversation and the clinking of Aunt Beth’s best china drifted down the lawn. “They’re Yankees. Well, their father is. Their mother was from Charleston. They are from old money, but bankers, not planters.”
Grandma frowned. “What are they doing in Gaynor?”
“John’s wife is Southern. Word is that she refused to move up North with him and so he bought the plantation for her sake.”
“Isn’t she the one who’s taken sick?” Caro interrupted. Unlike Grandma she made an effort to keep up with current events, and gossip frequently reached her ears long before it was discussed in the restricted circles in which Cam traveled.
“So I’ve heard,” Cam said. “No one seems to know with what, though.” She glanced at Caro, wondering what the cook had heard, but Caro gazed impassively back at her.
“And the other brother?” Grandma asked.
Cam swallowed. “Brent. He’s . . . not married. He accompanied his brother. There’s also an elderly relation staying with them. A great aunt or someone of that nature.”
“So they are new to Gaynor? They’ve never lived here before? They weren’t here when—”
“No.” Caro answered firmly.
“So why is a complete stranger poking around? What stake can he have in the matter?”
“All I know is he’s asking questions.” Caro answered, lifting a basket of potatoes onto the kitchen table and reaching for a knife.
“Are both brothers here?” Cam asked.
“Don’t know that either,” Caro said, chopping a potato cleanly in two with one sharp movement of her wrist.
“You’ve met them, Cam?” Her grandmother was watching her closely.
“Just the younger brother. Brent.”
Grandma nodded thoughtfully and gave Cam a meaningful look. “Your aunt will be looking for you soon. It’s been some time since this family last had a barbecue. Folks will wonder if you don’t put in an appearance.”
“Maybe while you’re making that appearance you could have some words with the Anderson boy.” Caro suggested, and there was a sharp whistling sound as the knife came down again. “Your aunt would sure like it, given that the family is so wealthy.”
The combined commanding stares of Caro and her grandmother pinned Cam like a bug. In reality, they could not have cared less what Aunt Beth or any of her guests thought, but they were worried about the Andersons digging up old skeletons . . . so to speak.
Cam stood, accepting her mission and ignoring the faint creak of her whalebone corset as she pulled herself to her feet.
“Good girl.” Her grandmother resumed sewing
***
It was a mark of just how stifling the kitchen was that Cam was more comfortable outside under the sun, even though it was so hot out that the air shimmered golden. The kitchen was in a separate building from the rest of the house, and Cam walked quickly away, knowing that shade, fans and lemonade waited for her on the front lawn. She paused behind a tall stand of white-blossomed crepe myrtle to tidy her hair and smooth her hands down the front of her dress, checking that it wasn’t stained. Her Aunt was trying hard to regain the social ground that they had lost after Cam’s older sister Diana was ruined by scandal. Beth would be beside herself if Cam made one of her few social appearances with her dress marred by soot or grease from the kitchen.
Cam had never been one for formal social gatherings. When she was younger they had seemed trivial and stilted. Then there had been the scandal with Diana, and she had realized that the world she had previously dismissed as petty and meaningless could be as dangerous and unforgiving as any wilderness. Now, at twenty, the same age that Diana had been when her reputation had taken a blow it would never recover from, Cam had a new and healthy respect for the traps and pitfalls that lurked beneath the polite and superficial exterior. It only served to make her even less interested in hobnobbing with the slew of wealthy and selective Mississippi plantation owners that her aunt was constantly urging her to socialize with.
Finally, deciding that she could put it off no longer, Cam turned the corner of the house. Before her was the bright, familiar front lawn. It had changed little since she was a child. The rich green of the grass had faded a little under the heat of the summer, but it still provided a soft enough carpet beneath the outstretched branches of the oaks that dotted the lawn. Today there were guests enjoying the sprawling shade of those old trees. Men stood or kneeled attentively, while women in every color dress, from burgundy or baby blue to the deepest emerald, perched on stone benches or reclined in chairs. The colors of their garb were picked up by the many flowering plants that flourished on the lawn, dogwoods and magnolias, camellias and azaleas Fans swayed gently, lemonade was sipped slowly, and the scent of barbecue wafted gently through the air, mingling with traces of cigar smoke and ladies’ perfume.
Cam sighed. It was a nightmare. Once she made an appearance she would be trapped there until the ladies retired for an afternoon nap, and her aunt would likely rope her into the ball that came after the barbecue.
“Camilla?”
Think of the devil... Cam thought, and then regretted it when she turned and saw how tired and flustered her aunt looked.
Well, to anyone else Beth would have looked almost the picture of composure, her dark h
air smooth and shining, her smile calm, her voice quiet. But, having lived with Aunt Beth since she was six, Cam was able to quickly pick out the signs. Beth's hands were clasped together a little too tightly, so that Cam could see the white of her bones shining through, and her hair was curling slightly. Beth hated curls and did her best to tame her own, so it was only when she was most distracted that she would allow herself to be seen with a few ringlets hiding in her thick brown hair.
Beth was standing on the porch steps and had probably been supervising her barbecue from that spot for several minutes when she had noticed Cam. “Hello Aunt Beth,” Cam said dutifully.
“Cam, you look—” her aunt's hazel eyes scanned Cam's appearance, taking in her newly tidied hair and the simple white muslin dress that Cam wore. Cam’s maid Mary had been able to cinch Cam’s corset until her waist was as narrow as anyone’s (except for Thurma Elton’s, but that girl simply wasn’t healthy). But Cam’s hoops weren't quite as wide as was fashionable, and apart from a line of buttons and some ruffles, the dress was quite plain.
“You look very nice,” her aunt finished finally, “but so very dark,” she added, her tone regretful. Cam sighed. Her mother had been French and she had passed on a natural tan to all three of her daughters. Cam’s sisters had both spent years coddling their skin so that they were almost as pale as they were expected to be, but Cam didn't have the patience for parasols and lemon peels. She was every bit as dark as her mother had been.
Her father and her aunt Beth were of English decent, and so Beth could maintain her milk-pale skin with very little effort. “You spend so much time in the sun. Even in that dreadful kitchen the sun is streaming in on your face, baking you.” Every word of Beth's admonishment was spoken in a measured whisper, so that their guests remained oblivious to her irritation.
Cam didn't argue with her aunt. It was impossible to argue with Aunt Beth; she refused to argue back. Cam nodded her acquiescence, but she knew that, come the next day, she would be back in the kitchen with her grandmother and Caro.
“I was just about to come find you,” Aunt Elizabeth continued. “I’m glad that one of you has chosen to attend our barbecue.”
“Helen isn’t here?” Cam asked, referring to her younger sister. Diana rarely attended social functions these days, and Aunt Beth didn’t encourage her to. Helen, however, was sixteen and newly introduced to society, and Aunt Beth had high hopes for her youngest and most compliant niece.
“I haven’t seen her,” Aunt Beth said, her voice gently disapproving. “Do you know where she is?”
“Haven’t a clue.” Cam answered. “Most likely she has taken her diary somewhere quiet and is scribbling away.” Helen was a very dedicated diarist. Cam frequently wondered what her little sister could possibly be writing about. There didn’t seem to be enough going on at Cypress Hall to fill the four books a year that Helen typically went through.
“I can’t imagine what she’s thinking,” Aunt Beth said. “She can’t simply arrive at the ball this evening; she has to make an appearance at the barbecue too. You can’t pick and choose which part of a gathering to attend.”
“Well, perhaps she isn’t planning to attend the ball, either,” Cam suggested. She frowned as she spoke. She suddenly had the prickling sensation that someone was watching her. She resisted the urge to turn sharply and stare out at the assembled guests.
“Oh, but she must go to the ball,” Aunt Beth said, “I’ve spent most of the week having her watered silk gown made and fitted exactly. I just don’t know what’s wrong with her. She could be the belle of the ball if she’d only go.”
“I don’t know about that,” Cam said, shifting slightly and casually moving around her aunt until she could stare out at the crowd. Most of the guests were engaged with each other, but someone was watching her and had probably been doing so for several minutes if their stare was intense enough for her to notice.
“I think she could. Diana certainly was, in her day.” Aunt Beth was speaking seriously, and quietly, completely oblivious to the way that her niece was scanning the guests.
“Helen is too naïve,” Cam said, “She’s too sincere. She couldn’t manipulate a man if he fell into her lap.” Where are you? She thought, still feeling the hidden gaze on her face.
Her aunt made a shocked sound, and Cam wasn’t sure whether Aunt Beth was responding to the idea of manipulating a man or the improper notion of a man falling into Helen’s lap. “Well, it’s true,” Cam continued, “Diana used to have the local boys falling over their own feet. She had them so they didn’t know which way was up.” Her eyes narrowed on the last word. Got you, she thought as she caught sight of a man standing beneath a dogwood tree.
And look who it is . . .
Brent Anderson, of all people. What a surprise. Cam scowled but then quickly composed herself before her aunt could remind her that furrowing her brow would give her premature wrinkles. Aunt Beth lived in terror of premature wrinkles.
“Camilla, you shouldn’t say such things about Diana,” Aunt Beth was saying, and Cam turned to her aunt with a sigh.
“Why not? I love my sister, and it’s the truth, so why not?” I’m not the one talking about “Diana in her day,” as if she’s old or dead, Cam longed to add, but she didn’t. She was tired of people treating Diana as though she had lost a limb or been hideously disfigured. People outside of the family shunned her, and their father and Aunt Beth alternately pitied and blamed her, all while making sure that she stayed at home and away from prying eyes so that she couldn’t bring any more shame on the family. It was infuriating.
While Aunt Beth shook her head sadly, Cam watched Mr. Anderson.
Brent was conspicuous somehow as he stood among the other guests. Cam was surprised that more people didn’t take notice of him. She would have thought that any fool could read the danger, the potential for violence in the lines of his body as he moved. But perhaps what made him most fascinating was how effectively he could hide his true nature from the people around him.
Whether other people could see it or not, Cam had immediately recognized him as a man who got what he wanted. He was maybe eight or nine years older than her, determined, ruthless, and very charming. Perhaps he would have been a little less effective if he looked somehow distasteful. He didn’t. He was several inches taller than six feet and possessed a body that was proportionate and muscled to perfection. He had a mane of blonde hair that barely brushed his shoulders, a large, chiseled face and expressive, mocking lips. His eyes were the worst, so vividly green that they almost didn’t look real.
He was shameless, too. A more refined man would have looked away by now, but he was still staring at her in his own, lazy way, head tilted, strands hair falling into his eyes. The woman who sat at his side touched his sleeve delicately to get his attention, and Cam noticed her for the first time. Ugh. It was Marianne Taversly, and she had to be very fond of Mr. Anderson because she had sent all of her other beaux away.
Cam supposed that someone needed to fill the void that Diana had left when she had ceased to be the belle of the county, but did it have to be Marianne Taversly? Did the county boys have no sense whatsoever? Marianne had been the nastiest, most gossipy, pigtail-pulling little beast in the entire county when they were children, and, besides the fact that she no longer yanked on anyone’s hair, she had improved very little as she aged. Now she had her eyes on Brent Anderson. Well, they deserved each other.
“Camilla, what are you looking at?” Her Aunt Beth’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Ah, Mr. Anderson. He is uncommonly handsome, isn’t he?”
“Oh,” Cam said casually, as though she had hardly noticed. “I suppose so. I was just looking to see who Marianne has her claws into now.”
“Hm,” her Aunt Beth responded, her eyebrows quirking as though she didn't believe a word of it.
She searched her niece's face thoroughly, hoping for a giggle, a girlish blush, anything to prove that Cam was indeed as susceptible to the charms of a wealthy an
d handsome man as any other girl her age, but there was nothing. Cam stared back at her with the wide, long-lashed, near-black eyes that all three of Solange's daughters had inherited, and as usual, Beth felt as if she was staring at a pretty-faced cypher. She often wished that she'd known her brother's wife better, because perhaps it would have aided her in understanding the woman's daughters. There was something distant about Diana, Camilla and Helen, something ambiguous and remote. Perhaps it was the strain of losing their mother so young.
Their grandmother was definitely crazy, though. Speaking of which, “where is your grandmother?” She asked Cam, dreading the inevitable answer.
“In the kitchen.”
“Oh really,” Beth sighed. “When was the last time we had a ball? I know she prefers to retire early, but she could at least make an appearance at the barbecue. It wouldn't kill her. What does she do it that kitchen, anyway?” Beth queried. It was hardly the first time that she had asked, but she repeated the question from time to time, as if hoping that someday Cam would surprise her with an answer.
“Why don't you ask her?” Cam suggested.
“If only it were that simple,” Beth answered, and Cam knew what she meant. Aunt Beth had always been skilled with words. She was smooth in awkward situations and good at implying something without actually saying it, but Grandma could run circles around her without even trying. If Grandma wasn't inclined to tell you something, then she wouldn't tell you. And you could ask her every day for eighty years, and every day in the exact same tone, without any sign of ever wavering, she would tell you no.
Cam wasn’t sure what to say to her Aunt, but Beth’s gaze was already fixed on an altercation on the other side of the lawn. “Oh dear,” she said softly. “Lester Grouse and old Mr. Rushworth are arguing again. Someone must have gotten them started talking about President Pierce.” Aunt Beth sighed. She wasn’t one for politics and couldn’t understand why other people allowed political opinions to spoil perfectly pleasant gatherings. “Enjoy the barbecue, Camilla,” her aunt told her, pausing to smooth her own hair before waving her niece away.