Beneath the Black Moon (Root Sisters)

by Fine, Clara

  Chapter Two

  From across the yard Brent Anderson repositioned himself so that he could watch the middle Johnson daughter without it being obvious to the redhead who kept chattering away at him. She was talking nonstop and batting her eyelashes in a manner that had obviously won her many admirers, judging from the number of men glaring at him. Brent himself found her flirting very distracting, and not in a pleasant way. Fortunately she didn’t require much encouragement from him to keep prattling on and on, so she didn’t appear to notice that he had been ignoring her for the better part of half an hour.

  Meanwhile, he could watch the Johnson girl. He had met her two siblings within a week of moving to Gaynor, but it had been a month before the lovely middle sister had finally surfaced at a county party. She was at once strikingly like her sisters and remarkably different. Her eyes were unmistakable. They were large, slanted, almond shaped eyes, so dark that they were almost black. All three of the Johnson sisters had the same eyes, high cheekbones and pointed chins. Beyond that, they differed. Helen was blonde, and she and Diana had both maintained the fair skin so prized by Southern women. Brent hadn't realized how much pampering that must have taken until he saw the third sister, who clearly hadn't bothered. There was a warm golden glow to her skin that darkened into sweeping shadows beneath her eyes. Her dress was white and very simple. On another girl it would have been plain, but given her natural curves and pretty face there was very little need for excessive ornamentation.

  He'd heard quite a bit about the Johnson family lately. There had been a scandal involving the eldest sister, who was still the talk of the county. And there was something strange about their mother's death— he hadn't been able to get anyone to tell him the full story. There were also whispers about their grandmother. The old woman was apparently crazy as a loon and hadn't been seen in public in several years.

  Then again, the gossips had explained, it was to be expected, given that she was French. Apparently their grandmother had been born in the French colony of Haiti to aristocratic parents, but she and her family had fled to Louisiana when she was just a little girl after the revolution broke out in 1791. There were all kinds of rumors about that aspect of the Johnson girls’ history. People muttered about strange religions, about odd habits picked up in the steamy wilderness of a foreign country. They whispered bout love affairs with natives and the violence of passion that afflicted all three Johnson girls, as it had their mother and grandmother before them.

  Brent had been curious to meet the Johnson girls; he had half expected them to howl at the moon. It had been amusing to meet their father, who was so very respectable and English it was very odd to think of him as the father to daughters who were so, well, unusual was the only word that everyone seemed to agree on.

  But Brent was looking for anything unusual. He had to solve a mystery by connecting the dots, and the first dot was the death of Solange Johnson. The second was the murder of Katherine Varennes. And the third… well, the third was a little closer to home.

  Those were the only clues that he had so far, but given the number of truly dedicated gossips in Gaynor County, he hoped to learn more soon.

  Next to him, Marianne appeared to have finally noticed that he wasn’t giving her his full attention, or any attention for that matter, and she tapped his wrist in what she apparently thought was a thoroughly charming manner. He was rather disappointed by the selection of women in Gaynor County. Most of them seemed to be like Marianne: silly, self-absorbed, and sugary-sweet to the point of nausea. Then again, there was nothing sugary about the look on Cam Johnson’s face as she and her aunt went their separate ways. Two elderly men were arguing on the far side of the lawn, and Elizabeth hurried off to smooth their ruffled feathers. Cam paused for a glass of lemonade in the shade of one of the magnificent magnolia trees that beautified the lawn. Her expression was an almost exact replica of the calm, composed expression that perpetually graced the face of her Aunt Elizabeth. But if you looked closely her jaw was set and her eyes were slitted, as if she were steeling herself against some unpleasant task.

  Speaking of unpleasant tasks, he still hadn’t asked Marianne about Katherine Varennes, and that was the main reason why he had come to the barbecue. It was difficult to bring up the murder tastefully and without sounding like a scandal monger, but fortunately Marianne didn’t seem to care. She took the bait eagerly, her pretty face morphing into an expression of mock sadness that was almost absurd.

  “Oh, that was terrible,” she exclaimed, her words not quite matching the excitement in her voice or the gleam in her eye as she seized the topic with relish. “Everyone was so shocked. I was just a little girl at the time of course,” she took the opportunity to flutter her eyelashes again, “scarcely more than a baby,” more fluttering, “but everyone was just so horrified. It was entirely... It was so... gruesome,” she said, her tone suddenly dropping to a whisper, as if that was a word that a lady wasn't supposed to say. “And so tragic. And we'd already had one tragedy that year. Why Cam, didn't that happen just days after your own poor mother died?”

  Cam Johnson had drifted closer to them while they spoke, and now she froze with an empty glass in one hand. Her hand tightened suddenly around the side of the glass and for a moment Brent thought that she was going to break it. Then her grip relaxed, and she turned to face them calmly.

  “Marianne, how are you today?” Cam’s smile was forced and some of the sweet southern accent that was becoming increasingly familiar to Brent slipped into her voice.

  “Well, I’m just fine. And this is Mr. Brent Anderson. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you darling? He and his brother John and John’s poor dear wife have moved into the Wickers Plantation. Brent, this is Gaynor’s very own Miss Camilla Jean Johnson, Diana Johnson’s younger sister.” Most people had stopped referring to Cam as Diana’s sister after Diana had been disgraced. Marianne, on the other hand, seemed to take perverse pleasure in making the connection between Cam and her ruined sister.

  “We’ve met,” Cam said to Marianne and then nodded coolly to Brent. He was tall and so it took her gaze a minute to travel up the broad expanse of his chest, to the curve of his neck, where the sunlight gleamed off of the dark gold hair that brushed his shoulders. She met his eyes, which were leaf green and assessing her candidly and then quickly looked away. No wonder Marianne had sent her other suitors away. None of them could compare to Brent.

  What a shame that he had taken an interest in matters better left undisturbed. Now she was obliged to dislike him, because of her grandmother and because he was forcing her to remember things that she would rather forget.

  “So Camilla,” Marianne said, and Cam braced herself. For all that Marianne seemed silly and flirty and not very clever, she could be like a dog with a bone, and she usually got what she wanted. “Didn't Katherine Varennes and your poor dear mother die the same week?” Only Marianne would think it was appropriate to ask someone about the exact date of the death of their poor dear mother. Cam swallowed, and for a minute the smoky scent of the barbecue took on a different smell. Cam could almost taste ash in the air, and the warm breath of the sun on her face was like a flame.

  It took Cam a minute to formulate a suitable response, and during that time she could feel Brent watching her closely. “You need not feel obliged to answer, Miss Johnson,” he told her, “I do not mean to distress you.”

  So, he thought she was distressed, did he? He was right, but Cam straightened her shoulders and shook her head anyway. “It’s quite alright, Mr. Anderson,” she told him firmly. “I am always happy to satisfy another’s curiosity— no matter how morbid,” the last part was directed, with a sweet smile, at Marianne. The redhead gave her an equally false smile in return. Lord, this sort of thing was exactly why Cam avoided social functions in the first place. People like Marianne abounded and their games were exhausting. Especially today, when Cam had a game of her own to play.

  “I believe that my mother and Mrs. Varennes did die within a
few days of each other, but I can't tell you for sure. I was but six at the time.” She could have told them, down to the hour, exactly how much time had passed between her mother's death and Kat Varennes’, but the lie slipped smoothly from her lips. It was always easier to deceive people with uncertainty than certainty.

  “Hm. I was three.” Marianne responded. It was a subtle jab at Cam's age, which, at twenty, was already considered advanced for an unmarried girl.

  “It sounds like a very difficult time for your family, and everyone else in the community,” Brent put in. He wanted badly to ask what exactly had happened to Cam’s mother. He had heard several different accounts of her death, but despite Cam’s insistence that she was perfectly fine, thank-you-very-much, there had been a moment after Marianne’s question when there had been something hollow and sick inside of her eyes, and guilt had pressed down on his chest like a millstone.

  He wasn’t probing to torment her. He was doing it for his family, specifically his brother. But he couldn’t help but think about her family, about all of the ways in which they were still suffering. It was a loss that he couldn’t imagine. Both his parents were alive and well, cheerfully touring Europe together.

  “Oh, yes, it was very difficult,” Marianne said. “Such a tragedy. Two deaths in just a few short days.”

  “Three,” Cam corrected. Next to her, Brent didn’t make a sound, but she was aware of him shifting in his seat, of his silent interest. Clearly no one had told him about Sam.

  “What?” Marianne fluttered her eyelashes, and Cam resisted the urge to yank them out.

  “There were three deaths,” Cam said. If Aunt Beth heard about this then Cam would be in for a lecture, but she didn’t really care. It wasn’t right the way that people mourned Kat and Solange and never mentioned Sam. “Samuel, our cook’s son, was killed in the same fire as my mother.” Sam was Caro’s son, and that was the root of the sister like bond between Caro and Cam’s grandmother. They had both lost their firstborns in the same flames.

  Marianne, realizing that this of course meant that Sam had been black, was immediately indifferent. “Oh.” Cam turned away before Marianne could see the contempt on her face.

  A furtive movement from across the lawn caught her eye. Someone was standing in the shadows on the edge of the forest. The forest wasn’t on Johnson land; otherwise Cam’s father would have cleared it and planted cotton over it long ago. Half of it was part of the Wickers estate, which meant that Brent’s brother owned it. The other half had changed hands many times over the past few years, so frequently that Cam was no longer sure exactly who it belonged to. A number of squatters and other poverty-stricken folk made their home in there, clearing small gardens and surviving off of deer, possums and fish from the creek. Perhaps it was one of the forest-dwellers who stood there, just out of sight in the shade of a mossy oak. Whoever the stranger was, he would be in trouble if Cam’s father caught sight of him. Mr. Johnson valued his privacy and would not appreciate someone observing his barbecue from afar.

  Perhaps it was one of the Charmon boys. The Charmons were one of the largest families living in the forest. Mrs. Charmon had given birth thirteen times, and ten of her children were still living, though the youngest two were sickly. Cam had been bringing them food and other necessities every week. Perhaps the children had taken a turn for the worse and Mrs. Charmon had sent one of the boys to fetch Cam. Taking a step forward, Cam shaded her face to see if it was one of the Charmon boys.

  The figure quickly moved backwards, deeper into the shadows. A chill ran down Cam’s spine. Whoever it was was not only watching Cam back, but wanted to remain unseen.

  “Cam, are you alright honey?” Marianne asked from next to her.

  “Just fine.” Cam said, still watching the figure in the shadows. This was the second time today that she had felt someone watching her, and she was beginning to feel haunted.

  Behind her, she heard Marianne stand up to take a look. “My word, is that Helen?”

  “Where?” Cam turned to the redhead in surprise. Marianne pointed to a spot in the forest maybe thirty yards from where Cam had been looking. Sure enough, Cam’s little sister was emerging from the forest, gripping her full skirts tightly. “Oh my . . .” Cam sighed.

  “Ah, is that your youngest sister?” Brent spoke up. Cam wasn’t sure, but it sounded like there was an edge of humor in his voice. Oh yes, it was all very funny when it was someone else’s family that was quickly becoming the talk of the county.

  “That’s Helen,” Cam answered reluctantly. She wondered what whether Helen knew that there was someone lurking in the shadow of the woods. Helen was obviously trying to join the barbecue as inconspicuously as possible, but there was still a fence between her and the lawn. Helen’s skirts were wider than Cam’s, and Cam couldn’t even imagine how her sister would manage to climb a fence in a hoop skirt. Helen seemed to be prepared to try, though.

  A rare breeze blew as Cam shifted, directing her gaze back to the shadows where the stranger had stood. The Spanish moss was swaying gently in the wind as a few leaves fell, but there was no sign of the man who had been standing there only a minute earlier.

  “Oh dear,” Marianne said as Helen began to gingerly climb the fence, holding her skirt very high to keep it from catching on the rough wood posts. “Oh dear,” Marianne said again, breaking out into an unkind but melodic laugh, one pale, fine-boned hand gently covering her lips. Cam wanted to reach over and slowly break each one of her fingers. Marianne’s loud giggles were going to draw attention to Helen, which was probably Marianne’s intention.

  Cam glanced in her Aunt’s direction. She could tell from the stiff set of Elizabeth’s shoulders that her aunt had already seen Helen, but was doing her best to pretend that she hadn’t to avoid drawing any more attention to the scene. It was a noble effort, but everyone would be staring soon enough if Marianne didn’t close her mouth.

  On the arm of Marianne’s chair, her half-full glass of lemonade wobbled dangerously. Cam raised her eyebrows, sorely tempted.

  No.

  It would be terribly immature.

  I’m much too old for this.

  Then again, Cam thought, tilting her head thoughtfully, she hadn’t ever returned the favor for that time when she was ten and Marianne pushed her into the Bransons’ pond.

  Little snake.

  Almost of its own accord, Cam’s elbow knocked against the glass, flinging the lemonade straight into Marianne’s lap where it drenched her pink watered silk. The laughter froze on Marianne’s lips immediately, and she stood up with a shrill scream. Helen’s antics were immediately forgotten, and all eyes turned to Marianne as the girl brushed frantically at her dress. Cam hid her smile as Marianne turned to her furiously. A movement to the side made her suddenly aware of Brent, and when she glanced up at him she was alarmed to see him watching her closely, the barest trace of a smirk on his face. If he had been watching long enough, he would have seen her eying the glass before she tipped it over.

  “Oh, Cam, how could you?” Marianne said. She had calmed down a little bit. Ladies weren’t supposed to make scenes like the display she had just indulged in.

  “It was an accident,” Cam said firmly. She resisted the urge to tell Marianne to cheer up, the pink dress had clashed with her red hair anyway. “Wasn’t it, Mr. Anderson?” She asked, gazing up at him with an innocent expression worthy of Marianne and daring him to out her.

  “Very clumsy,” he agreed, a grin turning up the corners of his mouth as he watched her. Cam let her gaze slip to his lips and then looked away quickly.

  “Marianne, dear, your poor dress.” Aunt Beth, ever the dutiful hostess, arrived at Marianne’s side immediately, linen napkins in hand. “It’s so lovely, too. Let’s see if we can’t have it dried.” She beckoned to Marianne, who hesitated, glancing from Brent to Cam almost suspiciously.

  Is she…? Cam wondered, watching the expression on Marianne’s face.

  She is.

  Marianne was w
orried to leave Cam alone with Brent. She actually saw Cam as a threat.

  Honey, you can have him, Cam thought, but she couldn’t help but feel a little victorious as her Aunt Beth led the unwilling Marianne away.

  She waited a few minutes until the other guests had returned to their conversations before she risked a glance in Helen’s direction. Mercifully, her sister had finished climbing the fence and was demurely crossing the lawn towards the barbecue, with barely a hair out of place.

  “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your younger sister several times this season,” Brent said. His voice was easy and his posture was lazy, but Cam’s eyes narrowed. She was beginning to recognize that Brent sounded most at ease when he was about to make someone else very uncomfortable. “You, on the other hand,” Brent said, shifting so that he was facing her directly, rather than standing to one side of her. “You have proved most elusive.”

  “Had I known you were looking for me,” Cam said sweetly, “I would have changed my schedule.” Yes, canceled all public appearances and gone into hiding, Cam added silently.

  Brent smiled, almost as though he had caught the snide addition. “It’s unusual to find an unmarried young woman as . . . isolated, as you.”

  “My friends know where to find me,” Cam said smoothly. “And I am not the only one. My sister Diana rarely makes public appearances.” She had been hoping to catch him off guard by mentioning Diana. She wasn’t supposed to mention her sister in polite company, unless someone else mentioned Diana first. Her Aunt Beth had said it was in poor taste, and Cam still burned with fury at the memory.

  Brent, however, did not seem particularly uncomfortable. “Your eldest sister? I met her once, I believe, a few weeks before I met you. So how do you pass the days then, when you aren’t gracing us with your company?”

  Oh, Northerner or not, he was just as smooth as any Southern boy she had ever met. But he wasn’t any Southern boy, and he was digging. For him to ask about Kat Varennes was one thing, her murder had shocked the community and people still talked about it, but his interest in her family was too obvious. “I sew. I read. I visit the poor.” Cam said, picking three of the most innocuous pastimes she could think of. The fact was that the only things she sewed were charm bags, and while she did visit the poor, she wasn’t a reader. She had been born with restless feet, with a desire to be active, to be involved. Helen could read for hours at a time without even standing to stretch, but Cam could hardly manage five minutes before she wanted to put the book down and go for a walk or see what was happening in the kitchen.