Beneath the Black Moon (Root Sisters)

by Fine, Clara

  Carreen squinted in the moonlight, a slight frown on her face. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Right there,” Brent said, turning to point out the exact spot where the ghost-white shadow of the ash had fallen. Inexplicably, he could not find it. The yard was dark and where the moonlight shone it hit thick grass and tall, well-tended trees. There was no ash in sight.

  “Mr. Anderson, what are we doing out here?” Carreen said, in a tone that suggested he had been overcome by her feminine wiles and had tricked her in order to spend some time alone with her.

  Brent took a step away from her, putting several feet between them so that she could have absolutely no doubts about his intentions. “I thought I saw something,” he said, his mind whirring.

  Now Carreen looked irritated. “You haven’t been drinking, have you, Mr. Anderson?”

  “No,” Brent said, rather irritably. “No I haven’t.” She seemed miffed when he led her back inside and immediately excused herself to go talk to someone else. Brent, meanwhile, stared down at his own shoes, searching for the fine white ash that had powdered his boots not five minutes earlier.

  There was nothing. His boots gleamed back at him, black and perfectly unmarred.

  Brent closed his eyes once and then opened them again. Nothing. No sign of the ash. He stood there for a moment, vaguely aware of people dancing around him. When he glanced up his eyes were hard, and he had the look of a predator that had just scented blood. He cast his gaze carelessly over the assembled guests and caught sight of a young blonde who socialized frequently with Helen. She would do. He moved towards her, shouldering his way powerfully through the guests to ask her to dance. She stared up at him with the doe-like eyes of a little girl and couldn’t say no. And when they had danced for a few moments, wasted time on all of the small-talk topics that he could stand, he ventured to ask what he really wanted to know.

  “What do you know about Cam Johnson?”

  The question was asked in earnest, but it had a second purpose. By the last dance of the evening, everyone in the Johnson ballrom knew that Brent Anderson was showing a marked interest in Mr. Johnson’s second daughter. Young women despaired, their mothers schemed, and the gossips could barely contain their delight.

  Cam snuck back to her room that night undetected and oblivious to the fact that she was now at the center of a firestorm of gossip which Brent had deliberately sparked.

  ***

  By the time Brent returned home that night, he had almost convinced himself that he had somehow imagined the strange episode on Cam’s lawn. Almost. But it was too vivid to be dismissed. He still remembered the smell of the ash, just as he couldn’t quite forget the way that Cam’s face had gleamed under the moon.

  Cam. He hadn’t counted on her being so oddly captivating. He was investigating her family for his brother’s sake. John’s wife Hattie had fallen ill a few weeks before their arrival in Gaynor County, and she worsened with every day that passed. At first it had seemed like an ordinary fever, but her symptoms puzzled every physician that examined her— and John had consulted quite a few.

  She had persistent, recurring nightmares. She dreamt of fires, of charred bodies and screaming people trapped in an inferno. She dreamt of murder, of the stabbing of a young mother in her own home. At first John and Brent had assumed that the morbid tales she told were figments of her own imagination, products of the high fever that she ran all day, every day. Then Brent had heard some elderly matrons gossiping about the murder of Katherine Varennes, who had been stabbed in her own dressing room by an unknown assailant fourteen years earlier. After a little digging, Brent had learned about Solange Johnson and the mysterious fire that she perished in.

  No one had told Hattie about those deaths. She didn’t know the names of the victims or their families. But she had described to Brent, in perfect detail, the shape of Katherine’s face. She had described the man Brent now knew to be Sam. She had spoken of Solange’s dark eyes and rich smile as though she had known the woman— but she hadn’t. She hadn’t known any of them, and yet her descriptions had been so vivid that when Brent had first laid eyes on Camilla Johnson he had known immediately that she was kin to the woman Hattie described to him.

  That had been last month. The past few weeks Hattie hadn’t been lucid enough to say anything. She babbled incoherently for hours, pausing occasionally to scream as though she was in terrible pain, but she hadn’t spoken her husband’s name in over three weeks.

  It was killing John. John and Hattie had been sweethearts since they were thirteen, but her parents hadn’t consented to their marriage until last year. Now John was losing her, and Brent could see it tearing him apart. He worried what would be left of his devoted, mild-mannered older brother when Hattie finally died.

  Brent still wasn’t certain what the connection between Hattie, Katherine, Sam and Solange was, but he did know that there was something eerie about Hattie’s suffering, something not quite right. He also knew that the Johnson girls were hiding something, something that frightened them all. He was out of his element, but it didn’t matter to him. John loved Hattie dearly, with the kind all-consuming adoration that Brent had never experienced and never expected to. If he could spare his brother the agony of losing Hattie he would, no matter what stood in his way.

  The stairs creaked as Brent climbed to Hattie’s room. He paused outside of his Great Aunt Julia’s door. Her condition had also worsened since their move to Mississippi. Julia was their grandmother’s sister, a kindly if rather forgetful old woman well into her seventies. John and Brent hadn’t known her when they were children, but she had come to live with them last year after her sister died. John had been busy, between marrying Hattie and purchasing the plantation, so Brent had taken the time to get the old woman settled. She had been very grateful and it was a shame to see her doing so badly.

  Brent listened outside of his aunt’s door, waiting until he could distinguish the sound of her soft breathing. Good. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully tonight. He moved on and approached Hattie’s door with dread slowly building in his chest. Hattie rarely slept peacefully these days. He could hear her moaning as he drew closer, and when he opened the door to check on her she was curled into a ball on her side, gripping the blankets. His brother John was slumped in a chair by her bedside. He must have fallen asleep while watching over her. Even in slumber there were deep lines cut into his brow, making him look almost as agonized as Hattie.

  Brent sighed quietly and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. John had many admirable qualities, but he wasn’t a fighter and he didn’t handle crisis well. He was floundering and in his helplessness he looked to his brother for guidance.

  Brent squared his shoulders as he walked down the hall. John may have felt helpless, but Brent certainly didn’t. He didn’t yet know what was causing Hattie’s illness, but he knew how to find out. He had caught a scent. He knew who his target was, and Cam Johnson would have to be very wily indeed to escape him.

  Chapter Four

  “Is that your third?” Aunt Beth frowned. “Diana, do you really require a third griddlecake?”

  Diana smiled up at her Aunt, batting her lashes in a way that was almost reminiscent of Marianne, but all Cam saw was a snake, coiling to strike. “Why Aunt Beth, how thoughtless of me. I don’t want to spill out of my corset. That might ruin my prospects.” She turned to Cam, thoughtfully. “Do nunneries accept thick-waisted women?”

  “Diana,” their father said sharply from the head of the table. “That’s quite enough. Your Aunt is only thinking of you.”

  “You’re right, father,” Diana said, standing and dropping her napkin in her chair. “That is enough.” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

  Aunt Beth stared after her niece wearily. “Twenty-three.” She said. “Twenty-three years old and she doesn’t act a day over thirteen.”

  “Good morning!” Helen greeted them as she wandered into the dining room. There was a twig caught
in her chignon and she looked pink-cheeked and happy. She sat down and quickly helped herself to a biscuit.

  “And where have you been?” Their father asked, eying his youngest daughter.

  “For a walk,” Helen said breezily.

  “Meeting someone?” Cam teased, and then nearly bit her own tongue at the look on her father’s face. ‘That is a joke, father.”

  “No it is not,” he snapped back. “Not really. Helen, fix your hair.”

  “Helen,” their aunt said gently as Helen patted her hair, searching for the offending twig, “a lady leaves the table to fix her hair. Very good dear.” She said when Helen excused herself to find a mirror. “What are your plans for today, Camilla?”

  “Cam?” Their father paused with a sausage halfway to his mouth. “That’s one daughter I needn’t worry about. There’s a limit to how much trouble she can cause cloistered in the kitchen, after all.” He laughed at the thought.

  “You never know, father,” Cam said, pushing away her plate and standing up. “I might elope with a sack of potatoes.” She kissed his cheek and started for the door.

  Her father laughed appreciatively, and then paused. “You’re putting on your bonnet. Why are you putting on your bonnet to go to the kitchen? Are you going out?” He sounded alarmed.

  “I’m visiting the poor today,” among other things, Cam added silently, but when it came to her father, the best policy was to give him as little information as possible. She pulled on her gloves, hoping that he wouldn’t argue.

  “Today Cam? But we have a visitor today.” Aunt Beth protested.

  “Really?” Cam said with surprise, as though she hadn’t planned it this way on purpose. “How unfortunate.”

  “Indeed,” Aunt Beth said suspiciously.

  “You’re not going alone?” Mr. Johnson moved as if to stand, and for a panicked second Cam thought that he was about to volunteer to accompany her. Then again, that would be very out of character for her father. He had never shown the faintest interest in the plight of the poor.

  “No,” Cam answered quickly. “I’m not going alone. Mary will accompany me, as usual.”

  “Very well.” Her father agreed finally, with some deliberation. “You’re not to go anywhere without her, do you understand?”

  “Yes father, I never do.” Cam said, and tried not to wince at how easily the lie slipped off her tongue. Sometimes her own capacity for deceit frightened her.

  Mary was waiting outside on the lawn in a simple calico dress. Her hair was neatly braided and she carried two baskets of food, one over each arm. A silver coin glimmered at the hollow of throat, where it was secured by a simple ribbon. The coin was a protective charm. Cam had one of her own, but since Aunt Beth would have frowned upon her wearing around her neck the way that Mary did, Cam had slipped hers into her basque and wore it over her heart.

  They traveled in silence for a moment, Cam walking ahead with her chin firmly tilted up, seemingly ignoring Mary, who trailed behind. They made a perfectly respectable picture, a young lady out to visit the poor with her dutiful maid following behind her. When they reached the property line and were out of sight of the house, a transformation came over them. Cam slowed and Mary strode forward so that they walked side by side, and Mary relinquished one of the baskets to Cam. “My aunt needs more herbs,” she said quietly, as Cam glanced around to make sure that they were definitely alone in this corner of the forest.

  “That’s fine. You can gather them and I can visit the Charmon and Haskell families alone,” Cam said.

  “Not just the Charmons,” Mary said, “there’s also Mattie Devereux. One of us needs to visit her. She might need…” Mary’s voice trailed into a whisper. There were some things that best remained unspoken.

  “I can visit Mattie,” Cam said. “She’s closer to the Charmons and the Haskells. If you’re going for herbs, why don’t you take that basket to the Wilkinsons? I’ll stop for graveyard dirt on my way home.”

  “I’ll meet you by the big tree,” Mary said. The big tree was an enormous, ancient oak that she and Cam had played around as children. “We have to return to the house together. If your Aunt Beth finds out about you wandering around alone, she’ll probably faint.”

  “I suppose it’s good that she doesn’t usually socialize with the Charmons,” Cam said, “If they told her that I’ve been visiting them alone for years, she’d skip fainting altogether and just die.”

  “Probably,” Mary agreed seriously as they parted ways.

  ***

  Mrs. Charmon’s living children ranged from twenty year old Ben, who had left home almost four years ago and hadn’t been heard from since, to the infant Ellie, who had developed a persistent and concerning fever. Cam had witnessed three Charmon children die already, and her more selfish half didn’t want to keep visiting the Charmons, for fear that soon enough she would have to watch little Ellie pass away as well. It was a cowardly impulse and Cam refused to submit to it, but she couldn’t deny the trepidation that welled up in her every time she approached the little shanty in the forest where the Charmons made their home. Every time she caught sight of the house, there was a moment when she braced herself to hear Mrs. Charmon’s grief-stricken wails. Every morning it occurred to her that perhaps today death would call again on the Charmon residence.

  In that respect at least Cam’s family had been unusually fortunate. The potent combination of the rootwork of both Caro and Cam’s grandmother kept most illnesses at bay, even if it couldn’t ward off tragedy entirely. So many women lost their small children, but all of Solange’s daughters had grown up strong and sound.

  The dusty, greasy curtains that hung in the single window of the Charmon hovel twitched, and Cam caught sight of a bright young face peering out at her. Theodore. Cam smiled, and when the little boy’s face split into an answering grin, she felt her breathing return to normal. No tragedies at the Charmon residence today.

  All was not quiet, though. Cam could hear the baby wailing and Mrs. Charmon shouting at her brood. “Teddy! Where in the blazes is that boy goin’?”

  “Miss Cam is heeeeereeeeeee!” Teddy shrieked back at his mother as he came tearing out of the house to see her. From across the clearing where the Charmon family squatted, two more of the Charmon children heard Teddy’s announcement and came running: towheaded William and his sister Lydia, with her serious gray eyes and long braids.

  Lydia was the oldest and she reached Cam first, though she hung back for a minute to admire Cam’s simple dress. “That’s awful pretty,” she said, winding the end of one of her skinny braids around her finger as she spoke. “I sure like your dress.”

  “Thank you,” Cam said. Lydia was ten, and she was so interested in clothes that Cam was sometimes tempted to introduce her to Aunt Beth. Despite the difference in age and class, Cam suspected that the two had more in common than Cam had ever shared with her aunt.

  “What did you bring?” William asked as he slid to a halt in front of Cam. He was barefoot and wasn’t wearing a shirt under his suspenders. He clutched a homemade fishing rod in one hand and reached eagerly for the basket with his other hand. Little Theodore ran up behind his brother and tried to fight past his older siblings to reach Cam, but couldn’t get either of them to budge.

  “You three, stop mauling Miss Johnson!” Mrs. Charmon appeared in the doorway. She was a tall, middle aged woman, wide-hipped and nearly shapeless after giving birth to one child after another. Despite the toll her hardships had taken on her appearance, there was something appealing about her round, open face. When she smiled a certain way Cam could picture her as the pretty young woman that she had once been. Mrs. Charmon gave one of those rare smiles just then, when she caught sight of the basket of food that Cam carried.

  She and the children were excitedly examining the contents of Cam’s basket when a cheerful yell announced the arrival of yet another of the Charmon children. James Charmon was twelve or thirteen, and he carried himself like the man of the house.

&n
bsp; “And just where in the hell have you been?” Mrs. Charmon asked, eying her son critically. “Begging your pardon, Miss Johnson,” she added to Cam. Cam waved the woman’s apology away and was just about to hand a jar of preserves to Lydia when she sensed movement in the bushes on the side of the clearing. She could feel her own jaw drop as Brent Anderson emerged from the forest behind James. He looked even more devastatingly handsome than he had the night before, which was saying something. Gone was his dress coat from last night. In fact, he wasn’t wearing a coat at all, only a loose white linen shirt over black trousers that were tucked into black riding boots. He casually carried a rifle over one shoulder, and his golden hair was slightly mussed. Cam swallowed, resisted the urge to stare at the perfect tan skin that was exposed at the base of his throat where he had failed to button the top two buttons. Instead she looked away, hoping to pretend that she wasn’t in the least affected by his presence. It wasn’t at all appropriate, meeting a man who was practically a stranger while unchaperoned, and if he had even a shred of common decency he would decline to acknowledge her, and they could both go on with their day and forget that they had ever encountered each other.

  “Miss Johnson! What a pleasant surprise!”

  Damn him. Cam seethed as he made his way leisurely toward them, an insufferable smirk settling over his features as he caught sight of the fury that sparked in her eyes. Pleasant surprise my foot! She wondered how he had known to find her here. He must have spoken to one of her friends – except that she didn’t really have any these days. One of Helen’s acquaintances then. Aunt Beth certainly wouldn’t have told him, she would have been too fearful of an improper encounter— such as this one.

  “Hello Mr. Anderson,” Cam finally replied, trying and failing to keep the acid out of her tone. His grin widened, as though he was pleased to have a reaction from her. “This is a surprise,” she said. At least to me.