《Scandal's》
Chapter 1
In the sweltering heat of a lazy Sunday afternoon, the tranquil atmosphere of Grand Isle was disrupted by the incessant chatter of a vibrant green and yellow parrot, suspended in a cage outside the door of Madame Williams¡¯ main house. The bird¡¯s repetitive cries of ¡°Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That¡¯s all right!¡± echoed through the air, mingling with the sweet, fluty notes of a mockingbird perched on the opposite side of the door. The cacophony was enough to drive Mr. McPherson, a man of refined taste, to distraction.
Unable to focus on his newspaper, Mr. McPherson arose from his seat, his expression a picture of disgust. He traversed the narrow ¡°bridges¡± connecting the Williams cottages, his footsteps a gentle creak on the wooden planks. As he walked, the parrot¡¯s incessant chatter and the mockingbird¡¯s melodic trills followed him, a constant reminder of the chaos that lay at the heart of the Williams¡¯ household.
Mr. McPherson finally found solace in the quiet of his own cottage, the fourth from the main building and next to the last. He settled into a wicker rocker, his eyes, shielded by wire-rimmed spectacles, scanning the pages of his newspaper with a mixture of boredom and frustration. The day was old, the news stale, and the market reports had already been devoured. He was a man of forty, with a slender build and a gentle stoop, his brown hair parted neatly on one side, his beard trimmed with precision.
As he read, his gaze would occasionally wander, taking in the vibrant tapestry of life unfolding before him. The Farival twins, their fingers dancing across the piano keys, played a lively duet from ¡°Zampa.¡± Madame Williams, a vision in white, her starched skirts rustling with every step, bustled about, issuing orders to her servants in a voice that carried across the compound. A lady in black, her beads clicking softly, walked with demure purpose before one of the cottages. The sound of children¡¯s laughter and the soft thud of croquet mallets carried on the breeze, mingling with the distant call of seagulls.
Mr. McPherson¡¯s thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a white sunshade, its pink-lined interior a beacon of elegance in the sweltering heat. Beneath its shelter, his wife, Mrs. McPherson, and young Taylor Williams made their way slowly up the path, their faces flushed from their exertions. As they reached the cottage, they collapsed onto the upper step of the porch, their bodies relaxed, their faces aglow with laughter.
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¡°What folly!¡± Mr. McPherson exclaimed, his voice tinged with amusement. ¡°To bathe at such an hour in such heat!¡± He himself had taken a plunge at dawn, and the morning seemed long to him.
His wife, her strong, shapely hands extended, surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. The memory of her rings, left in her husband¡¯s care, sparked a silent request, and he produced them from his vest pocket, dropping them into her open palm. She slipped them onto her fingers, the diamonds sparkling like fireflies in the fading light.
As they laughed and chatted, Mr. McPherson¡¯s gaze wandered lazily between them, a look of amused indulgence on his face. The tale of their adventure, told in tandem, lost its luster in the retelling, and he yawned, stretching his slender frame. The heat, the noise, and the chaos of the day finally got the better of him, and he announced his intention to visit Klein¡¯s hotel, where a game of billiards awaited.
¡°Come along, Williams,¡± he proposed, his voice dripping with the languid charm of a Louisiana summer afternoon. But Taylor, ever the gentleman, confessed with disarming candor that he would rather linger in the McPherson¡¯s parlor, basking in the warm glow of conversation with the lovely Mrs. McPherson.
Her husband, a man of discerning taste, nodded in understanding as he prepared to take his leave. ¡°When Taylor¡¯s wit begins to flag, my dear Evelyn, do not hesitate to bid him adieu,¡± he instructed, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
Mrs. McPherson, a vision of elegance in her silk gown, hastened to press the ornate umbrella into his hands. ¡°Here, dear, take this to shield you from the sun,¡± she exclaimed, her voice like honey dripping from the magnolias. He accepted the sunshade with a gallant bow, and, lifting it above his head, descended the steps into the bright, sun-drenched day.
As he walked away, his wife called out after him, her voice carrying on the breeze, ¡°Will you be returning for dinner, dear?¡± He paused, his shoulders rising in a careless shrug. His fingers strayed to the ten-dollar bill nestled in his vest pocket, a secret stash that held the promise of a thrilling evening ahead. He did not commit to a return, for his plans hung precariously in the balance, dependent on the company he would find at Klein¡¯s and the tantalizing prospect of a high-stakes game. Though he did not voice his thoughts, his wife understood the unspoken language of his eyes, and she laughed, a gentle, knowing sound, as she bid him farewell.
The children, their eyes shining with excitement, clamored to follow their father as he departed. He bent to bestow a tender kiss upon their upturned faces, promising to return with sweet treats and crunchy peanuts, a bounty that would surely delight their young hearts.
Chapter 2
Mrs. McPherson¡¯s eyes sparkled like golden topaz, their bright, inquisitive gaze darting about the room with an intensity that belied her languid demeanor. Her tresses, a rich, honey-blonde hue, seemed to echo the warm tones of her irises, which would often become lost in some inner reverie, as if mesmerized by the whispers of her own thoughts. Her eyebrows, a shade darker than her hair, were thick and almost horizontal, framing the depths of her eyes like a masterful artist¡¯s strokes.
Her face, though not conventionally beautiful, was captivating in its frankness, its subtle play of features weaving a spell of enchantment around all who beheld her. Her manner, too, was engaging, imbued with a warmth and hospitality that put even the most skeptical of souls at ease.
Taylor, meanwhile, rolled a cigarette with a practiced hand, the paper crackling softly as he worked. He smoked cigarettes, he claimed, because his modest means precluded the luxury of cigars. Yet, a glance at his pocket revealed a solitary cigar, a gift from Mr. McPherson, which he was saving for the indulgent pleasure of an after-dinner smoke. This seemed a perfectly natural and proper decision, one that suited his carefree nature.
In coloring, Taylor bore a striking resemblance to his companion, a likeness accentuated by his clean-shaven face. His countenance, untroubled by the shadows of care, reflected the languid beauty of the summer day, his eyes gathering in the light like a tranquil lake.
As the warmth of the afternoon deepened, Mrs. McPherson reached for a palm-leaf fan, its delicate fronds whispering softly as she began to fan herself. Taylor, meanwhile, sent gentle puffs of smoke drifting into the air, the sweet scent of tobacco mingling with the heady aroma of blooming magnolias. The two chatted incessantly, their conversation flowing like a lazy bayou, touching upon the whimsical adventures of their day, the capricious wind, the rustling trees, and the lively gathering at the Ch¨ºni¨¨re.
Their words danced about the children, laughing and playing croquet beneath the ancient oaks, their joyous shouts carrying on the breeze. And, of course, they spoke of the Farival twins, whose lively performance of the overture to ¡°The Poet and the Peasant¡± seemed to capture the very essence of the sun-kissed afternoon. As they talked, the world around them seemed to slow its pace, surrendering to the languid charm of a Louisiana summer day.
Taylor¡¯s words flowed like a lazy river, as he regaled Mrs. McPherson with tales of his own ambitions and adventures. Youthful enthusiasm sparkled in his eyes, and he spoke with an unbridled passion, unaware of the art of subtlety.
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¡°I¡¯m going to Mexico in the autumn, Mrs. McPherson,¡± he said, his voice filled with conviction. ¡°Fortune awaits me there. I¡¯ve always intended to go, but somehow I never quite make it.¡±
Mrs. McPherson¡¯s eyes sparkled with amusement, her voice like honey dripping from the comb, sweet and languid. ¡°You¡¯re always intending to go to Mexico, Mr. Taylor, but you never seem to get there. Meanwhile, you hold on to your modest position in a mercantile house in New Orleans, where your familiarity with English, French, and Spanish makes you a valuable asset as a clerk and correspondent.¡±
Taylor chuckled, his face flushing with pleasure. ¡°You¡¯re right, Mrs. McPherson. I suppose I¡¯m just not ready to leave the comforts of home behind. But I¡¯ll get there one day, mark my words.¡±
As they sat on the porch, surrounded by the gentle lapping of the Gulf waves, Mrs. McPherson began to talk about her own life. Her voice carried the faintest hint of French, a whispered secret lost in the dilution of time.
¡°I grew up on my father¡¯s Mississippi plantation,¡± she said, her eyes gazing out at the sea. ¡°And my girlhood home was in the old Kentucky blue-grass country. I¡¯m an American woman, with just a small infusion of French, it seems.¡±
Taylor¡¯s curiosity was piqued, and he leaned forward, his eyes shining with interest. ¡°Tell me more, Mrs. McPherson. What were your sisters like? What was your father like? And how long has your mother been gone?¡±
Mrs. McPherson¡¯s face softened, her eyes clouding over with memories. ¡°My sisters were dear girls, Mr. Taylor. We were a close-knit family, and our father was a kind and gentle man. My mother passed away when I was just a girl, but I remember her as a warm and loving presence in our lives.¡±
As she spoke, Mrs. McPherson read a letter from her sister, away in the East, and Taylor¡¯s interest was further piqued. ¡°What¡¯s the news from your sister, Mrs. McPherson?¡± he asked, his voice filled with curiosity.
Mrs. McPherson¡¯s face lit up with a smile. ¡°She¡¯s engaged to be married, Mr. Taylor. I¡¯m so happy for her, though I must admit I¡¯ll miss her dearly.¡±
When Mrs. McPherson folded the letter, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow on her face, she announced it was time to dress for the early dinner. ¡°I see L¨¦once isn¡¯t coming back,¡± she said, with a glance in the direction whence her husband had disappeared. ¡°I suppose he¡¯s still at Klein¡¯s, enjoying the company of the New Orleans club men.¡±
Taylor nodded, his eyes following hers. ¡°I suppose so, Mrs. McPherson. I¡¯ll take a stroll over to the croquet players, if you¡¯ll excuse me. The little ones are always a delight to be around.¡±
As Mrs. McPherson retired to her room, Taylor descended the steps, his boots creaking on the worn wood. He strolled toward the croquet players, where, during the half-hour before dinner, he delighted in the company of the little McPherson children, who adored him with an unbridled enthusiasm. The air was alive with the sound of laughter and the soft thud of mallets on balls, as the world slowed its pace, surrendering to the languid charm of a Louisiana summer afternoon.
Chapter 3
It was well past eleven o¡¯clock that sultry Louisiana night when Mr. McPherson finally returned from Klein¡¯s hotel, his face aglow with the warmth of good company and fine spirits. As he burst into the bedroom, his wife, Mrs. McPherson, stirred from her slumber, her eyes fluttering open like delicate magnolia petals. He was in high spirits, regaling her with tales of his day, sharing anecdotes and gossip gathered from the gentlemen at the hotel. His words spilled forth like a rich Creole gumbo, flavorful and enticing.
As he undressed, he emptied his pockets onto the bureau, a jumble of crumpled bank notes, silver coins, keys, knife, and handkerchief. Mrs. McPherson, still heavy with sleep, responded with soft, murmured assents, her voice a gentle breeze on a summer¡¯s day. Mr. McPherson, however, felt discouraged by her lack of enthusiasm, her apparent disinterest in the events that had transpired during his day. He had, after all, shared his every waking moment with her, and her indifference stung like a mosquito¡¯s bite.
In his forgetfulness, he had neglected to bring the bonbons and peanuts for the boys, a fact that weighed heavily on his conscience. He slipped into the adjoining room, where his sons, Raoul and L¨¦once, slumbered peacefully. As he gazed upon their innocent faces, he felt an overwhelming sense of love and responsibility. But, upon closer inspection, he became convinced that Raoul was afflicted with a high fever, his small body restless and hot to the touch.
Mr. McPherson hastened back to his wife, his voice laced with concern, warning her of Raoul¡¯s condition. Mrs. McPherson, however, was skeptical, insisting that the child had been in perfect health all day. Mr. McPherson countered, his voice rising in protest, that he was well-versed in the symptoms of fever and would not be mistaken. The air was thick with tension as the couple debated, their words hanging like Spanish moss from the ancient oak trees.
As the argument subsided, Mr. McPherson lit a cigar and settled into a chair near the open door, the sweet, pungent smoke wafting out into the night air. Mrs. McPherson, still unconvinced, rose from bed and padded softly into the next room, her bare feet making barely a sound on the wooden floor. She returned moments later, her face a mask of determination, and sat on the edge of the bed, her head bent in thought.
The silence between them was oppressive, heavy with unspoken words. Mr. McPherson¡¯s monotonous, insistent tone had given way to a sullen silence, his cigar smoke curling upward like a challenge. Finally, he extinguished the cigar and retired to bed, his sleep swift and deep.
Mrs. McPherson, however, was wide awake, her mind racing with thoughts and emotions. She wept softly, her tears falling like summer rain onto the pillow. Blowing out the candle, she slipped her feet into a pair of satin mules and stepped out onto the porch, the creaking of the wicker chair beneath her the only sound in the stillness of the night.
The cottages surrounding them were dark and silent, their occupants lost in slumber. A single, faint light flickered in the hallway of their own home, casting an eerie glow over the scene. The only sounds were the mournful hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak tree and the eternal, soothing voice of the sea, a lullaby that seemed to rock the very foundations of the night. As Mrs. McPherson sat there, gently swaying to and fro, the darkness seemed to envelop her, a comforting shroud that wrapped around her like a warm, summer breeze.
As the sultry Louisiana night air clung to her like a damp shroud, Mrs. McPherson¡¯s tears flowed with reckless abandon, her peignoir sleeve no longer sufficient to stem the tide of her emotions. She grasped the back of her chair with one hand, her loose sleeve slipping down her uplifted arm like a surrendered flag. Turning, she buried her face in the crook of her arm, the steamy warmth of her skin mingling with the salty tears that streamed down her cheeks. She wept without restraint, uncaring of the mess she made, her eyes, her arms, her very soul awash in a torrent of sorrow.
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Such tempests were not uncommon in her married life, but this particular storm seemed to have originated from some uncharted region of her consciousness, filling her entire being with a vague, unsettling anguish. It was as if a shadow had crept across the sun-kissed landscape of her soul, casting a dark, foreboding silhouette. She did not sit there, inwardly berating her husband or lamenting the twists of fate that had led her down this path. No, she was simply surrendering to the primal urge to cry, to release the pent-up emotions that had been simmering beneath the surface.
The mosquitoes, those pesky, buzzing imps, took advantage of her distraction, feasting on her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. Their stinging bites eventually succeeded in dispelling the melancholy that had threatened to consume her, and she slowly emerged from the darkness, her tears spent, her soul exhausted.
The following morning, Mr. McPherson rose with the sun, his composure restored, his spirits buoyed by the prospect of a lively week in Carondelet Street. As he prepared to depart for the city, he handed his wife half of the money he had brought back from Klein¡¯s hotel the previous evening. She accepted it with a mixture of gratitude and satisfaction, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of purchasing a handsome wedding gift for her sister, Janet.
¡°Oh! We¡¯ll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,¡± he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he prepared to bid her farewell.
Mrs. McPherson¡¯s face, still puffy from her nocturnal tears, broke into a faint, wistful smile as she smoothed out the bills, counting them one by one. The sound of the rockaway¡¯s wheels crunching on the gravel driveway signaled her husband¡¯s soon departure, her heart heavy with a mix of emotions, her soul still shrouded in the mystery of her midnight tears.
The boys were in a frenzy, clinging to their father¡¯s legs, their bright eyes shining with excitement as they begged him to bring back a multitude of treasures from his trip to the city. Mr. McPherson, the beloved patriarch, was surrounded by a chorus of well-wishers, from the elegant ladies to the rugged men, and even the devoted nurses, all gathered to bid him farewell. His wife, resplendent in her morning finery, stood beaming with pride, her gloved hand waving goodbye as the old rockaway, its wooden wheels creaking, disappeared down the sandy road, leaving a trail of dust and nostalgia in its wake.
Days passed, and the anticipation was palpable, until finally, a sturdy box arrived at the McPherson doorstep, adorned with the elegant script of the New Orleans postmark. Mrs. McPherson¡¯s eyes sparkled as she lifted the lid, revealing a treasure trove of delights, carefully curated by her thoughtful husband. The box was a veritable cornucopia of friandises, overflowing with luscious and toothsome morsels: the finest fruits, pat¨¦s of unparalleled richness, rare bottles of wine, and an assortment of syrups and bonbons that would tempt even the most discerning palate.
As was her custom, Mrs. McPherson was generous to a fault, sharing the bounty with her friends and family. The pat¨¦s and fruit were arranged with flair on the dining-room table, while the bonbons were passed around with abandon, their colorful wrappers and enticing aromas tantalizing the senses. The ladies, their dainty fingers selecting with precision and a hint of greed, couldn¡¯t help but declare that Mr. McPherson was the most exemplary of husbands. Mrs. McPherson, her face aglow with pleasure, was forced to concur, acknowledging that she knew of none better. As the afternoon wore on, the warm laughter and lively chatter filled the air, a testament to the joy and gratitude that Mr. McPherson¡¯s thoughtful gift had brought to their little community.
Chapter 4
In the languid summer air of Grand Isle, a subtle yet palpable sense of discontent had taken up residence in the McPherson household. It was a feeling that Mr. McPherson couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on, but one that he couldn¡¯t shake off either. His wife, Mrs. McPherson, was a woman of refined beauty and elegance, but there was something about her that seemed to be lacking in her role as a mother. The McPherson boys, with their tousled hair and sun-kissed complexions, would often tumble and fall while at play, but they wouldn¡¯t rush to their mother¡¯s arms for comfort. Instead, they would pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and continue their rough-and-tumble games with the other children.
It was as if Mrs. McPherson had abdicated her role as a mother, leaving the quadroon nurse to handle the more mundane tasks of childcare. The nurse, with her gentle hands and soothing voice, was more of a fixture in the household, tasked with the daily routine of buttoning up waists and panties, and brushing and parting the children¡¯s hair. It was a peculiar arrangement, one that seemed to be at odds with the traditional role of a mother in 19th century Southern Louisiana.
In contrast, the mother-women of Grand Isle seemed to embody the very essence of motherhood. They fluttered about, their wings spread wide, protecting their precious brood from any real or imagined harm. They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and took pride in effacing themselves as individuals to become ministering angels. One such woman was Ad¨¨le Rogers, a paragon of beauty and charm. Her spun-gold hair seemed to have a life of its own, and her sapphire blue eyes sparkled like the morning dew. Her lips, a deep crimson, pouted enticingly, and her hands, with their tapering fingers, were a joy to behold.
Madame Rogers was a frequent visitor to the McPherson household, often bringing her sewing and sitting with Mrs. McPherson in the afternoons. She would rock gently in the creaking rocker, her hands moving deftly as she sewed away on the little night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib. The afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans was no exception. Madame Rogers was sitting in the rocker, busily engaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers, designed to enclose a baby¡¯s body so effectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like an Eskimo¡¯s.
Mrs. McPherson¡¯s mind, however, was not on the present material needs of her children. She couldn¡¯t see the use of anticipating and making winter night garments the subject of her summer meditations. But she didn¡¯t want to appear unamiable and uninterested, so she had brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and under Madame Rogers¡¯s directions, she had cut a pattern of the impervious garment. As they worked, the warm afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the scene, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the gentle hum of cicadas. It was a moment of tranquility, one that seemed to belie the underlying tensions that simmered just beneath the surface of the McPherson household.
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It was a languid summer afternoon, the air thick with the scent of blooming magnolias and the gentle hum of cicadas, as Taylor settled into his accustomed seat on the gallery of the McPherson household. Beside him, Mrs. McPherson reclined listlessly against the post, her porcelain skin glistening with a subtle sheen of perspiration. A delicate box of bonbons, adorned with intricate lace and a satin ribbon, rested in her lap, and at intervals, she would extend it to Madame Rogers, who sat beside her, her sapphire blue eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Madame Rogers, a paragon of Creole beauty, with her spun-gold hair and crimson lips, seemed at a loss to make a selection from the box, her fingers fluttering over the delicate confections as she wondered aloud if the nougat might be too rich, if it could possibly hurt her. It was a peculiar concern, one that seemed to belie her robust constitution, for Madame Rogers had been married seven years, and in that time, had borne three babies, with a fourth possibly on the way. Her ¡°condition,¡± as she was wont to call it, was a subject of frequent conversation, though her slender figure and radiant complexion gave no indication of her impending motherhood.
Taylor, ever the gallant, began to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who had subsisted upon nougat during the entire duration of her pregnancy, but seeing the color mount into Mrs. McPherson¡¯s face, he checked himself, and with a tactful smile, changed the subject. The atmosphere was one of languid tranquility, the warm sun casting a golden glow over the scene, as the cicadas provided a soothing background hum.
Mrs. McPherson, though she had married a Creole, was not yet thoroughly at home in the society of Creoles. She had never before been thrown so intimately among them, and the experience was proving to be a revelation. The Creoles of Williams¡¯s pension, where they were summering, were a tight-knit community, bound together by ties of family and friendship. They knew each other intimately, and their relations were characterized by an amicable warmth, a sense of belonging that was palpable.
But it was their freedom of expression, their unbridled candor, that had taken Mrs. McPherson aback. She was not accustomed to such forthrightness, such a lack of prudery, and it had taken her some time to reconcile it with the lofty chastity that seemed to be an inborn characteristic of the Creole woman. She had been shocked, on more than one occasion, by Madame Rogers¡¯s forthright tales of childbirth, tales that had left her blushing and aghast.
And then, there was the book. A certain tome had been making the rounds of the pension, and when it came her turn to read it, Mrs. McPherson had done so with profound astonishment. The subject matter was not one that she would have chosen to read, and yet, she had been drawn into its pages, her eyes wide with wonder. She had felt moved to read it in secret, to hide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps, though none of the others had done so. It was openly criticised and freely discussed at table, and Mrs. McPherson had finally given over being astonished, concluding that wonders would never cease in this strange, new world of Creole society.
Chapter 5
It was a languid summer afternoon, the air thick with the scent of blooming magnolias and the gentle hum of cicadas, as the congenial group settled into their accustomed seats on the gallery of the McPherson household. Madame Rogers, a paragon of Creole beauty, sat with her perfect hands moving deftly as she sewed, often pausing to relate a story or incident with expressive gestures that left her listeners entranced. Taylor and Mrs. McPherson sat idle, exchanging occasional words, glances, or smiles that indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy and camaraderie.
Taylor had lived in Mrs. McPherson¡¯s shadow for the past month, and no one thought anything of it. It was a well-known fact that Taylor had a penchant for devoting himself to a fair dame or damsel each summer at Grand Isle. Since the age of fifteen, he had constituted himself the devoted attendant of some lovely lady, sometimes a young girl, again a widow, but as often as not, it was some interesting married woman. The summer before, he had lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle Duvigne¡¯s presence, but her untimely passing had left him inconsolable. He had then posed as a heartbroken suitor at the feet of Madame Rogers, seeking whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased to vouchsafe.
Mrs. McPherson liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she might look upon a faultless Madonna, her porcelain skin glistening with a subtle sheen of perspiration. ¡°Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?¡± Taylor murmured, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. ¡°She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It was ¡®Taylor, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if the baby sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come and read Daudet to me while I sew.¡¯¡±
Madame Rogers laughed, a throaty, musical sound, as she interjected, ¡°Par exemple! I never had to ask. You were always there under my feet, like a troublesome cat.¡± Taylor¡¯s eyes twinkled as he retorted, ¡°You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Rogers appeared on the scene, then it was like a dog. ¡®Passez! Adieu! Allez vous-en!¡¯¡± The group erupted into laughter at the jest, and Madame Rogers continued, ¡°Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,¡± her voice dripping with excessive na?vet¨¦. The very idea of Alphonse, her husband, being jealous was laughable, for the Creole husband was never jealous; with him, the gangrene passion was one that had become dwarfed by disuse.
Meanwhile, Taylor, addressing Mrs. McPherson, continued to regale her with tales of his one-time hopeless passion for Madame Rogers; of sleepless nights, of consuming flames that had left him breathless, till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily plunge. Madame Rogers kept up a little running, contemptuous comment, ¡°Blagueur¡ªfarceur¡ªgros b¨ºte, va!¡± but Taylor never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. McPherson. She never knew precisely what to make of it; at that moment, it was impossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion was earnest.
It was understood that Taylor had often spoken words of love to Madame Rogers, without any thought of being taken seriously. Mrs. McPherson was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward herself. It would have been unacceptable and annoying. She had brought her sketching materials, which she sometimes dabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the dabbling, feeling in it a satisfaction of a kind that no other employment afforded her.
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Mrs. McPherson had long wished to try her hand at capturing Madame Rogers¡¯s beauty on canvas. She had brought her sketching materials, which she handled with a certain ease and freedom, not from long and close acquaintance, but from a natural aptitude. Taylor, ever the charming companion, crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs. McPherson, his eyes fixed on her work as she brought Madame Rogers to life on paper.
Taylor followed her work with close attention, interjecting little ejaculatory expressions of appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame Rogers. ¡°Mais ce n¡¯est pas mal! Elle s¡¯y connait, elle a de la force, oui.¡± As he gazed at the sketch, he once quietly rested his head against Mrs. McPherson¡¯s arm, a gentle, thoughtless gesture that she repulsed with a gentle but firm hand. He repeated the offense, and again she quietly but firmly pushed him away. She could not but believe it to be thoughtlessness on his part, yet that was no reason she should submit to it.
The picture, when completed, bore no resemblance to Madame Rogers. Mrs. McPherson was greatly disappointed to find that it did not capture the essence of her beauty. But it was a fair enough piece of work, and in many respects satisfying. Madame Rogers, however, was not convinced, and her face fell as she gazed upon the sketch.
Mrs. McPherson, sensing her friend¡¯s disappointment, drew a broad smudge of paint across the surface of the paper, and crumpled it between her hands. The youngsters, who had been watching with wide eyes, came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at a respectful distance. Mrs. McPherson made them carry her paints and things into the house, seeking to detain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they were greatly in earnest, their eyes fixed on the bonbon box, and they accepted without murmuring what she chose to give them, each holding out two chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain hope that they might be filled.
As the sun dipped low in the west, the breeze soft and languorous, Madame Rogers folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and thread all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. She complained of faintness, and Mrs. McPherson flew to her side, bathing her face with cologne water and plied the fan with gentle vigor. Taylor, ever the charming companion, stood by, watching with a mixture of concern and amusement.
The spell was soon over, and Mrs. McPherson could not help wondering if there were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for the rose tint had never faded from her friend¡¯s face. She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries with the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to possess. Her little ones ran to meet her, two of them clinging about her white skirts, the third she took from its nurse and with a thousand endearments bore it along in her own fond, encircling arms.
As the evening drew to a close, Taylor asked Mrs. McPherson if she would join him for a bath in the Gulf. She hesitated, her glance wandering from his face away toward the sea, whose sonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty. ¡°Oh, come!¡± he insisted. ¡°You mustn¡¯t miss your bath. Come on. The water must be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come.¡±
He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside the door, and put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walked away together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west and the breeze was soft and warm.
Chapter 6
Evelyn McPherson couldn¡¯t quite explain why she initially declined Taylor¡¯s invitation to the beach, only to later follow it impulsively. There was a dawning realization within her, a light flickering in the depths of her being¡ªa revelation that simultaneously beckoned and warned.
This newfound awareness stirred her thoughts, weaving dreams and moments of deep contemplation, reminiscent of the midnight when tears had flowed freely. Mrs. McPherson, at twenty-eight, was beginning to grasp her place in the vast universe, sensing her connection to the world within and around her. It was a weighty realization for someone so young, laden with a wisdom that felt both profound and unsettling.
The genesis of self-awareness is a tumultuous journey, marked by confusion, chaos, and profound introspection. Many souls falter in this initial upheaval, lost in its labyrinthine complexities.
The sea¡¯s voice held a seductive allure, a ceaseless symphony of whispers, cries, and invitations to delve into solitary abysses, to immerse oneself in introspective labyrinths. Its touch was sensuous, enveloping the body in a tender, intimate embrace.
Mrs. McPherson wasn¡¯t one to easily share her thoughts, a trait that had always been a part of her. Even as a child, she lived a secluded life within herself, understanding early on the dichotomy of existence - the outward conformity and the inward questioning.
That summer at Grand Isle marked a slight shift in her reserved demeanor. Various influences, both subtle and overt, played their roles in this change, but none was as impactful as Ad¨¨le Rogers. The Creole woman¡¯s physical allure initially drew Evelyn in, her sensuous appreciation of beauty stirred. Yet, it was Ad¨¨le¡¯s open honesty, a stark contrast to Evelyn¡¯s guarded nature, that forged a connection. Who could decipher the metals used by fate to create the bond we call sympathy, perhaps even love?
One morning, the two women strolled arm in arm to the beach under a vast white sunshade. Evelyn convinced Madame Rogers to leave the children behind, although Ad¨¨le insisted on bringing a small roll of needlework, which she cleverly tucked away. Somehow, they slipped away from Taylor¡¯s watchful eye.
The path to the beach was a journey in itself, a sandy trail bordered by unruly growth. Yellow camomile stretched for acres, while further away, gardens flourished with citrus trees scattered among them, their dark green clusters shimmering in the sunlight.
Both women stood tall, Madame Rogers embodying a more feminine, matronly figure. Evelyn¡¯s allure was subtle yet captivating, her body¡¯s lines long, clean, and symmetrical, capable of striking poses that spoke of elegance rather than mere fashion. A passerby might overlook her, but a discerning eye would recognize her noble beauty and graceful poise.
That morning, Evelyn wore a cool white muslin dress with a brown vertical line, a white linen collar, and a large straw hat perched on her yellow-brown hair. Madame Rogers, mindful of her complexion, wore a gauze veil and dogskin gloves, her attire a soft white with ruffles that accentuated her rich beauty.
As they walked, the sea breeze played with their clothes, weaving a tale of subtle connections and unspoken understandings between these two women from different worlds yet bound by the invisible threads of shared experiences.
The beach was dotted with sturdy bath-houses, their rugged yet solid structures facing the water with protective galleries. At Williams¡¯s, each house comprised two compartments, fully equipped for bathing and adorned with whatever comforts the occupants desired. On this day, however, the intention wasn¡¯t to bathe but to enjoy a leisurely walk and the soothing proximity of the water. The compartments of Mrs. McPherson and Madame Rogers were adjacent, sharing the same roof.
Mrs. McPherson, guided by habit, unlocked her compartment¡¯s door and entered. Moments later, she emerged with a rug, spreading it on the gallery floor. She also brought out two large hair pillows covered in crash fabric, placing them against the building¡¯s front. The two women settled comfortably in the shade, leaning against the pillows with their feet stretched out.
Madame Rogers removed her veil, delicately dabbing her face with a handkerchief and using a fan that hung from her person on a narrow ribbon. Evelyn loosened her collar and unfastened her dress slightly at the throat. Taking the fan from Madame Rogers, she began to fan both of them, the warmth of the day prompting casual exchanges about the weather and the sea¡¯s shimmering brilliance.
A brisk breeze danced over the water, creating choppy waves that frothed and splashed. It tousled the women¡¯s skirts, leading them to adjust their attire and secure hairpins and hatpins. In the background, a few individuals enjoyed the water, while the beach remained tranquil, interrupted only by the rhythmic sound of the lady in black reading her morning devotions on a nearby porch and the whispered confessions of young lovers beneath an unoccupied children¡¯s tent.
Evelyn, her gaze drawn to the vastness of the sea, marveled at the clear day that extended the view to where the sky met the ocean¡¯s expanse. White clouds lazily hung over the horizon, while distant sails, including a lateen sail towards Cat Island, seemed almost motionless in the distance.
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Ad¨¨le, observing her companion¡¯s absorbed expression, inquired, ¡°What¡¯s on your mind?¡±
¡°Nothing specific,¡± replied Mrs. McPherson, momentarily startled. ¡°Well, that¡¯s rather dull of me! But isn¡¯t that the instinctive response to such questions? Let me think,¡± she added, tilting her head back and narrowing her eyes, which sparkled like twin points of light. ¡°Let me think. I wasn¡¯t consciously thinking of anything, but maybe I can trace my thoughts back.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t trouble yourself,¡± laughed Madame Rogers. ¡°I¡¯m not that demanding. Especially not in this heat¡ªit¡¯s too much to ask anyone to think deeply about thinking.¡±
¡°For the sake of amusement,¡± persisted Evelyn. ¡°The sea stretching endlessly, the sails against the sky¡ªit formed a captivating picture I couldn¡¯t tear my eyes from. And the hot wind against my face reminded me¡ªwithout a clear link¡ªof a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow that felt as vast as the ocean to a young girl wading through grass taller than her waist. She moved her arms like she was swimming, parting the tall grass like water. Ah, I see the connection now!¡±
¡°Where were you heading that day in Kentucky, wandering through the grass?¡± inquired Madame Rogers, intrigued by Evelyn¡¯s recollection.
¡°I can¡¯t quite recall. I was simply meandering across a vast field, my sun-bonnet limiting my view. All I could see was the endless green ahead of me, as if I were destined to walk forever without reaching its end. I can¡¯t remember if I felt scared or delighted. I must have been entertained,¡± Evelyn reflected.
¡°It¡¯s quite likely it was a Sunday,¡± she chuckled, ¡°and I might have been escaping prayers, avoiding the Presbyterian service read with such solemnity by my father, a memory that still sends a chill down my spine.¡±
¡°Have you been evading prayers ever since, ma ch¨¨re?¡± Madame Rogers teased, enjoying the conversation.
¡°Oh, no, not at all!¡± Evelyn clarified quickly. ¡°In those days, I was just a thoughtless child following whims without much consideration. On the contrary, religion had a profound impact on me for a time, from around twelve until... well, until now, I suppose, although I haven¡¯t dwelled on it much¡ªsimply carried along by habit. But you know,¡± she paused, locking eyes with Madame Rogers and leaning in closer, ¡°sometimes this summer feels like that green meadow again to me: aimless, thoughtless, and directionless.¡±
Madame Rogers gently placed her hand over Evelyn¡¯s, which was nearby. Sensing no resistance, she held it warmly, even affectionately stroking it with her other hand, whispering softly, ¡°Pauvre ch¨¦rie.¡±
Initially taken aback by the gesture, Evelyn soon embraced the Creole¡¯s tender touch. Affectionate expressions, spoken or shown, were not common in her life. Her relationship with her younger sister, Janet, often teetered on quarrels due to ingrained habits. Margaret, the elder sister, carried herself with a matronly dignity, likely from assuming responsibilities early in life after their mother¡¯s passing. Margaret was practical and reserved, traits Evelyn mirrored. Her school friendships tended towards the reserved as well, perhaps influenced by her own reserved nature.
Reflecting on her past, Evelyn recalled a childhood infatuation with a solemn cavalry officer who visited their Kentucky home, his sad eyes reminiscent of Napoleon¡¯s. Another time, her affections were stirred by a young man engaged to a neighbor. Despite her young age and the reality of her insignificance to him, the experience left a bitter imprint as dreams faded away.
She had reached adulthood when fate seemingly peaked for her. It was when the visage and allure of a renowned tragedian began to captivate her imagination and stir her emotions. The persistence of this infatuation lent it an air of authenticity, while its unattainability colored it with the grandeur of a profound passion.
A framed portrait of the tragedian adorned her desk, a possession that raised no suspicion or comment¡ªan aspect she secretly relished. In public, she voiced admiration for his talents, passing around the photograph and highlighting its faithful likeness. Yet in solitude, she would sometimes caress the cold glass with passionate kisses.
Her union with L¨¦once McPherson was a twist of fate, resembling many other marriages that masqueraded as predestined. It was amid her hidden infatuation that she encountered him. He fell deeply in love, as men often do, ardently pursuing her with a devotion that left nothing to be desired. She found pleasure in his company; his unwavering dedication flattered her. She fancied a shared understanding of thoughts and tastes, a notion she would later realize was mistaken. Factor in her father and sister Margaret¡¯s vehement opposition to her union with a Catholic, and the motives behind her acceptance of Monsieur McPherson as her husband become clear.
The pinnacle of bliss, embodied in a marriage to the tragedian, eluded her in reality. As the devoted wife of a man who adored her, she sensed a certain dignity in the real world, closing the doors forever on the realm of fantasies and dreams.
Yet soon, the tragedian joined the cavalry officer and the engaged young man in the realm of memories, and Evelyn confronted the stark realities of life. She grew to care for her husband, finding a strange satisfaction in the absence of overwhelming passion or artificial warmth in her affection, which could have threatened its foundation.
Her love for her children was uneven, marked by impulsive moments of tenderness followed by lapses in attention. The previous summer, they had stayed with their grandmother McPherson in Iberville, and while she missed them occasionally, their absence provided a peculiar relief¡ªa release from responsibilities she had blindly shouldered.
On that summer day with Madame Rogers, Evelyn didn¡¯t reveal all of this, but much spilled out. She rested her head on Madame Rogers¡¯s shoulder, flushed with the intoxicating taste of candor and the liberation of her own voice.
Approaching voices interrupted their moment, heralding Taylor and a group of children, including the little McPhersons and Madame Rogers¡¯s daughter. The women rose, gathering their belongings as the children scampered off. Madame Rogers complained of cramps, leaning on Taylor¡¯s arm as they headed back, leaving behind the scene of intruding lovers and playful children.
Chapter 7
¡°Do me a favor, Taylor,¡± the elegant woman beside him spoke as they strolled homeward beneath the umbrella he held above them.
¡°Of course, anything you wish,¡± he replied, meeting her thoughtful gaze.
¡°I ask just one thing: refrain from pursuing Mrs. McPherson,¡± she requested earnestly.
¡°Ah, Madame Rogers is jealous!¡± Taylor exclaimed with a boyish laugh, his eyes dancing with amusement.
¡°Nonsense! I¡¯m serious; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. McPherson be,¡± she insisted.
¡°Why?¡± Taylor inquired, his tone shifting to seriousness at her plea.
¡°She¡¯s different, not one of our circle. She might misunderstand your intentions,¡± she explained.
Annoyance flashed across Taylor¡¯s face, and he impatiently beat his soft hat against his leg. ¡°Why shouldn¡¯t she take me seriously?¡± he retorted sharply. ¡°Am I a mere entertainer, a jester? Why shouldn¡¯t she? You Creoles! I can¡¯t stand being seen as a mere amusement. I hope Mrs. McPherson does take me seriously. I hope she sees beyond the surface. If there¡¯s any doubt¡ª¡±
¡°Enough, Taylor!¡± Madame Rogers interjected, breaking into his heated response. ¡°You¡¯re speaking without thinking. Your words lack the reflection expected of you. If your attentions to married women were meant to be convincing, you wouldn¡¯t be the gentleman we know you to be, unfit to associate with those who trust you.¡±
Madame Rogers believed firmly in what she said, and Taylor impatiently shrugged his shoulders. ¡°Fine, fine,¡± he muttered, adjusting his hat with irritation. ¡°You seem to forget that such remarks aren¡¯t flattering.¡±
¡°Must our conversations always be a string of compliments?¡± she retorted.
¡°It¡¯s not pleasant to be lectured by a woman¡ª¡± Taylor began but abruptly changed the subject, recounting stories of scandalous affairs involving other men, diverting attention from Mrs. McPherson¡¯s potential misunderstanding.
Upon reaching Madame Rogers¡¯s cottage, she retired for her customary hour of rest. Before parting ways, Taylor apologized for his abruptness, acknowledging it as rudeness, despite his good intentions.
¡°You¡¯ve pointed out one thing, Ad¨¨le,¡± he remarked, a playful smile gracing his lips, ¡°Mrs. McPherson taking me seriously is about as likely as me taking myself seriously. Your advice would have been more fitting if you warned me against that! Anyway, au revoir. But you seem tired,¡± he added, concern in his voice. ¡°Would you fancy a cup of bouillon? Or perhaps a toddy? I can mix you one with a hint of Angostura.¡±
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She agreed to the bouillon, finding the idea comforting. He made his way to the kitchen, a separate building at the back of the house. Returning with a delicate S¨¨vres cup filled with golden-brown bouillon and a couple of flaky crackers, he handed it to her. She extended a bare, white arm from behind her curtain, gratefully receiving the cup. ¡°You¡¯re a good lad,¡± she complimented sincerely.
Taylor thanked her and headed towards ¡°the house.¡±
Meanwhile, lovers strolled into the pension¡¯s grounds, their intimacy mirroring the arching water-oaks. Their ethereal connection seemed to lift them above earthly concerns. The lady in black, trailing behind, appeared wearier than usual. Mrs. McPherson and the children were notably absent, likely enjoying their time until dinner.
Taylor made his way up to his mother¡¯s room at the top of the house, with its odd angles and sloping ceiling. Two dormer windows offered views of the Gulf. Inside, Madame Williams worked diligently at the sewing-machine, aided by a little black girl. Taylor perched on a dormer window sill, engrossed in a book while the sewing-machine clattered in the background.
In a brief pause, conversation drifted between Taylor and his mother.
¡°Where¡¯s Mrs. McPherson?¡±
¡°At the beach with the children.¡±
¡°I promised her the Goncourt. Don¡¯t forget to take it down when you go; it¡¯s on the bookshelf over the small table.¡± More clattering followed.
¡°Where¡¯s Victor taking the rockaway?¡±
¡°The rockaway? Victor?¡±
¡°Yes, down there. He seems to be preparing to drive somewhere.¡±
¡°Call him,¡± Madame Williams urged over the noise.
Taylor whistled sharply, trying to get Victor¡¯s attention without success.
Madame Williams rushed to the window, calling out, ¡°Victor!¡± Her waving handkerchief accompanied her calls as she tried to get the attention of the young man below, who promptly climbed into the vehicle and spurred the horse into a gallop.
Returning to her sewing machine, Madame Williams was visibly irritated. Victor, her younger son and brother, was a hothead, prone to fits of temper and possessing a will as unyielding as iron.
¡°I¡¯m ready to reason with him, if only he¡¯d listen,¡± Taylor offered, sensing his mother¡¯s frustration.
¡°If only your father were still here!¡± Madame Williams exclaimed, resuming her work with a determined clatter.
She then shifted the conversation. ¡°Any news from Montel?¡± Montel, a middle-aged acquaintance, had long sought to fill the void left by Monsieur Williams¡¯s passing.
¡°I have a letter somewhere,¡± she rummaged through her workbasket, retrieving the letter. ¡°He mentions he¡¯ll be in Vera Cruz next month,¡± she continued amidst the clattering noise, ¡°and he¡¯s still open to your joining him.¡± The noise from the sewing machine punctuated her words.
¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell me sooner, Mother? You know how much I¡ª¡± Taylor¡¯s sentence was lost in the clatter of the machine.
Madame Williams, not missing a beat, observed, ¡°Mrs. McPherson is heading back with the children. She¡¯ll be late for lunch again. She always leaves everything to the last minute.¡± Her hands continued their rhythmic movements on the machine. ¡°Where are you off to?¡± she asked Taylor.
¡°Where did you say the Goncourt was?¡± Taylor inquired, preparing to retrieve the book for Mrs. McPherson.
Chapter 8
The hall shimmered with light, each lamp radiating a warm glow against the white muslin curtains billowing in the Gulf breeze. Orange and lemon branches adorned the room, their dark green contrasting beautifully with the curtains.
It was a lively Saturday night, a few weeks after Taylor and Madame Rogers¡¯s conversation at the beach. Families and friends had gathered for the weekend, enjoying the company and hospitality of Madame Williams. The dining tables had been pushed aside, chairs arranged in clusters, creating an atmosphere of relaxation and camaraderie.
Children, allowed to stay up late, giggled as they flipped through colorful comic papers brought by Mr. McPherson. The McPherson boys, asserting their authority, supervised the younger ones.
Entertainment unfolded spontaneously¡ªmusic, dancing, and impromptu recitations. The Farival twins, dressed in blue and white as a tribute to the Blessed Virgin, played the piano. Their rendition of pieces like ¡°Zampa¡± and ¡°The Poet and the Peasant¡± captivated the audience, except for the parrot outside the door, who squawked disapproval.
Later, a brother and sister performed familiar recitations, evoking nostalgia for winter evenings in the city. A young girl mesmerized the crowd with a skirt dance, her mother accompanying on the piano. The girl, adorned in black tulle and silk tights, moved with grace and confidence, her agile movements captivating everyone in the room.
The hall glowed with the warm light of numerous lamps, casting a cozy ambiance over the evening. Orange and lemon branches adorned the room, their dark green contrasting beautifully against the white muslin curtains swaying in the breeze from the Gulf.
It was a lively Saturday night, a few weeks after Taylor and Madame Rogers had their intimate chat by the beach. Families and friends had gathered for the weekend, and Madame Williams was ensuring everyone was entertained. The dining tables had been cleared for dancing, chairs arranged in clusters, setting the stage for a relaxed and convivial atmosphere.
Children, allowed to stay up later than usual, were scattered around, absorbed in colorful comic sheets brought by Mr. McPherson. The little McPherson boys, exercising their newfound authority, were overseeing this impromptu comic session.
Music filled the air as Madame Rogers, unable to dance, played the piano with skill and enthusiasm. She believed music added warmth to their home, a sentiment shared by her husband. Almost everyone danced, except the Farival twins, who staunchly refused to be separated during the dance.
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As the evening progressed, children were reluctantly sent off to bed, some protesting with dramatic flair as they departed after the ice cream treat, which marked the pinnacle of indulgence.
Victor, taking pride in his ice cream creation, encouraged excessive sampling. Meanwhile, Mrs. McPherson, after a few dances, retired to the gallery, enjoying the moonlit view of the Gulf.
Taylor, noticing Evelyn¡¯s interest in Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s musical talents, rushed to fetch the pianist. Despite Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s stern demeanor, she agreed to play, entering the hall with an air of authority tinged with a touch of awkwardness. Her attire, a curious mix of lace and violets, stood out against the elegant backdrop of the evening.
Mademoiselle Reisz, pausing before the piano, turned to Taylor and asked, ¡°What would Mrs. McPherson like to hear me play?¡± Her request added an air of anticipation and excitement, as the guests eagerly awaited the pianist¡¯s performance.
Evelyn considered herself deeply enamored of music. Well-played melodies had a magical ability to conjure vivid images in her mind. Often, she enjoyed sitting in the room when Madame Rogers practiced or played. One particular piece, which Madame Rogers titled differently but Evelyn called ¡°Solitude,¡± had a haunting quality. It painted a mental picture of a man standing beside a rugged rock on a lonely seashore, his naked form a symbol of forlorn resignation as he watched a distant bird soar away.
Another melody evoked the image of a graceful young lady in an Empire gown, taking delicate steps down a tree-lined avenue. Yet another brought to mind playful children, while a different tune conjured nothing but the serene image of a lady petting a cat.
The initial chords struck by Mademoiselle Reisz sent a shiver down Mrs. McPherson¡¯s spine. Although she had heard skilled pianists before, this moment felt different. Perhaps it was the first time she was truly receptive, open to absorb the profound truth of the music.
Expecting vivid scenes to materialize in her mind, Evelyn instead found herself consumed by intense emotions¡ªlonging, passion, and despair swirled within her like tumultuous waves crashing against a sturdy vessel. She trembled, choked up, tears streaming down her cheeks, her soul stirred to its depths.
As Mademoiselle Reisz concluded her performance and left without waiting for acknowledgment, she casually patted Evelyn¡¯s shoulder, asking, ¡°How did you find my music?¡± Overwhelmed, Evelyn could only squeeze the pianist¡¯s hand tightly, her emotional response speaking volumes.
Observing Evelyn¡¯s intense reaction, Mademoiselle Reisz reassured her, ¡°You are the one worth playing for. The others? Bah!¡± With that, she shuffled away towards her room, oblivious to the fervor her music had stirred among the guests.
Despite Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s misjudgment, her music had ignited a passionate fervor among the listeners. Praises and exclamations filled the air: ¡°Such passion!¡± ¡°An unparalleled artist!¡± ¡°No one can interpret Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!¡± The enthusiasm lingered even as the night grew late, prompting someone, perhaps Taylor, to suggest a midnight bath under the enchanting moon¡¯s glow.
Chapter 9
Taylor proposed the midnight bath, and there was unanimous agreement among the group. Everyone was eager to follow him when he directed the way. Rather than leading, he stayed back with the couples who showed a reluctance to leave each other¡¯s company. Walking between them, Taylor¡¯s motives, whether mischievous or playful, remained a mystery even to himself.
The McPhersons and Rogerss led the way, the women leaning on their husbands¡¯ arms. Evelyn caught snippets of Taylor¡¯s voice from behind and wondered why he didn¡¯t join them. It was unlike him, as he had recently alternated between intense devotion and brief absences, making his absence felt even when unanticipated.
The group walked in clusters toward the beach, chatting, laughing, and occasionally singing. Faint strains of music drifted from Klein¡¯s hotel, blending with the sea¡¯s scent, earthy aromas, and the delicate perfume of nearby blossoms. The moon¡¯s gentle light draped the landscape in a dreamy softness, devoid of harsh shadows.
Entering the water felt natural, like returning to a familiar embrace. The sea, tranquil now, undulated lazily, its gentle waves lapping against the shore in foamy ripples. Evelyn had spent the summer learning to swim, receiving guidance from everyone, including Taylor. Despite his diligent coaching, an underlying fear lingered whenever she ventured into the water without immediate support.
However, on that night, she experienced a breakthrough akin to a child taking its first confident steps. With a few strong strokes, she surfaced, exuberant and triumphant. A surge of empowerment flooded her, prompting her to push her limits, wanting to venture where no woman had gone before.
Her newfound skill drew admiration and applause, each person claiming credit for her success. ¡°It¡¯s so easy!¡± she thought, vocalizing her realization. ¡°Why didn¡¯t I realize it sooner? I wasted so much time splashing around like a child!¡± Ignoring the group¡¯s activities, she swam out alone, intoxicated by her newfound prowess.
She turned her face toward the sea, absorbing the vastness and solitude that the water meeting the moonlit sky evoked in her mind. Swimming, she felt as though she was reaching for infinity, yearning to lose herself in the boundless expanse.
Glancing back at the shore, she saw the people she had left behind. While she hadn¡¯t ventured far by experienced swimmer standards, the distance seemed daunting to her untrained eye, appearing like an insurmountable barrier.
A fleeting fear of death seized her, momentarily weakening her resolve. But she summoned her strength and made it back to land, keeping her brush with mortality and the rush of terror to herself, except for a quiet remark to her husband about feeling on the brink of perishing alone.
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Evelyn quickly changed into dry clothes and prepared to leave while the others still enjoyed the water. Ignoring their calls to stay, she walked away alone, prompting Madame Williams to comment on her apparent capriciousness.
Taylor caught up with her on her way home. ¡°Were you afraid?¡± she asked, without irritation.
¡°No, I knew you weren¡¯t,¡± he replied.
¡°Then why did you come back? Why not stay with the others?¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t think about it.¡±
¡°What didn¡¯t you think about?¡±
¡°Anything. Does it matter?¡±
¡°I¡¯m very tired,¡± she sighed.
¡°I know,¡± he empathized.
¡°You don¡¯t know anything about it. Why should you? I¡¯ve never felt so exhausted. But it¡¯s not unpleasant. Tonight has stirred a thousand emotions in me. I don¡¯t understand half of them. Don¡¯t mind me; I¡¯m just thinking aloud. I wonder if I¡¯ll ever be moved again as Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s playing did tonight. Will any night be like this again? It feels like a dream. The people around me seem like uncanny, otherworldly beings. There must be spirits tonight.¡±
¡°There are,¡± Taylor whispered. ¡°Did you forget it¡¯s the twenty-eighth of August?¡±
¡°The twenty-eighth of August?¡±
¡°Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at midnight, under the moon¡¯s glow, a spirit rises from the Gulf, seeking a mortal worthy of sharing its ethereal realm for a few hours,¡± Taylor explained, his words carrying a hint of mystery and fascination.
Mrs. McPherson¡¯s initial response reflected a mix of curiosity and skepticism. ¡°Don¡¯t jest with me,¡± she replied, feeling a slight sting at what she perceived as his casual tone.
Taylor sensed her wounded feelings, his own demeanor shifting to a more serious note. He offered her his arm, acknowledging her exhaustion. She had been walking alone, her thoughts seemingly distant as her hand rested lightly on his arm, almost as if her mind was racing ahead of her body.
He guided her to a hammock, gently assisting her. ¡°Will you wait here for Mr. McPherson?¡± he inquired.
¡°Yes, I¡¯ll stay. Good-night,¡± she responded, settling into the hammock.
¡°Would you like a pillow?¡± he asked, noting the condition of the one in the hammock.
¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she dismissed, adjusting it herself. As she reclined, there was a grace in her repose, a sense of tranquility that seemed to envelop her.
¡°Shall I stay until Mr. McPherson returns?¡± Taylor offered, taking a seat nearby.
¡°If you wish. Please don¡¯t rock the hammock. Could you fetch my white shawl from the house?¡± she requested, anticipating the night¡¯s chill.
He fetched the shawl, returning to find her still awake. She held the shawl but didn¡¯t wrap herself in it, a subtle sign of her independence.
¡°Did you want me to stay until Mr. McPherson returns?¡± he asked again, trying to gauge her wishes.
¡°You can if you want,¡± she replied softly, her gaze following him as he sat down and lit a cigarette.
The silence between them carried unspoken emotions, a quiet intimacy that spoke volumes. When the sounds of approaching bathers broke the stillness, Taylor bid her goodnight, thinking she had drifted off to sleep. Yet, she remained awake, watching him leave in the moonlit shadows, the night holding secrets and unspoken desires in its tranquil embrace.
Chapter 10
¡°What are you doing out here, Evelyn? I expected to find you in bed,¡± remarked her husband, surprised to discover her lying in the hammock. He had escorted Madame Williams back to the house and returned to find his wife outdoors.
Evelyn didn¡¯t respond immediately, her eyes bright and alert as they met his gaze. ¡°No, I¡¯m not asleep,¡± she replied, her tone clear and composed.
¡°It¡¯s past one o¡¯clock. Let¡¯s go inside,¡± he urged, gesturing for her to follow him into their room.
¡°Evelyn!¡± he called after a brief pause.
¡°I¡¯ll stay out here,¡± she replied calmly, refusing to be hurried inside.
¡°You¡¯ll catch a cold,¡± he insisted, his irritation evident. ¡°Why won¡¯t you come in?¡±
¡°It¡¯s not cold, and I have my shawl,¡± she countered, her voice unwavering.
¡°There might be mosquitoes,¡± he tried another angle, growing more agitated.
¡°There are none,¡± she stated firmly, her determination evident.
He sensed her stubbornness, a rare defiance that he hadn¡¯t encountered before. ¡°This is foolishness. You can¡¯t stay out here all night,¡± he protested.
With a resolute movement, she settled deeper into the hammock. Her will had sparked a defiance she couldn¡¯t suppress. ¡°I¡¯m staying,¡± she declared, her tone final.
¡°This is beyond reason,¡± he exclaimed, struggling to understand her sudden resolve. ¡°You must come inside now.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not going in,¡± she reiterated, her resolve unyielding. ¡°Please go to bed.¡±
He hesitated, then slipped on an extra layer of clothing before retreating indoors. Pouring himself a glass of wine, he offered one to her, but she declined. He settled into a rocker on the porch, smoking cigars in contemplative silence. Hours passed as they remained in their separate spaces, each lost in their own thoughts and emotions, the night enveloping them in a quiet standoff of wills.
Evelyn felt like she was emerging from a dream, a surreal yet captivating experience that now gave way to the weight of reality pressing on her. The euphoria that had buoyed her spirit faded, replaced by the heavy pull of sleep.
The quietest hour of the night descended, that breathless moment before dawn when the world seemed to hold its collective breath. The moon, now tinged with copper, hung low in the sky, casting a soft glow over the surroundings. The nocturnal sounds had receded¡ªthe owl¡¯s hoots silenced, the water-oaks stilled in their quiet slumber.
Cramped from lying still for so long, Evelyn rose from the hammock, her movements hesitant and unsteady. She leaned against the post for support as she made her way toward the house.
¡°Are you coming in, L¨¦once?¡± she called out, her voice carrying a hint of weariness.
¡°Yes, dear,¡± he replied, his attention momentarily drawn to a wisp of smoke from his cigar. ¡°Just finishing up.¡±
She slept fitfully, tormented by fleeting dreams that slipped through her grasp upon waking, leaving only a vague sense of unattainable desires. Rising early, she dressed in the crisp morning air that seemed to clear her mind somewhat, though she wasn¡¯t consciously seeking solace or guidance from any source, internal or external. It was as if she had surrendered herself to unknown forces, relinquishing responsibility for her actions.
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The early morning found most still in the embrace of sleep. Only a few souls, destined for the morning mass at Ch¨ºni¨¨re, stirred about. The lovers, their plans set the night before, strolled towards the wharf. A lady dressed in black, clutching her ornate prayer-book and silver beads, followed not far behind. Old Monsieur Farival, ever willing for a new venture, donned his straw hat and trailed the lady, never quite catching up.
The young girl who operated Madame Williams¡¯s sewing machine swept the galleries absentmindedly. Evelyn dispatched her to wake Taylor.
¡°Tell him I¡¯m going to Ch¨ºni¨¨re. The boat¡¯s ready; tell him to hurry,¡± she instructed.
Taylor promptly joined her, surprised at her summons. It was a departure from her usual demeanor, but neither of them dwelled on the strangeness of the situation. They made their way to the kitchen for a hasty coffee, served through the window by the cook. Evelyn found the coffee surprisingly satisfying, a thought that hadn¡¯t crossed her mind until then.
¡°You never seem to plan ahead,¡± Taylor remarked.
¡°Why should I when I¡¯ve got you?¡± she teased. ¡°Isn¡¯t it enough that I woke you up and got us here?¡±
They took a shortcut across the sands, observing the procession towards the wharf¡ªa peculiar sight with the lovers creeping along, the lady in black gaining ground, and old Monsieur Farival slowly falling behind, accompanied by a young Spanish girl, Mariequita.
Taylor engaged in conversation with Mariequita during the boat ride, their exchange lost to the others. Mariequita, with her expressive gestures and playful demeanor, caught Evelyn¡¯s attention, especially her bare feet with sand and slime nestled between her toes.
As the boat journeyed on, tensions simmered between Beaudelet and Mariequita, Beaudelet annoyed at her presence and the old man¡¯s constant commentary on sailing skills. The lovers, absorbed in their own world, remained oblivious to the dynamics around them, while the lady in black continued her ritual of counting beads, and old Monsieur Farival held forth on his sailing expertise.
Evelyn surveyed Mariequita with curiosity, from her unassuming brown toes to her lively black eyes and back again.
¡°Why¡¯s she staring at me like that?¡± Mariequita asked Taylor.
¡°Maybe she thinks you¡¯re pretty. Should I ask her?¡± Taylor replied.
¡°No. Is she your sweetheart?¡± Mariequita persisted.
¡°She¡¯s married with two children,¡± Taylor clarified.
¡°Oh! Well! Francisco ran off with Sylvano¡¯s wife, who had four kids. They took his money, one child, and stole his boat,¡± Mariequita rambled on.
¡°Enough!¡± Taylor hushed her.
¡°Does she get it?¡± Mariequita pressed.
¡°Shh!¡± Taylor urged her to stop.
¡°Are those two over there married¡ªleaning on each other?¡± Mariequita pointed at a couple.
¡°Definitely not,¡± Taylor chuckled.
¡°Definitely not,¡± Mariequita echoed, nodding seriously.
The sun climbed higher, its rays beginning to scorch. Evelyn felt the breeze carrying the heat into her skin. Taylor shielded her with an umbrella as they sailed, the sails billowing with the wind. Old Monsieur Farival chuckled at the sails, while Beaudelet muttered under his breath in irritation.
Sailing towards Ch¨ºni¨¨re Caminada, Evelyn felt a sense of liberation, as if the constraints binding her had loosened the night before with the mystical spirit¡¯s presence. Taylor conversed with her incessantly, no longer paying attention to Mariequita, who sulked while tending her basket of shrimps.
¡°Let¡¯s go to Grande Terre tomorrow,¡± Taylor suggested quietly.
¡°What¡¯s there to do?¡± Evelyn inquired.
¡°Climb to the old fort and observe the golden snakes and sunbathing lizards,¡± Taylor proposed.
Evelyn imagined being alone with Taylor on Grande Terre, basking in the sun, listening to the ocean, and watching lizards amidst ancient ruins.
¡°Or we can sail to Bayou Brulow the next day,¡± Taylor suggested.
¡°What for?¡± Evelyn queried.
¡°Fishing, perhaps,¡± Taylor replied.
¡°No, let¡¯s return to Grande Terre. Forget the fish,¡± Evelyn decided.
¡°We¡¯ll go wherever you wish,¡± Taylor agreed. ¡°I¡¯ll have Tonie assist me with the boat. We won¡¯t need Beaudelet or anyone else. Are you afraid of the pirogue?¡±
¡°Not at all,¡± Evelyn answered.
¡°Then one night, with the moon shining, I¡¯ll take you in the pirogue. Maybe your Gulf spirit will guide us to hidden treasures on these islands,¡± Taylor teased.
¡°And we¡¯ll be rich in a day!¡± Evelyn laughed. ¡°I¡¯d give it all to you. Pirate gold isn¡¯t for hoarding; it¡¯s for spending wildly.¡±
¡°We¡¯d share and scatter it,¡± Taylor said, his face flushing.
They arrived at the quaint Gothic church of Our Lady of Lourdes, leaving Beaudelet behind to work on his boat while Mariequita, casting a resentful glance, walked away with her basket of shrimps.
Chapter 11
A wave of oppression and drowsiness swept over Evelyn during the church service. Her head ached, and the altar lights seemed to sway before her eyes. Normally, she would have tried to regain her composure, but now her sole thought was to escape the stifling air inside. She stood, muttering an apology as she climbed over Taylor¡¯s feet.
Old Monsieur Farival, flustered and curious, stood up, but upon seeing Taylor follow Evelyn, he sank back into his seat. He whispered anxiously to the lady in black, who ignored him, her eyes fixed on the pages of her velvet prayer book.
¡°I felt dizzy and almost fainted,¡± Evelyn explained, instinctively lifting her hands to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her forehead. ¡°I couldn¡¯t stay through the service.¡± They stood outside in the church¡¯s shadow, Taylor full of concern.
¡°It was foolish to think of going, let alone staying,¡± he said, taking her arm gently. ¡°Come over to Madame Antoine¡¯s; you can rest there.¡± He led her away, his eyes filled with worry.
The stillness was profound, broken only by the whisper of the sea through the reeds in the saltwater pools. Little gray, weather-beaten houses nestled among orange trees. It seemed perpetually peaceful on that drowsy island, Evelyn thought. They stopped at a jagged fence made of sea-drift to ask for water. A mild-faced Acadian youth was drawing water from a cistern, an old rusty buoy sunk into the ground. The water he handed them in a tin pail wasn¡¯t cold, but it was cool on Evelyn¡¯s flushed face, reviving her.
Madame Antoine¡¯s cottage was at the far end of the village. She welcomed them with native hospitality, as if opening her door to sunlight. She was fat and moved clumsily, but with a heart full of eagerness to help. Though she spoke no English, Taylor conveyed that Evelyn needed to rest, and Madame Antoine bustled to make her comfortable.
The cottage was spotless, and the big, four-poster bed, with its snow-white linens, invited repose. It stood in a small side room looking out over a narrow grass plot toward a shed where a disabled boat lay keel-up.
Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she expected him back soon and invited Taylor to wait inside. Instead, he sat outside the door, smoking. Madame Antoine busied herself in the large front room, preparing dinner. She boiled mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace.
Evelyn, alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removing most of them. She bathed her face, neck, and arms in the basin between the windows, then took off her shoes and stockings, stretching out in the very center of the high, white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest in this strange, quaint bed, with the sweet country scent of laurel lingering in the sheets and mattress. She stretched her limbs, aching slightly, and ran her fingers through her loosened hair. She examined her round arms, marveling at their fine, firm texture as if seeing them for the first time. She clasped her hands above her head and drifted into sleep.
Her sleep was light at first, half aware of her surroundings. She heard Madame Antoine¡¯s heavy tread on the sanded floor and chickens clucking outside the windows. Later, she half-heard Taylor and Tonie talking under the shed, their voices blending with other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses. Tonie¡¯s slow Acadian drawl and Taylor¡¯s quick, soft French became part of the soothing background as she slipped into deeper slumber.
When Evelyn awoke, she felt as if she had slept long and soundly. The voices outside had hushed, and the rhythmic tread of Madame Antoine could no longer be heard. Even the chickens had moved on. The mosquito net was drawn around her; Madame Antoine must have come in and lowered it while she slept. Evelyn rose quietly from the bed and peeked between the curtains. The sun¡¯s slanting rays indicated that afternoon was well advanced.
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Taylor lounged under the shed, reclining in the shade against the keel of the overturned boat, engrossed in a book. Tonie was nowhere to be seen. Evelyn wondered where the rest of the party had gone. She stole a few glances at Taylor as she washed herself in the basin between the windows.
Madame Antoine had left clean, coarse towels on a chair and a box of poudre de riz within reach. Evelyn dabbed the powder on her nose and cheeks, studying her reflection in the small, distorted mirror above the basin. Her eyes were bright, wide awake, and her face glowed.
After finishing her toilet, she walked into the adjoining room, feeling very hungry. The room was empty, but a cloth-covered table stood against the wall, set for one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Evelyn tore a piece from the loaf with her strong, white teeth and poured herself some wine, drinking it down. Then she slipped outside, plucked an orange from a low-hanging branch, and tossed it at Taylor.
Taylor looked up, startled, and a broad smile spread across his face as he joined her under the orange tree.
¡°How many years have I slept?¡± she asked playfully. ¡°The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as relics of the past. When did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? And when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?¡±
He adjusted a ruffle on her shoulder, his touch familiar and gentle.
¡°You¡¯ve slept precisely one hundred years,¡± he replied, with a mock-serious tone. ¡°I was left here to guard your slumber, and for one hundred years I¡¯ve been reading under the shed. The only thing I couldn¡¯t prevent was the broiled fowl from drying up.¡±
¡°If it¡¯s turned to stone, I¡¯ll still eat it,¡± Evelyn laughed, moving with him into the house. ¡°But really, what happened to Monsieur Farival and the others?¡±
¡°They left hours ago. When they saw you were asleep, they decided not to wake you. Besides, I wouldn¡¯t have let them. That¡¯s what I was here for,¡± Taylor said.
¡°I wonder if L¨¦once will be uneasy,¡± she mused, seating herself at the table.
¡°Of course not. He knows you¡¯re with me,¡± Taylor replied, busying himself among the pans and covered dishes left on the hearth.
¡°Where are Madame Antoine and her son?¡± Evelyn asked.
¡°They¡¯ve gone to Vespers and to visit friends, I believe. I¡¯ll take you back in Tonie¡¯s boat whenever you¡¯re ready.¡±
He stirred the smoldering ashes until the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her a hearty meal, brewing fresh coffee and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little besides the mullets, but while Evelyn slept, Taylor had foraged the island for food. He was childishly pleased to see her appetite and the relish with which she ate the food he had procured.
Evelyn savored every bite, grateful for the care and effort Taylor had put into the meal. They shared a quiet, companionable moment, the simple act of eating together deepening their bond. Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows and painting the sky with hues of orange and pink.
¡°Shall we go right away?¡± Evelyn asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf.
¡°The sun isn¡¯t as low as it will be in two hours,¡± Taylor replied, leaning back.
¡°The sun will be gone in two hours.¡±
¡°Well, let it go; who cares!¡± he said with a carefree shrug.
They waited a good while under the orange trees, enjoying the languid afternoon until Madame Antoine returned, panting and waddling, with a thousand apologies for her absence. Tonie, too shy to return and face any woman except his mother, stayed away.
It was very pleasant under the orange trees as the sun dipped lower, turning the western sky into a flaming display of copper and gold. Shadows lengthened, creeping out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass.
Evelyn and Taylor sat on the ground; he lay beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine settled her broad, squat figure on a bench beside the door. She had been talking all afternoon and was now wound up to storytelling pitch.
And what stories she told them! Despite having left Ch¨ºni¨¨re Caminada only twice in her life and for the briefest spans, she had gathered an incredible trove of legends about the Baratarians and the sea. As night fell and the moon rose, Evelyn could almost hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold.
When Evelyn and Taylor finally stepped into Tonie¡¯s boat, with its red lateen sail, the night was alive with misty spirit forms prowling in the shadows and among the reeds. Phantom ships seemed to glide over the water, heading to unseen destinations.
Chapter 12
Madame Rogers handed over the youngest boy, Etienne, into his mother¡¯s arms, declaring he had been very naughty. He had resisted going to bed, causing a commotion until Madame Rogers intervened to calm him. Raoul, the older sibling, had been asleep for two hours already.
Etienne, in his long white nightgown that tripped him up, rubbed his sleepy, irritable eyes as Evelyn took him and settled into a rocking chair. She coddled and comforted him, using tender words to lull him back to sleep.
It was only nine o¡¯clock, and apart from the children, no one else had retired for the night.
Initially, L¨¦once had been anxious, eager to head to the Ch¨ºni¨¨re immediately. Madame Rogers explained that Monsieur Farival had reassured him that Evelyn was simply exhausted and would return safely with Tonie later in the day. Relieved of his worries, L¨¦once had gone to Klein¡¯s to meet a cotton broker regarding financial matters, planning not to stay out late. Madame Rogers herself was feeling the effects of the heat and humidity, armed with a bottle of salts and a large fan, unwilling to stay with Evelyn as Monsieur Rogers disliked being left alone.
After Etienne fell asleep, Evelyn carried him to the back room, where Taylor lifted the mosquito net so she could tuck him in comfortably. The quadroon had disappeared by then. Taylor bid Evelyn goodnight, noting they had spent the entire day together since morning.
¡°Do you realize we¡¯ve been together all day, Taylor¡ªsince early this morning?¡± Evelyn remarked.
¡°All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Goodnight,¡± he replied, squeezing her hand before heading towards the beach alone.
Evelyn stayed outside, waiting for her husband¡¯s return. She felt no urge to sleep or socialize with others. Her thoughts drifted back to her time at Grand Isle, pondering how this summer felt different from all others. She sensed a change within herself, an encounter with new aspects of her being that influenced her perception of the world around her, although she didn¡¯t fully grasp it yet.
She wondered why Taylor had left, not considering that he might have wanted a break after spending the entire day with her. She missed his presence, finding it natural and comforting to have him near.
As she waited, Evelyn softly sang a song Taylor had sung during their bay crossing. Its melody, simple and haunting, lingered in her mind, each verse ending with ¡°si tu savais.¡± Taylor¡¯s voice, genuine and musical, echoed in her memory, adding to the bittersweet ambiance of the evening.
As Evelyn stepped into the dining room later than usual, the atmosphere crackled with animated conversation. Victor¡¯s voice carried above the rest, discussing a surprising topic¡ªTaylor¡¯s sudden departure for Mexico. Evelyn, flushed from her late return and hurried dressing, took her place at the table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame Rogers.
As she prepared to eat her soup, served upon her arrival, multiple voices bombarded her with the news of Taylor¡¯s imminent journey. Stunned, she looked around, her expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. Taylor had spent the morning with her, reading, without a mention of Mexico. Her afternoon had passed without seeing him, hearing only that he was upstairs with his mother, which hadn¡¯t raised any concerns until his absence later in the day.
Glancing at Taylor beside Madame Williams, Evelyn¡¯s bewilderment was palpable. Taylor¡¯s response, a strained smile and raised eyebrows, only added to her puzzlement. ¡°When is he leaving?¡± she asked the table at large, as if Taylor himself couldn¡¯t clarify.
¡°To-night!¡± ¡°This very evening!¡± The responses, a cacophony of French and English, echoed around her.
¡°Impossible!¡± Evelyn protested. ¡°How can someone leave for Mexico from Grand Isle on a whim, as if going to Klein¡¯s or the wharf or the beach?¡±
¡°I¡¯ve always said I was going to Mexico; I¡¯ve said it for years!¡± Taylor retorted, his tone tinged with irritation, as if warding off a swarm of bees.
Madame Williams intervened, calling for order and allowing Taylor to explain. The chaotic table drew her sarcastic remark about wishing Victor lost his ability to speak, which he chuckled at, finding little benefit except perhaps silencing her own talkative tendencies.
Monsieur Farival¡¯s acerbic thoughts about Victor drowned in the sea sparked a heated exchange, with Victor proposing similar fates for troublesome elders. Taylor, addressing Evelyn through his explanations, detailed his last-minute decision due to the timing of a steamer¡¯s departure from New Orleans and Beaudelet¡¯s scheduled trip with vegetables that night.
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¡°When did you decide on all this?¡± Monsieur Farival persisted.
¡°This afternoon,¡± Taylor replied, a touch annoyed.
¡°At what time exactly?¡± Monsieur Farival pressed, resembling a prosecutor in a courtroom.
¡°Four o¡¯clock this afternoon,¡± Taylor declared, his tone becoming theatrical, reminding Evelyn of a stage performer.
Evelyn, having managed to eat her soup, now delicately picked at her main course, thoughts swirling amidst the dinner table drama.
As the conversation about Mexico filled the room, the lovers found their own secluded space for whispered discussions, recognizing the topic¡¯s lack of interest to anyone else. The lady in black sought answers about a special indulgence tied to Mexican prayer beads, a mystery that had eluded her understanding. She urged Taylor to delve into this arcane matter on her behalf.
Madame Rogers, meanwhile, warned Taylor about the perceived treachery of Mexicans, sharing a cautionary tale of a seemingly trustworthy man who ended up stabbing his wife, leaving her unsure of his fate.
Amidst this, Victor¡¯s attempt at a humorous anecdote about a Mexican girl fell flat, except for old Monsieur Farival, who found it uproariously amusing.
Evelyn, feeling the chaos of the conversation, questioned the sanity of everyone present. ¡°When do you leave?¡± she asked Taylor.
¡°At ten,¡± he replied, explaining that they were waiting for the moon before departing.
¡°Are you prepared to go?¡± she inquired further.
¡°Completely. I¡¯ll only take a handbag; my trunk will be packed in the city,¡± he reassured her before turning to attend to his mother¡¯s query.
Having finished her coffee, Evelyn excused herself and retreated to her room. Despite the stuffiness indoors, she busied herself with household tasks, tidying up and changing into more comfortable attire. She then helped the quadroon put the children to bed, telling her she could take the evening off.
After a failed attempt to calm the children with a story, Evelyn received a message from Madame Williams, asking her to join them until Taylor left. Initially agreeing, she changed her mind and opted to stay outside, fanning herself vigorously due to the stifling heat and her heightened emotions.
Madame Rogers, sensing Evelyn¡¯s distress, approached her. Evelyn expressed her frustration at the suddenness of Taylor¡¯s departure, feeling unsettled by the lack of prior mention of such a significant event. Madame Rogers empathized, acknowledging Taylor¡¯s lack of consideration in not sharing his plans earlier. Despite her reluctance, Evelyn decided to join the others, recognizing the importance of showing friendliness in such moments.
¡°No,¡± Evelyn replied, her tone tinged with sullenness. ¡°I don¡¯t want to go through the trouble of dressing again; I¡¯m not in the mood for it.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t need to dress up; you look fine; just put on a belt. Look at me!¡±
¡°No,¡± Evelyn insisted. ¡°But you go ahead. It wouldn¡¯t be polite to both stay away from Madame Williams.¡±
Madame Rogers bid Evelyn goodnight with a kiss, eager to join the lively conversation about Mexico and the Mexicans still buzzing in the air.
Later, Taylor appeared, carrying his handbag. ¡°Are you feeling alright?¡± he inquired.
¡°I¡¯m okay. Are you leaving soon?¡±
He glanced at his watch after lighting a match. ¡°In twenty minutes,¡± he replied. The brief glow of the match accentuated the darkness momentarily. He settled on a stool left out by the children on the porch.
¡°Get a chair,¡± Evelyn suggested.
¡°This is fine,¡± he said, putting on his soft hat and then removing it, wiping his face due to the heat.
¡°Take the fan,¡± Evelyn offered.
¡°No, thank you. It doesn¡¯t help; you just end up feeling hotter afterwards when you stop fanning.¡±
¡°That¡¯s a typical man¡¯s complaint about fanning. I¡¯ve never heard one say anything different. How long will you be gone?¡±
¡°Maybe forever. I don¡¯t know. It depends on several things.¡±
¡°Well, assuming it¡¯s not forever, how long will it be?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°This seems absurd and unnecessary. I don¡¯t like it. I don¡¯t understand why you kept silent and mysterious, not mentioning it to me this morning.¡± He stayed silent, not defending himself but saying after a pause, ¡°Don¡¯t part from me in anger. I¡¯ve never seen you impatient with me before.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t want to part angrily,¡± she replied. ¡°But can¡¯t you see? I¡¯ve grown used to having you around, and your actions seem unfriendly, even unkind. You don¡¯t even offer an explanation. I was looking forward to being together, thinking of seeing you in the city next winter.¡±
¡°So was I,¡± he blurted out. ¡°Maybe that¡¯s the¡ª¡± He abruptly stood up and extended his hand. ¡°Goodbye, my dear Mrs. McPherson; goodbye. I hope you won¡¯t forget me completely.¡± She held onto his hand, trying to keep him there.
¡°Write to me when you arrive there, Taylor?¡± she pleaded.
¡°I will, thank you. Goodbye.¡±
How unlike Taylor! Even a mere acquaintance would have said more than ¡°I will, thank you; goodbye,¡± in response to such a request.
He seemed to have already bid farewell to the others at the house, for he descended the steps and joined Beaudelet outside, who was waiting with an oar across his shoulder. They walked away into the darkness. Only Beaudelet¡¯s voice could be heard; Taylor hadn¡¯t even exchanged a greeting with his companion.
Evelyn bit her handkerchief, trying to contain and hide, even from herself, the turmoil gripping her. Tears welled in her eyes.
For the first time, she recognized the signs of infatuation she had felt fleetingly as a child, in her early teens, and later as a young woman. Knowing this didn¡¯t diminish the intensity of the feeling or the pain of the realization. The past held no wisdom she wanted to heed. The future remained a mystery she didn¡¯t try to unravel. The present moment was all-consuming, tormenting her with the stark realization of loss and denied desires.
Chapter 13
¡°Do you miss your friend greatly?¡± asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morning as she crept up behind Evelyn, who had just left her cottage on her way to the beach. Evelyn had immersed herself in swimming, finding solace in this activity as their time at Grand Isle neared its end. Taylor¡¯s departure had somehow drained the vibrancy, color, and meaning from everything around her. While her daily routine remained unchanged, her inner world felt dulled, like a once-vibrant garment now faded and lacking allure. She sought traces of Taylor everywhere¡ªthrough conversations with others who knew him, visits to Madame Williams¡¯s room, enduring the clatter of the old sewing-machine, and examining old family albums for glimpses of him.
In one picture, Madame Williams held a round-faced baby Taylor on her lap, his eyes hinting at the man he would become. Another photo showed him at five, in kilts and with curls, a whip in hand. Evelyn chuckled at these images, including one of him in his first long trousers and another before he left for college, looking determined and ambitious. But there were no recent pictures capturing the Taylor who had departed five days ago, leaving an emptiness in his wake.
¡°Taylor stopped posing for pictures once he had to pay for them himself! He found better uses for his money,¡± Madame Williams remarked. She had received a letter from him, and Evelyn eagerly sought it out, fascinated by its details¡ªthe envelope, postmark, handwriting. She scrutinized every aspect before opening it. The letter contained a few lines about his imminent departure, his well-being, and greetings to everyone, including a postscript mentioning a book he had left for Evelyn to finish.
Evelyn felt a twinge of jealousy that he had written to his mother instead of her. Everyone assumed she missed him, including her husband, who expressed regret at Taylor¡¯s absence when he visited the following Saturday.
¡°How do you manage without him, Evelyn?¡± he inquired.
¡°It¡¯s quite dull without him,¡± she admitted. Mr. McPherson shared details of his encounter with Taylor in the city, describing their conversation about Mexico and Taylor¡¯s upbeat demeanor about his upcoming journey. Evelyn tapped her foot impatiently, redirecting the children from the sun to the shade and scolding the quadroon for not being more attentive.
Evelyn found no absurdity in making Taylor the topic of conversation and eliciting her husband¡¯s thoughts about him. Her feelings toward Taylor were distinctly different from those she harbored for her husband; they were private, unspoken emotions that belonged solely to her. She had always believed in the sanctity of her personal thoughts and emotions, convinced that they were hers alone and not subject to compromise. In a previous conversation with Madame Rogers, Evelyn had asserted that while she would sacrifice her money and life for her children, she wouldn¡¯t sacrifice her essence. This declaration had sparked a debate between the two women, highlighting their differing perspectives.
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¡°I don¡¯t know what you consider essential or nonessential,¡± remarked Madame Rogers, ¡°but a mother willing to give her life for her children has already given the ultimate sacrifice¡ªyour Bible would agree. I doubt anyone could do more than that.¡±
Evelyn chuckled. ¡°Oh, but they could!¡± she countered, her viewpoint firmly entrenched.
Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s question about missing Taylor didn¡¯t surprise Evelyn as they walked toward the beach.
¡°Good morning, Mademoiselle. Are you headed for a swim?¡± Evelyn greeted her.
¡°Why would I swim at the end of the season when I¡¯ve avoided it all summer?¡± replied Mademoiselle, somewhat tartly.
¡°I apologize,¡± Evelyn said, realizing her oversight in mentioning swimming to someone who rarely ventured into the water due to various speculated reasons. She accepted some chocolates from Mademoiselle Reisz, a peace offering of sorts, as they discussed Madame Williams and her attachment to her sons, particularly Victor.
¡°She must feel quite lonely without Taylor,¡± Evelyn remarked, shifting the conversation away from swimming.
Mademoiselle chuckled wryly. ¡°Lonely? Aline Williams lives for Victor alone. Taylor is admirable for supporting the family, but he¡¯s not her favorite. I miss him myself¡ªthe only Williams worth a damn. He visits me often in the city. As for Victor, Taylor¡¯s patience is remarkable.¡±
Evelyn nodded, glad to talk about Taylor, regardless of the context.
¡°Oh, he gave him quite a thrashing a year or two back,¡± Mademoiselle recounted. ¡°It was over a Spanish girl, Mariequita, whom Victor fancied he had some claim to. He caught Taylor with her one day, talking, walking, bathing, or carrying her basket¡ªI can¡¯t recall which exactly¡ªand Victor got so offensive that Taylor promptly gave him a beating that kept him in line for a good while. It¡¯s high time he got another one.¡±
¡°Mariequita?¡± Evelyn inquired.
¡°Yes, that¡¯s the one. Mariequita,¡± Mademoiselle confirmed. ¡°She¡¯s a crafty one, that Mariequita.¡±
Evelyn couldn¡¯t help but feel a pang of discomfort at Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s bitterness. Despite this, she decided to go for a swim, slipping into her bathing suit and leaving Mademoiselle in the shade of the children¡¯s tent. The water¡¯s chill as summer waned only added to the thrill as Evelyn immersed herself, reveling in the invigorating embrace of the sea. She lingered in the water, half-hoping Mademoiselle would head back without her.
However, Mademoiselle waited, her demeanor turning amiable during their return walk. She complimented Evelyn¡¯s appearance in her bathing attire and shifted the conversation to music. Before parting, Mademoiselle shared her city address with Evelyn, who inquired about their departure dates.
¡°I leave next Monday; and you?¡± Mademoiselle asked.
¡°The following week,¡± Evelyn replied, reflecting, ¡°It¡¯s been a delightful summer, hasn¡¯t it?¡±
¡°Quite pleasant, if not for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins,¡± Mademoiselle agreed with a slight shrug.
Chapter 14
The McPhersons resided in a delightful home on Esplanade Street in New Orleans. Their abode, a spacious double cottage, boasted a wide front veranda supported by round, fluted columns beneath a sloping roof. Its dazzling white exterior was complemented by green jalousies or shutters. The meticulously kept yard bloomed with a variety of flowers and plants typical of South Louisiana. Indoors, the decor adhered to a conventional yet elegant style. Soft carpets and rugs graced the floors, while tasteful draperies adorned doors and windows. Paintings adorned the walls, carefully chosen for their aesthetic appeal. The cut glass, silverware, and exquisite damask used daily were the envy of many less fortunate women.
Mr. McPherson took great pleasure in inspecting every aspect of his home, relishing in the ownership of each item and the ambiance they collectively created. He particularly enjoyed admiring new acquisitions, whether they be paintings, statuettes, or rare lace curtains, reveling in their placement within his cherished abode.
Tuesday afternoons marked Mrs. McPherson¡¯s reception day, drawing a steady stream of visitors. Women arrived in carriages, streetcars, or on foot, greeted by a light-colored mulatto boy in a dress coat who ushered them in with a diminutive silver tray for their cards. A maid in a white fluted cap offered liqueurs, coffee, or chocolate as per the guests¡¯ preferences. Mrs. McPherson, elegantly attired for the occasion, graciously received her visitors in the drawing-room throughout the afternoon. Occasionally, men accompanied their wives for evening visits.
This routine had been faithfully followed by Mrs. McPherson since her marriage six years prior. On certain evenings, she and her husband enjoyed outings to the opera or the theater.
As they sat down for dinner one Tuesday evening, a few weeks after their return from Grand Isle, the McPhersons were alone together. The boys were being put to bed, their playful footsteps audible along with the gentle remonstrances of the quadroon. Mrs. McPherson, contrary to her usual Tuesday attire, was dressed casually. Mr. McPherson, ever observant, noted this as he served the soup.
¡°Feeling tired, Evelyn? How was the reception today? Many callers?¡± he inquired, seasoning his soup meticulously.
¡°There were quite a few,¡± Evelyn replied, relishing her soup. ¡°I discovered their cards when I returned; I had been out.¡±
¡°Out?¡± Mr. McPherson¡¯s surprise was evident as he paused in his seasoning. ¡°What prompted you to go out on a Tuesday? Did you have any engagements?¡±
¡°No, I simply felt like going out, so I did,¡± she answered nonchalantly.
¡°Well, I hope you offered some explanation for your absence,¡± Mr. McPherson remarked, adding a dash of cayenne pepper to his soup.
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¡°No, I didn¡¯t. I told Joe to say I was out, that¡¯s all,¡± Evelyn replied matter-of-factly.
¡°My dear, you must understand by now the importance of observing social niceties,¡± Mr. McPherson admonished gently. ¡°If you felt the need to leave, you should have left a suitable explanation for your absence.¡±
¡°As for this soup,¡± he continued, ¡°it leaves much to be desired. Any free-lunch stand in town serves better. Did Mrs. Belthrop visit today?¡±
¡°Joe, bring the tray with the cards,¡± Mrs. McPherson requested.
After a brief moment, Joe returned with the tray adorned with visiting cards, presenting it to Mrs. McPherson.
¡°Give it to Mr. McPherson,¡± she directed, and Joe complied, handing the tray to Mr. McPherson before clearing away the soup.
Mr. McPherson perused the names on his wife¡¯s callers¡¯ cards, commenting as he read, ¡°The Misses Delasidas. I closed a substantial deal for their father this morning; delightful girls, high time they found suitable matches. Mrs. Belthrop. Let me tell you, Evelyn, we can¡¯t afford to overlook Mrs. Belthrop. Belthrop could outbid us tenfold. His business brings considerable profit my way. You should send her a note. Mrs. James Highcamp. Best to keep your distance from Mrs. Highcamp. Madame Laforc¨¦. She came all the way from Carrolton, poor soul. Miss Wiggs, Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.¡± With a dismissive gesture, he set the cards aside.
¡°Goodness!¡± Evelyn exclaimed, her frustration evident. ¡°Why are you making such a fuss over this?¡±
¡°I¡¯m not fussing, dear. It¡¯s the little things that matter; they count,¡± Mr. McPherson replied earnestly.
The fish turned out overcooked, unappetizing to Mr. McPherson¡¯s discerning palate. Evelyn, however, shrugged off the slightly burnt taste. The roast failed to meet his expectations, and he found fault with the vegetable presentation.
¡°It feels like we spend a fortune here and can¡¯t manage a decent meal,¡± he remarked. ¡°A man should be able to eat with dignity.¡±
¡°You used to praise the cook,¡± Evelyn remarked casually.
¡°She may have been good once, but everyone needs supervision, even cooks. Imagine if I let my office staff run amok without oversight; chaos would ensue,¡± Mr. McPherson explained.
Seeing her husband leave the table without eating, Evelyn questioned, ¡°Where are you off to?¡±
¡°I¡¯ll dine at the club. Good night,¡± he replied, grabbing his hat and stick before leaving.
Evelyn was no stranger to such incidents, which often left her distressed. Sometimes she lost her appetite entirely. On occasion, she¡¯d confront the cook or retreat to her room, engrossed in cookbooks and menus, feeling unaccomplished.
That night, Evelyn finished her solitary dinner deliberately. Her face flushed with inner turmoil as she retreated to her room, directing the boy to excuse any further visitors.
Her room exuded grandeur in the soft, dim light. Standing by an open window, she gazed into the garden¡¯s mystique, seeking solace. Yet, the night¡¯s voices seemed mocking, devoid of hope. Frustrated, she paced the room, tearing a handkerchief and discarding her wedding ring, trying in vain to crush it underfoot.
In a fit of rage, she seized a glass vase and hurled it onto the hearth, reveling in the shattering noise. A concerned maid entered, picking up the broken pieces.
¡°It¡¯s just a vase,¡± Evelyn dismissed. ¡°Leave it till morning.¡±
¡°And here¡¯s your ring, ma¡¯am,¡± the maid offered, handing it to Evelyn, who silently slipped it back on her finger.
Chapter 15
The next morning, as Mr. McPherson prepared to leave for his office, he suggested to Evelyn that they go to town together to explore new fixtures for the library.
¡°I don¡¯t think we need new fixtures, L¨¦once. You tend to be extravagant. Saving isn¡¯t part of your vocabulary,¡± Evelyn replied, her tone carrying a hint of reproach.
¡°The key to wealth is earning, my dear Evelyn, not hoarding,¡± he countered, disappointed that she didn¡¯t share his enthusiasm for redecorating. After bidding her goodbye and expressing concern for her well-being, he left. Evelyn, unusually pale and quiet, watched him from the veranda, absentmindedly picking jasmine sprays and tucking them into her gown.
Meanwhile, the children played outside with their toy wagon, and the quadroon maid followed, feigning enthusiasm. A fruit vendor¡¯s cries echoed in the street, but Evelyn seemed detached, lost in her thoughts, viewing her surroundings as foreign and indifferent.
Back inside, Evelyn contemplated addressing the cook¡¯s recent errors but was relieved when Mr. McPherson took it upon himself, a task she felt ill-suited for. She hoped his persuasive arguments would yield a better dinner that evening.
Turning her attention to her old sketches, Evelyn acknowledged their flaws but couldn¡¯t muster the mood to work. Gathering a few sketches she deemed acceptable, she prepared to leave the house. Dressed elegantly, she walked with a certain grace, her seaside tan fading, revealing her smooth complexion with freckles and moles.
As she strolled, thoughts of Taylor consumed her. Despite trying to forget him, his presence lingered like an unshakeable obsession, both fading and intensifying, leaving her yearning and perplexed.
Evelyn¡¯s destination was Madame Rogers¡¯s residence. Their friendship, forged at Grand Isle, remained strong, and they often met since returning to the city. Madame Rogers lived nearby, in a charming house with a French touch, where her husband owned a successful drugstore. Their fortnightly soir¨¦es musicales were renowned, featuring musical talents from the community.
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Upon arrival, Evelyn found Madame Rogers sorting laundry and was welcomed warmly into her presence without formality.
¡°Cit¨¦ can handle this just as well; it¡¯s really her responsibility,¡± Madame Rogers explained to Evelyn, who apologized for the interruption. She then called for a young black woman, instructing her in French to be meticulous in checking off the laundry list. Madame Rogers emphasized the need to look for Monsieur Rogers¡¯s missing linen handkerchief from last week and to set aside items requiring mending.
Arm in arm, they strolled to the cool salon scented with roses. Madame Rogers looked particularly radiant in her negligee, showcasing her graceful curves.
¡°Maybe one day I¡¯ll paint your portrait,¡± Evelyn mused, unfolding her sketches. ¡°I feel the urge to create again. What do you think? Should I study with Laidpore?¡±
While knowing Madame Rogers¡¯s opinion wouldn¡¯t solely determine her decision, Evelyn sought encouragement.
¡°Your talent is immense, dear!¡± praised Madame Rogers.
¡°Nonsense!¡± Evelyn demurred, pleased nonetheless.
¡°It truly is,¡± insisted Madame Rogers, admiring the sketches with enthusiasm. ¡°This Bavarian peasant is frame-worthy, and the basket of apples feels so lifelike. You can almost reach out and take one.¡±
Despite her modesty, Evelyn couldn¡¯t help feeling a touch of pride at her friend¡¯s praise. She kept a few sketches and gave the rest to Madame Rogers, who cherished them and proudly showed them to her husband at lunch.
Mr. Rogers, known for his cheerful disposition, joined them. His kindness and common sense endeared him to everyone. The Rogerss spoke English with a slight accent, contrasting with Evelyn¡¯s husband, who spoke without any accent.
As they dined, Evelyn appreciated the simple yet delicious meal. Mr. Rogers, noticing her less vibrant appearance, suggested a tonic and engaged in lively conversation, covering politics, local news, and gossip.
Leaving their home, Evelyn felt a tinge of sadness rather than comfort. Witnessing the Rogerss¡¯ domestic harmony didn¡¯t evoke longing in her; instead, she felt a compassion for Madame Rogers¡¯s seemingly uneventful life. Evelyn pondered the concept of life¡¯s delirium, a fleeting thought that left her intrigued yet unsettled.
Chapter 16
Evelyn reflected on her recent outbursts, deeming them foolish and childish. She no longer succumbed to futile actions driven by emotional bursts. Her behavior took a sharp turn; she abandoned her Tuesday routines and neglected social niceties, focusing solely on her whims and desires.
This change bewildered Mr. McPherson. Her disregard for household duties and family responsibilities stirred his anger, leading to clashes where Evelyn countered his reproaches with insolence, refusing to step back.
¡°It¡¯s foolish for a woman to neglect her family for art,¡± Mr. McPherson argued.
¡°I feel like painting,¡± Evelyn retorted. ¡°Maybe I won¡¯t always feel this way.¡±
¡°Then paint, but don¡¯t let everything else fall apart,¡± he urged.
Their discussions often left Mr. McPherson questioning Evelyn¡¯s mental state, sensing a shift in her demeanor. She retreated to her studio, a vibrant space at the top of the house, where she worked tirelessly, yet never quite satisfied with her creations.
At times, the entire household became entangled in her artistic pursuits. The boys posed, initially finding it amusing but soon growing bored. The domestic staff also served as models, disrupting their usual chores. Despite the chaos, Evelyn found solace in her work, occasionally humming a nostalgic tune that stirred memories of the past.
Some days brought inexplicable happiness, a sense of unity with nature and the vibrant Southern surroundings. Other days plunged her into a deep melancholy, where life seemed meaningless and humanity a chaotic mess hurtling towards oblivion. On such days, creativity eluded her, leaving her adrift in a sea of emotions.
In a mood tinged with curiosity and determination, Evelyn set out to find Mademoiselle Reisz, despite their last encounter leaving a sour taste. She couldn¡¯t shake off the desire to hear the pianist play again. Early in the afternoon, she embarked on her quest, albeit without Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s card, which she had misplaced. Consulting an outdated city directory, Evelyn discovered that Mademoiselle Reisz lived on Bienville Street, quite a distance away.
Arriving at the indicated address, Evelyn found herself facing a house occupied by a respectable family of mulattoes, completely unaware of Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s existence. Undeterred, Evelyn headed to a nearby grocery store, confident that the proprietor would have Mademoiselle¡¯s address.
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To her surprise, the grocer was not a fan of Mademoiselle Reisz. ¡°I know her more than I care to,¡± he grumbled, expressing relief that she had left their neighborhood without leaving a forwarding address.
Evelyn¡¯s determination only grew stronger in the face of these obstacles. She pondered on who could provide the elusive information. Suddenly, it dawned on her that Madame Williams might have the answers. Knowing Madame Rogers would be of no help, given their strained relationship with Mademoiselle Reisz, Evelyn set her sights on Madame Williams, who had recently returned to the city.
Finding the Williams¡¯ residence on Chartres Street, Evelyn was struck by its formidable appearance, resembling a fortress with its iron bars and locked gate. Victor, Madame Williams¡¯ son, appeared at the gate, followed by a black woman caught in an argument about her duties.
Victor, surprised yet delighted to see Evelyn, instructed the woman to inform Madame Williams of her visitor. Despite the woman¡¯s grumbling, Victor¡¯s authoritative manner prevailed, prompting the woman to begrudgingly retreat to attend to her interrupted tasks.
As Evelyn waited, the tension in the air hinted at underlying dynamics within the Williams household, adding a layer of intrigue to her already determined quest.
Evelyn hesitated at the threshold, drawn to the inviting atmosphere of the side porch. The array of chairs, a wicker lounge, and a small table promised a relaxing retreat. Weary from her journey, she settled into a chair, gently rocking and smoothing out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor joined her, attributing the black woman¡¯s behavior to a lack of proper training, as he had just returned from the island and would soon depart again. He shared snippets of his island life, where he maintained the estate for summer visitors but sought occasional respite in the city.
In a hushed tone, Victor hinted at a recent escapade, sparked by a beautiful girl who caught his eye through closed shutters. He hinted at a daring encounter, suggesting a tale too risqu¨¦ for Evelyn¡¯s ears. Intrigued despite herself, Evelyn found amusement in the boy¡¯s antics. Her interest piqued, Victor¡¯s boldness grew until interrupted by Madame Williams¡¯ arrival.
Madame Williams, dressed in her customary summer whites, welcomed Evelyn warmly, urging her inside for refreshments and inquiries about her family. Victor, reclining on the wicker lounge, observed Evelyn with playful mischief, making her feel complicit in his antics.
Talk turned to letters from Taylor, with Victor nonchalantly recounting their contents. The letters, from Vera Cruz and the City of Mexico, spoke of Montel¡¯s support and the challenges and charms of Mexico. Despite the lack of a personal message for her, Evelyn felt the weight of her despondent mood returning, reminding her of her mission to find Mademoiselle Reisz.
Madame Williams, privy to Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s address, shared it with Evelyn, regretting her swift departure. Victor gallantly escorted Evelyn outside, shielding her with her parasol as they walked to her car. He emphasized the confidentiality of their conversation, prompting playful banter from Evelyn.
Back inside, Madame Williams admired Evelyn¡¯s appearance, noting a transformation attributed to the city¡¯s influence, leaving Victor in agreement about her newfound allure.
Chapter 17
Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s choice of an attic apartment was rumored to deter unwanted visitors, but it also offered a unique view of the river crescent, ship masts, and steamboat chimneys. Her cramped yet functional space housed a grand piano, a bedroom, and a small kitchen area with a well-used stove and a vintage buffet. When Evelyn arrived and knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s door, she found her mending an old gaiter by the window, her unconventional appearance contrasting with the afternoon light.
¡°You finally remembered me,¡± Mademoiselle quipped as Evelyn entered.
¡°Did you want me to come?¡± Evelyn asked, amused.
¡°I hadn¡¯t given it much thought,¡± Mademoiselle replied, motioning for Evelyn to sit on the small sofa against the wall. ¡°But I¡¯m glad you¡¯re here. I was about to make coffee.¡±
As they settled in, Mademoiselle¡¯s frankness amused Evelyn, who admitted, ¡°I don¡¯t know if I like you.¡±
Mademoiselle, pleased by the honesty, promptly made coffee and offered biscuits, which Evelyn welcomed after declining refreshments elsewhere. Pouring cream into Evelyn¡¯s cup, Mademoiselle casually mentioned receiving a letter from Taylor in Mexico City.
¡°Taylor wrote to you?¡± Evelyn exclaimed in surprise.
¡°Yes, about you,¡± Mademoiselle clarified, handing Evelyn her coffee. ¡°But the letter is mine to keep.¡±
Evelyn, intrigued, tried to peek at the letter, but Mademoiselle remained firm. ¡°Letters are meant for the eyes they¡¯re addressed to,¡± she stated, teasingly adding, ¡°Drink your coffee before it loses its warmth. Taylor seems to think we¡¯re inseparable, doesn¡¯t he?¡±
¡°Let me see the letter,¡± Evelyn persisted.
Mademoiselle Reisz chuckled, teasingly withholding it. ¡°Oh, no,¡± she replied.
¡°Have you answered it?¡± Evelyn inquired.
¡°No,¡± came the curt response.
Evelyn persisted, ¡°Let me see the letter.¡±
¡°No, and again, no,¡± Mademoiselle firmly refused.
¡°Then play the Impromptu for me,¡± Evelyn changed tactics.
¡°It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?¡± Mademoiselle deflected.
¡°Time doesn¡¯t concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu,¡± Evelyn insisted.
¡°But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?¡± Mademoiselle steered the conversation.
¡°Painting!¡± Evelyn exclaimed with a laugh. ¡°I am becoming an artist. Think of it!¡±
¡°Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame,¡± Mademoiselle observed.
¡°Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?¡± Evelyn challenged.
¡°I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts¡ªabsolute gifts¡ªwhich have not been acquired by one¡¯s own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul,¡± Mademoiselle remarked cryptically.
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¡°What do you mean by the courageous soul?¡± Evelyn pressed.
¡°Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies,¡± Mademoiselle elaborated.
¡°Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?¡± Evelyn questioned, determined.
¡°It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,¡± Mademoiselle admitted with a chuckle.
The letter lay within reach in a drawer on the table where Evelyn had placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle retrieved it and handed it to Evelyn without further ado, then gracefully moved to the piano.
Mademoiselle¡¯s fingers danced across the keys, weaving a soft interlude that seamlessly transitioned into Chopin¡¯s Impromptu. Evelyn, engrossed in Taylor¡¯s letter, was swept away by the music¡¯s emotional depth. Mademoiselle¡¯s playing stirred memories and emotions within Evelyn, who found herself sobbing, reminiscent of a past midnight at Grand Isle.
As the music filled the room, Evelyn¡¯s tears fell. After composing herself, she stood at the threshold, asking, ¡°May I come again, Mademoiselle?¡±
¡°Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don¡¯t stumble,¡± Mademoiselle cautioned, reentering the room to light a candle. She noticed Taylor¡¯s crumpled letter on the floor, damp with Evelyn¡¯s tears. Mademoiselle carefully restored it to its envelope, placing it back in the table drawer.
One morning, as he made his way into town, Mr. McPherson decided to visit his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor, semi-retired and known more for his wisdom than active medical practice, was engrossed in reading by the open window of his study. His house, nestled in a serene garden, offered a quiet retreat. When Mr. McPherson arrived, the Doctor peered over his glasses, curious about the interruption.
¡°Ah, McPherson! Not sick, I hope. Come and sit. What brings you here this morning?¡± The Doctor, portly with gray hair and piercing blue eyes, welcomed his friend.
¡°Oh, I¡¯m never sick, Doctor. You know the McPhersons are made of tough stuff,¡± Mr. McPherson replied, taking a seat. ¡°I came to talk about Evelyn. Something seems off.¡±
¡°Madame McPherson unwell?¡± The Doctor raised an eyebrow in surprise. ¡°But I saw her recently, looking perfectly healthy.¡±
¡°Yes, physically she¡¯s fine,¡± Mr. McPherson agreed, tapping his walking stick. ¡°But her behavior is odd. She¡¯s neglecting the household, acting unlike herself. I thought you might help.¡±
¡°How so?¡± inquired the Doctor, leaning forward.
¡°It¡¯s hard to describe,¡± Mr. McPherson admitted. ¡°She¡¯s not herself, and it¡¯s causing tension. She¡¯s caught up in ideas about women¡¯s rights and such.¡±
The Doctor listened, tapping his chair thoughtfully. ¡°Have there been any changes in her social circle?¡±
¡°No, quite the opposite. She¡¯s withdrawn from social gatherings, spending time alone, even at odd hours,¡± Mr. McPherson explained, growing concerned.
The Doctor considered this new information. ¡°Any family history of such behavior?¡±
¡°None at all. Her family is as traditional as they come,¡± Mr. McPherson replied. ¡°But her youngest sister is getting married soon. Perhaps that will lift her spirits.¡±
¡°Send her to the wedding. Sometimes a change of scenery does wonders,¡± the Doctor suggested optimistically.
¡°That¡¯s what I want her to do. She won¡¯t go to the wedding. She calls it a lamentable spectacle, can you believe it?¡± Mr. McPherson vented, frustration evident in his tone.
¡°McPherson,¡± the Doctor began after a thoughtful pause, ¡°sometimes the best approach with women, especially those as sensitive as Mrs. McPherson, is to give them space. They¡¯re intricate beings, not easily understood by ordinary means. It takes a skilled psychologist to navigate their complexities. When we attempt it clumsily, well, we often make things worse. Most women have their moods and quirks. Your wife¡¯s current state is likely a passing phase, influenced by factors we needn¡¯t unravel. Let it run its course, and if she feels inclined, send her to me.¡±
¡°I couldn¡¯t impose that,¡± Mr. McPherson objected.
¡°Then I¡¯ll pay her a visit myself,¡± the Doctor suggested. ¡°I¡¯ll drop by for dinner as a friendly gesture.¡±
¡°Please do! How about Thursday?¡± Mr. McPherson proposed.
¡°Thursday it is, unless my wife has other plans,¡± the Doctor agreed. ¡°I¡¯ll confirm with you.¡±
As Mr. McPherson prepared to leave, he added, ¡°I may be away to New York soon for business. Should I take Evelyn?¡±
¡°If she desires. Otherwise, let her be. This mood will pass with time,¡± the Doctor reassured.
¡°Goodbye then, and see you Thursday,¡± Mr. McPherson bid farewell.
The Doctor refrained from asking the question that lingered in his mind during their conversation. He knew better than to pry into such delicate matters with his Creole friend.
After Mr. McPherson left, the Doctor sat in contemplation, gazing out into the tranquil garden, pondering the intricacies of human emotions.
Chapter 18
Evelyn¡¯s father had arrived in the city, staying with them for several days. While their bond wasn¡¯t particularly strong, they found common ground in their shared interests, making their time together enjoyable. His presence brought a refreshing change, steering Evelyn¡¯s emotions in a new direction.
His purpose for the visit was twofold: to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and attire befitting his role at the wedding. Mr. McPherson had a knack for selecting gifts, a talent acknowledged by everyone close to him. His input on fashion matters, often complex, proved invaluable to his father-in-law. However, his extended stay had kept Evelyn occupied, exposing her to a different dynamic with her father. A former Confederate army colonel, he still exuded the military aura that accompanied his title. With white, silky hair and a bronze complexion, he cut a distinguished figure beside Evelyn. Their outings together attracted attention, their presence drawing admiring gazes.
At Evelyn¡¯s invitation, her father posed for a sketch in her studio, taking the task seriously. He believed in his daughters¡¯ latent talents, convinced that they possessed the potential for greatness. He sat stoically before her pencil, akin to facing a cannon in battle. The intrusion of children disrupted his composure, prompting him to motion them away with subtle gestures, preserving the solemnity of the moment.
To engage her father, Evelyn arranged a meeting with Mademoiselle Reisz for a musical treat, but the invitation was declined. Instead, they attended a musical soir¨¦e hosted by the Rogers family. There, the Colonel received adulation, especially from Madame Rogers, who charmed him with her flirtatious mannerisms. Evelyn observed this spectacle with curiosity, lacking the same inclination for coquetry herself.
While at the soir¨¦e, Evelyn noticed a couple of men who caught her interest, appreciating their personalities and engaging in pleasant conversations when the music allowed. However, she had no inclination for flirtation or attention-seeking behaviors.
Meanwhile, Mr. McPherson avoided such gatherings, finding them too bourgeois for his taste, preferring the club scene. Madame Rogers, while enjoying his excuse for not attending, subtly criticized his absence from home, hinting at a desire for more togetherness between Evelyn and her husband.
Evelyn¡¯s response reflected her ambivalence toward increased domesticity. She felt uncertain about what they would talk about if he stayed home, acknowledging their limited communication. However, she found herself surprisingly interested in her father¡¯s company, enjoying the role of caregiver during his visit. This newfound engagement puzzled her husband, interpreting it as a deep filial bond he hadn¡¯t previously noticed.
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Throughout the day, the Colonel indulged in numerous ¡°toddies,¡± a skillful concoction of his own making that left him unfazed. He had a knack for mixing potent drinks and had even crafted some with whimsical names, each requiring a unique blend of ingredients, a task that fell upon Evelyn to fulfill.
When Doctor Mandelet joined the McPhersons for dinner on Thursday, he found no trace of the morbid condition Mr. McPherson had mentioned regarding Mrs. McPherson. She appeared lively and radiant, her recent visit to the racecourse with her father still fresh in her mind as they engaged in animated conversation over dinner. Although the Doctor was not well-versed in racing matters, he drew upon nostalgic memories to partake in their discussion, albeit without much success in impressing the Colonel, who remained unimpressed by his attempts to relate to modern racing culture. Evelyn had placed a bet on her father¡¯s behalf, resulting in a satisfying win for both of them. They had also encountered captivating individuals like Mrs. Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp, along with Ace Hamilton, adding a delightful charm to their day.
Mr. McPherson, however, harbored no particular fondness for horseracing, often discouraging it as a pastime, especially considering the fate of their Kentucky farm. His disapproval sparked a heated debate, with Evelyn passionately defending her father¡¯s stance while the Doctor observed her transformation with keen interest. He noticed a subtle shift in her demeanor, from a listless state to one brimming with vitality, akin to a sleek animal basking in the sun.
The dinner unfolded gracefully, aided by warm claret and chilled champagne that dissolved any lingering tension. As conversation flowed, Mr. McPherson grew nostalgic, sharing amusing anecdotes from plantation life and his youth. However, the Colonel¡¯s recounting of darker episodes and the Doctor¡¯s tale of love¡¯s tumultuous journey failed to resonate deeply with Evelyn, who had her own captivating story to share¡ªan invented tale of lovers lost in the Baratarian Islands, evoking vivid imagery of Southern nights and the allure of the unknown.
The champagne¡¯s intoxicating effects added a dreamlike quality to Evelyn¡¯s storytelling, enhancing the atmosphere of mystery and romance. Outside, the night was chilly and obscure, contrasting with the warmth of the dinner scene. As the Doctor made his way home, he reflected on the complexities of human lives, feeling the weight of age and a growing need for peace. He regretted accepting Mr. McPherson¡¯s invitation, realizing the burdens that came with delving into the secrets of others¡¯ lives.
As he walked, the Doctor muttered to himself, ¡°I hope it isn¡¯t Hamilton. I hope to heaven it isn¡¯t Ace Hamilton.¡±
Chapter 19
Evelyn and her father had a heated argument about her refusal to attend her sister¡¯s wedding. Mr. McPherson chose not to intervene, following Doctor Mandelet¡¯s advice to let her be. The Colonel, however, was relentless in his reproaches, accusing Evelyn of lacking filial kindness, sisterly affection, and womanly consideration. His arguments were heavy-handed and unconvincing. He doubted Janet would accept any excuse¡ªforgetting that Evelyn had offered none. He doubted Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was certain Margaret would not.
Evelyn felt relieved when her father finally left with his wedding garments, bridal gifts, padded shoulders, Bible readings, toddies, and ponderous oaths. Mr. McPherson followed him closely, planning to stop at the wedding on his way to New York and to use every means money and love could devise to atone for Evelyn¡¯s incomprehensible action.
¡°You¡¯re too lenient, L¨¦once,¡± asserted the Colonel. ¡°Authority and coercion are what¡¯s needed. Put your foot down hard; it¡¯s the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it.¡±
The Colonel was perhaps unaware that his own coercion had driven his wife to her grave. Mr. McPherson had a vague suspicion of it, but thought it unnecessary to mention at this late stage.
Evelyn wasn¡¯t as pleased with her husband¡¯s departure as she had been with her father¡¯s. As the day approached for him to leave for an extended stay, she grew affectionate, remembering his acts of consideration and his repeated expressions of ardent attachment. She fussed over his clothing, considering heavy underwear, just as Madame Rogers would have done in similar circumstances. She cried when he left, calling him her dear, good friend, and felt certain she would grow lonely and join him in New York before long.
But when she finally found herself alone, a radiant peace settled upon her. Even the children were gone. Old Madame McPherson had taken them to Iberville with their quadroon. The old madame, hungry for them and a little fierce in her attachment, did not want them to be wholly ¡°children of the pavement.¡± She wished them to know the country, with its streams, fields, woods, and freedom. She wanted them to taste the life their father had loved as a child.
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Alone, Evelyn breathed a sigh of relief. A deliciously unfamiliar feeling washed over her. She walked through the house, inspecting each room as if for the first time. She tried various chairs and lounges, as if she had never sat in them before. She circled the outside of the house, checking windows and shutters. The flowers felt like new acquaintances; she approached them with a familiar spirit, making herself at home among them. The garden walks were damp, and Evelyn called to the maid for her rubber sandals. She stayed outside, digging around the plants, trimming, and picking dead leaves. The children¡¯s little dog came out, getting in her way. She scolded, laughed, and played with him. The garden smelled wonderful and looked beautiful in the afternoon sunlight. Evelyn plucked all the bright flowers she could find and went inside with them, the little dog trotting alongside.
Even the kitchen seemed suddenly interesting. She went in to give the cook directions: the butcher should bring less meat, they needed only half their usual bread, milk, and groceries. She told the cook that she would be very busy during Mr. McPherson¡¯s absence and asked her to take full responsibility for the larder.
That night, Evelyn dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candles in the center of the table, provided all the light she needed. Outside the circle of light, the large dining room looked solemn and shadowy. The cook, eager to impress, served a delicious meal¡ªa tenderloin broiled to perfection. The wine tasted exquisite, and the marron glac¨¦ was exactly what she wanted. It was delightful to dine in a comfortable peignoir.
Evelyn thought sentimentally about L¨¦once and the children, wondering what they were doing. She gave the dog a few scraps, talking to him about Etienne and Raoul. The dog, delighted by her attention, responded with quick, snappy barks and lively agitation.
After dinner, Evelyn sat in the library and read Emerson until she grew sleepy. She realized she had neglected her reading and decided to start a course of improving studies now that her time was her own.
After a refreshing bath, Evelyn went to bed. As she snuggled beneath the eiderdown, a profound sense of restfulness enveloped her, such as she had never known before.
Chapter 20
When the weather was dark and cloudy, Evelyn found it impossible to work. She needed the sun to mellow her mood to the right point for creativity. She had reached a stage in her life where she no longer struggled with her tasks; she worked with a confidence and ease that came naturally when she was in the right frame of mind. Lacking ambition and not striving for accomplishment, she drew satisfaction from the work itself.
On rainy or melancholy days, Evelyn sought the company of friends she had made at Grand Isle. Otherwise, she stayed indoors and nursed a mood that had become too familiar for her comfort and peace of mind. It wasn¡¯t despair, but it felt as if life was passing by, leaving its promises broken and unfulfilled. Yet, on other days, she found herself hopeful, deceived by fresh promises that her youth still held.
One bright afternoon, Ace Hamilton and Mrs. Highcamp called for her in Hamilton¡¯s drag. Mrs. Highcamp was a worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in her forties, with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She had a daughter who served as a pretext for her to cultivate the society of young men of fashion, like Ace Hamilton. He was a familiar figure at the racecourse, the opera, and fashionable clubs. His eyes always held a perpetual smile that could cheer anyone who met his gaze and listened to his good-humored voice. His manner was quiet, occasionally insolent. He possessed a good figure and a pleasing face, not overburdened with depth of thought or feeling, and his dress was that of a conventional man of fashion.
Hamilton admired Evelyn extravagantly after meeting her at the races with her father. Although he had met her before on other occasions, she had seemed unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs. Highcamp invited Evelyn to join them at the Jockey Club to witness the turf event of the season.
There were few at the track who knew horses as well as Evelyn, and none who knew them better. She sat between her two companions with an air of authority. She laughed at Hamilton¡¯s pretensions and lamented Mrs. Highcamp¡¯s ignorance. The racehorse was a friend and intimate associate of her childhood. The atmosphere of the stables and the breath of the bluegrass paddock revived memories and lingered in her nostrils. She spoke like her father as the sleek geldings ambled in review before them. She played for high stakes, and fortune favored her. The excitement of the game flamed in her cheeks and eyes, getting into her blood and brain like an intoxicant. People turned to look at her, and more than one listened attentively, hoping to secure the ever-desired ¡°tip.¡± Hamilton, caught up in the excitement, was drawn to Evelyn like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp, as usual, remained unmoved, with her indifferent stare and uplifted eyebrows.
Afterward, Evelyn stayed for dinner with Mrs. Highcamp, who urged her to do so. Hamilton also remained and sent away his drag. The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for Hamilton¡¯s cheerful efforts to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp lamented her daughter¡¯s absence from the races and tried to convey what she had missed by attending a ¡°Dante reading¡± instead. The girl held a geranium leaf up to her nose, saying nothing, but looking knowing and noncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain, bald-headed man who only talked under compulsion. He was unresponsive, while Mrs. Highcamp showed delicate courtesy and consideration toward him, addressing most of her conversation to him at the table.
After dinner, they sat in the library and read the evening papers together under the droplight, while the younger people went into the nearby drawing room and talked. Miss Highcamp played selections from Grieg on the piano, capturing all of the composer¡¯s coldness but none of his poetry. As Evelyn listened, she couldn¡¯t help wondering if she had lost her taste for music.
When it was time to go home, Mr. Highcamp made a half-hearted offer to escort her, looking down at his slippered feet with concern. Hamilton took her home instead. The car ride was long, and it was late when they reached Esplanade Street. Hamilton asked if he could come in for a moment to light his cigarette, claiming his match safe was empty. He filled his match safe but didn¡¯t light his cigarette until he left, after Evelyn agreed to go to the races with him again.
Evelyn was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry, for the Highcamp dinner, though of excellent quality, had lacked abundance. She rummaged in the larder and found a slice of Gruyere and some crackers. She opened a bottle of beer from the icebox. Evelyn felt restless and excited. She hummed a fantastic tune as she poked at the wood embers on the hearth and munched on a cracker.
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Evelyn felt a restless longing for something to happen¡ªanything. She regretted not convincing Hamilton to stay longer to discuss the horses. She counted her winnings but found no satisfaction. With nothing else to do, she went to bed, tossing and turning in a monotonous agitation.
In the middle of the night, she realized she had forgotten to write her regular letter to her husband. Deciding to write it the next day, she lay awake composing a letter in her mind that bore no resemblance to the one she eventually penned. When the maid woke her in the morning, Evelyn had been dreaming of Mr. Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music store on Canal Street, while his wife said to Ace Hamilton, as they boarded an Esplanade Street car, ¡°What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! But I must go.¡±
A few days later, Ace Hamilton called for Evelyn in his drag again, but this time, Mrs. Highcamp was not with him. He mentioned they would pick her up, but she hadn¡¯t been informed and wasn¡¯t home. Her daughter was just leaving for a Folk Lore Society meeting and regretted she couldn¡¯t join them. Hamilton looked perplexed and asked Evelyn if there was anyone else she wanted to invite.
Evelyn didn¡¯t bother searching for any of her fashionable acquaintances from whom she had distanced herself. She thought of Madame Rogers, but knew her friend rarely left the house except for a nightly walk with her husband. Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed at the idea, and though Madame Williams might have enjoyed the outing, Evelyn didn¡¯t want her company. So, she and Hamilton went alone.
The afternoon proved intensely interesting. The excitement returned, warming her like a remittent fever. Her conversation with Hamilton grew familiar and confidential. It was effortless to become intimate with him; his manner invited easy confidence. He always endeavored to bypass the preliminary stages of acquaintance with engaging women.
Hamilton stayed for dinner, and afterward, they sat by the wood fire, laughing and talking. Before long, he was telling her how different life could have been if he had met her years earlier. With ingenuous frankness, he spoke of his wild youth and impulsively rolled up his sleeve to show a saber scar from a duel in Paris when he was nineteen. Evelyn touched his hand as she examined the red scar on his wrist. Her fingers closed spasmodically around his hand, her nails pressing into his palm.
She quickly stood and walked toward the mantel. ¡°The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me,¡± she said. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have looked at it.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, following her. ¡°It never occurred to me it might be repulsive.¡±
He stood close, and the boldness in his eyes both repelled her old self and stirred her awakening sensuousness. He saw enough in her expression to take her hand and hold it as he said his lingering good night.
¡°Will you go to the races again?¡± he asked.
¡°No,¡± she replied. ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of the races. I don¡¯t want to lose all the money I¡¯ve won, and I need to work when the weather is bright, instead of¡ª¡±
¡°Yes, work; of course. You promised to show me your work. What morning may I come up to your atelier? Tomorrow?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°Day after?¡±
¡°No, no.¡±
¡°Oh, please don¡¯t refuse me! I know something of such things. I might help with a stray suggestion or two.¡±
¡°No. Good night. Why don¡¯t you go after you have said good night? I don¡¯t like you,¡± she said in a high, excited pitch, trying to pull her hand away. She felt her words lacked dignity and sincerity, and she knew he sensed it.
¡°I¡¯m sorry you don¡¯t like me. I¡¯m sorry I offended you. How have I offended you? What have I done? Can¡¯t you forgive me?¡± Hamilton pleaded, bending down to press his lips upon her hand, as if he wished never to withdraw them.
¡°Mr. Hamilton,¡± Evelyn complained, her voice trembling with the strain of the day¡¯s excitement, ¡°I¡¯m greatly upset. I¡¯m not myself. My manner must have misled you. Please, I wish you to go.¡± Her tone was flat, almost mechanical.
He took his hat from the table, his eyes lingering on the dying fire. For a moment, he stood in contemplative silence.
¡°Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. McPherson,¡± he said finally. ¡°My own emotions have done that. I couldn¡¯t help it. When I¡¯m near you, how could I help it? Don¡¯t think anything of it, don¡¯t bother, please. You see, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do so. But if you let me come back, I¡ªoh! you will let me come back?¡±
He cast one appealing glance at her, but she remained silent, her expression unyielding. Hamilton¡¯s sincerity often deceived even himself.
Evelyn didn¡¯t ponder whether his feelings were genuine. Once alone, she stared mechanically at the back of her hand, where he had kissed her so warmly. Leaning her head against the mantelpiece, she felt like a woman who, in a moment of passion, is betrayed into an act of infidelity, realizing its significance without fully awakening from its allure. The thought crossed her mind, ¡°What would he think?¡±
She did not mean her husband. She was thinking of Taylor Williams. Her husband seemed like someone she had married without love as an excuse.
Lighting a candle, Evelyn ascended to her room. Ace Hamilton was nothing to her, yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of his glances, and above all, the touch of his lips on her hand, had acted like a narcotic.
She fell into a languorous sleep, her dreams interwoven with fleeting images and vanishing thoughts.
Chapter 21
Ace Hamilton penned an elaborate note of apology to Evelyn, brimming with sincere regret. However, upon reflection, Evelyn found it embarrassing. In a calmer moment, she viewed his gesture as somewhat absurd, realizing that she had perhaps magnified the situation in her own mind. Ignoring the note would have inflated its importance needlessly, while a serious response might imply she had yielded to his influence. Ultimately, she opted for a light, playful reply, inviting him to visit her during his leisure.
Hamilton promptly took up her offer, appearing at her doorstep with his disarming charm. From then on, hardly a day passed without their interactions or reminders of him. He found various reasons to be in her company, adopting an attitude of good-natured deference and unspoken admiration. He accommodated her ever-changing moods, whether warm or distant, gradually evolving their relationship from acquaintance to intimacy. His conversation sometimes surprised and initially embarrassed her, yet it later appealed to her more primal instincts, stirring within her.
Despite her growing involvement with Hamilton, nothing soothed Evelyn¡¯s senses like visiting Mademoiselle Reisz. In the pianist¡¯s presence, despite her personal distaste, Evelyn felt a liberation of spirit through the woman¡¯s divine artistry.
On a misty afternoon, Evelyn ascended to Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s attic apartment, drenched from the rain. The room felt cold and dreary, with a rusty stove struggling to warm the space. Mademoiselle, with her stiff neck and dusty surroundings, greeted Evelyn as the ¡°sunlight,¡± attempting to make the room more hospitable. She offered Evelyn brandy to warm her up and listened casually as Evelyn mentioned her plans to move from her grand house on Esplanade Street to a smaller, cozier place nearby.
Mademoiselle, nonchalant as ever, showed little surprise or interest in Evelyn¡¯s decision. Adjusting loose violets in her hair, she accepted Evelyn¡¯s explanation with a hint of skepticism, hinting that there might be more to Evelyn¡¯s choice than she admitted. Their conversation danced around the truth of Evelyn¡¯s circumstances, touching on the complexities of her marriage and her desire for a simpler life.
¡°Oh! You see through me completely. Let me explain: It¡¯s a whim. I have a bit of money from my mother¡¯s estate, dribbled by my father. I also won a significant sum in winter races and started selling my sketches. Laidpore is pleased with my work; he says it¡¯s gaining force and uniqueness. I can¡¯t judge that myself, but I do feel more at ease and confident. I¡¯ve sold quite a few through Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house inexpensively with one servant. Old Celestine, who helps me occasionally, offered to stay with me and manage things. I think I¡¯ll enjoy the freedom and independence,¡± Evelyn explained.
¡°What does your husband think?¡± Mademoiselle inquired.
¡°I haven¡¯t told him yet. It just occurred to me this morning. He¡¯ll probably think I¡¯ve lost my mind. Maybe you do too,¡± Evelyn replied.
Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. ¡°Your motive isn¡¯t clear yet,¡± she remarked.
Evelyn herself wasn¡¯t entirely certain of her motive; it unfolded as she sat silently. Instinct drove her to set aside her husband¡¯s support in embracing her newfound independence. She wasn¡¯t sure how things would be when he returned; there would need to be an explanation. Regardless, she resolved never to be beholden to anyone but herself.
¡°I¡¯ll host a grand dinner before leaving the old house!¡± Evelyn exclaimed. ¡°You must come, Mademoiselle. I¡¯ll serve your favorite food and drinks. We¡¯ll sing, laugh, and have a great time for once,¡± she added with a sigh that echoed her innermost feelings.
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If Mademoiselle had received a letter from Taylor during Evelyn¡¯s absence, she would hand it over without prompting. Then she¡¯d sit at the piano, playing as Evelyn read the letter.
The small stove roared, heating the room as the chocolate sizzled. Evelyn opened the stove door, and Mademoiselle handed her a letter from under Beethoven¡¯s bust.
¡°Another one so soon!¡± Evelyn exclaimed, delighted. ¡°Mademoiselle, does he know I read his letters?¡±
¡°Never! He¡¯d be furious and stop writing if he knew. Does he write to you? Never. Does he send you a message? Not a word. He loves you, poor man, trying to forget you since he can¡¯t have you,¡± Mademoiselle explained.
¡°Why show me his letters then?¡± Evelyn asked.
¡°You asked for them. Can I deny you anything? Oh, you can¡¯t fool me,¡± Mademoiselle responded, playing the piano. Evelyn sat with the letter, feeling the music fill her with warmth and joy.
¡°Oh! Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡± Evelyn exclaimed, grabbing Mademoiselle¡¯s hands. ¡°Why not tell me he¡¯s coming back?¡±
¡°He says ¡®very soon.¡¯ You know as much as I do; it¡¯s all in the letter,¡± Mademoiselle replied.
¡°But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if only I knew¡ª¡± Evelyn searched the letter for answers.
¡°If I were young and in love,¡± Mademoiselle mused, ¡°I¡¯d choose a man of great intellect and ambition, someone noteworthy. I wouldn¡¯t settle for an ordinary man.¡±
Evelyn, holding the letter, looked up at Mademoiselle. ¡°Do you think a woman knows why she loves? Does she choose based on status or fame?¡± she questioned, challenging Mademoiselle¡¯s view.
¡°You¡¯re intentionally misunderstanding me, ma reine. Are you in love with Taylor?¡± Mademoiselle Reisz asked.
¡°Yes,¡± admitted Evelyn for the first time, a blush spreading across her face.
¡°Why?¡± probed her companion. ¡°Why love him when you shouldn¡¯t?¡±
Evelyn kneeled before Mademoiselle, who held her face gently. ¡°Why? Because of his brown hair, the way his eyes open and close, his slightly crooked nose, and a finger that can¡¯t straighten from playing baseball too hard in his youth. Because¡ª¡±
¡°Because you do, in essence,¡± Mademoiselle chuckled. ¡°What will you do when he returns?¡± she inquired.
¡°Nothing, except feel glad and alive,¡± Evelyn replied, already thrilled at the thought. The once gloomy sky now seemed refreshing as she walked home.
Stopping at a confectioner¡¯s, Evelyn ordered a box of bonbons for the children in Iberville, adding a card with a loving message and kisses.
That evening, she wrote a charming letter to her husband, announcing her plans to move to a nearby house temporarily, arranging a farewell dinner, and expressing regret that he couldn¡¯t be there.
¡°What¡¯s got you in such high spirits?¡± Hamilton asked later that evening. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen you so happy.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t you know the weatherman predicts sunshine soon?¡± Evelyn quipped, reclining by the fire.
¡°Well, that¡¯s reason enough,¡± he agreed, sitting close to her and lightly touching her hair. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation.
¡°One day,¡± she mused, ¡°I¡¯ll gather my thoughts and try to understand what kind of woman I am. I don¡¯t know yet.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t bother. I can tell you,¡± Hamilton interjected, his fingers wandering across her face.
¡°Oh, please spare me the flattery,¡± Evelyn responded.
¡°No flattery. I¡¯ll tell you exactly what you are,¡± Hamilton insisted, his touch lingering on her cheeks.
¡°Oh, yes? And what am I?¡± she challenged.
¡°You¡¯re captivating, but I won¡¯t go so far as to say adorable,¡± he teased.
¡°Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?¡± Evelyn asked, changing the subject.
¡°The pianist? I¡¯ve heard her play,¡± Hamilton replied.
¡°She says intriguing things sometimes,¡± Evelyn continued. ¡°Like today, she felt my shoulder blades to see if my wings were strong, saying a bird soaring above tradition needs strength.¡±
¡°Where would you soar?¡± Hamilton inquired.
¡°Nowhere extraordinary. I don¡¯t fully understand her,¡± Evelyn admitted.
¡°I¡¯ve heard she¡¯s eccentric,¡± Hamilton remarked.
¡°She seems sane to me,¡± Evelyn countered.
¡°I¡¯ve heard she¡¯s unpleasant. Why bring her up when I want to talk about you?¡± Hamilton asked, a hint of jealousy in his tone.
¡°Talk about me, but let my thoughts wander,¡± Evelyn replied coyly.
¡°I¡¯m jealous of your thoughts tonight,¡± Hamilton admitted. ¡°They¡¯re making you kinder than usual, but I feel like they¡¯re somewhere else.¡±
She smiled, their eyes locked in silence. When he leaned in to kiss her, she responded passionately, a flame igniting within her for the first time.
Chapter 22
That night, after Hamilton left, Evelyn found herself quietly weeping. The tears were just one aspect of the whirlwind of emotions that had overwhelmed her. She felt an immense sense of irresponsibility, a shock at the unexpected and unfamiliar feelings she was experiencing. Her husband¡¯s reproach seemed to stare at her from every item in her home, reminders of the life he had provided for her. But it was Taylor¡¯s unspoken reproach, carried on the wings of a fierce and overpowering love that had awakened within her, that struck the hardest.
Amid this turmoil, there was also a moment of clarity. Evelyn felt as if a veil had been lifted, allowing her to see and understand the complex nature of life¡ªa blend of beauty and brutality. Despite the conflicting emotions that swirled around her, she felt neither shame nor remorse. What lingered was a dull pang of regret, not for the kiss itself, but for the realization that it wasn¡¯t love that had ignited this fire within her. It was not love that had brought this intoxicating, bittersweet cup of life to her lips.
Without waiting for her husband¡¯s opinion or wishes, Evelyn hastened her preparations to leave their home on Esplanade Street and move into the little house around the block. A feverish anxiety drove her every action. There was no deliberation, no moment of repose between the thought and its fulfillment. Early the next morning, after spending the previous evening with Hamilton, Evelyn set about securing her new abode and hurried her arrangements to occupy it. Within the walls of her home, she felt like an intruder in a forbidden temple, haunted by a thousand muffled voices urging her to leave.
Everything that was hers, everything she had acquired aside from her husband¡¯s bounty, she transported to the new house, filling simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. Hamilton found her with rolled-up sleeves, working alongside the housemaid when he stopped by in the afternoon. She looked splendid and robust, more beautiful than ever in an old blue gown, with a red silk handkerchief knotted around her head to protect her hair from the dust. She was on a high stepladder, unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. Finding the front door open, he had walked in unceremoniously.
¡°Come down!¡± he said. ¡°Do you want to kill yourself?¡± She greeted him with affected carelessness, absorbed in her task.
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If he had expected to find her languishing or indulging in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. He seemed prepared for any emotional display but bent easily and naturally to the situation before him.
¡°Please come down,¡± he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at her.
¡°No,¡± she replied. ¡°Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working over at the ¡®pigeon house¡¯¡ªthat¡¯s what Ellen calls it because it¡¯s so small and looks like a pigeon house¡ªand someone has to do this.¡±
Hamilton took off his coat, ready to help. Ellen brought him one of her dust caps, bursting into uncontrollable laughter when he put it on as grotesquely as he could. Evelyn couldn¡¯t help but smile as she fastened it at his request. So, he climbed the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains and dislodging ornaments as Evelyn directed. When he finished, he removed his dust cap and went to wash his hands.
Evelyn was sitting on a tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster along the carpet when he returned.
¡°Is there anything more you will let me do?¡± he asked.
¡°That is all,¡± she answered. ¡°Ellen can manage the rest.¡± She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be alone with Hamilton.
¡°What about the dinner?¡± he asked. ¡°The grand event, the coup d¡¯¨¦tat?¡±
¡°It will be the day after tomorrow. Why do you call it the ¡®coup d¡¯¨¦tat?¡¯ Oh, it will be very fine¡ªcrystal, silver and gold, S¨¨vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I¡¯ll let L¨¦once pay the bills. I wonder what he¡¯ll say when he sees them.¡±
¡°And you ask why I call it a coup d¡¯¨¦tat?¡± Hamilton had put on his coat and stood before her, asking if his cravat was straight. She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar.
¡°When do you move to the ¡®pigeon house¡¯?¡±
¡°The day after tomorrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there.¡±
¡°Ellen, will you kindly get me a glass of water?¡± asked Hamilton. ¡°The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me, has parched my throat.¡±
¡°While Ellen gets the water,¡± said Evelyn, rising, ¡°I will say goodbye and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to do.¡±
¡°When shall I see you?¡± asked Hamilton, trying to detain her.
¡°At the dinner, of course. You are invited.¡±
¡°Not before? Not tonight, tomorrow morning, or noon? Can¡¯t you see, without my telling you, how long an eternity it feels?¡±
He followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up as she ascended with her face half-turned to him.
¡°Not a moment sooner,¡± she said, but she laughed and looked at him with eyes that gave him the courage to wait and made it torture to do so.
Chapter 23
Though Evelyn had spoken of the dinner as a grand affair, it was, in truth, a small and select gathering. She had planned for twelve guests to sit at her round mahogany table, but Madame Rogers was too ill to attend, and Madame Williams sent her regrets at the last moment. So, there were only ten, which made for a cozy, comfortable number.
The guests included Mr. and Mrs. Merriman. Mrs. Merriman was a pretty, vivacious woman in her thirties, and her husband, a jovial fellow, was known for laughing heartily at others¡¯ jokes, which made him popular. Mrs. Highcamp accompanied them. Ace Hamilton, of course, was present, as was Mademoiselle Reisz, who had agreed to come after Evelyn sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Rogers attended alone, bringing his wife¡¯s excuses. Victor Williams, visiting the city for some relaxation, accepted the invitation eagerly. Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens and known for her keen interest in the world through her lorgnettes, attended. It was rumored that she wrote under a nom de guerre. She arrived with Mr. Gouvernail, a quiet and observant journalist.
Evelyn herself made the tenth guest, and at half-past eight, they sat down to dinner. Hamilton and Monsieur Rogers flanked Evelyn at the table. Mrs. Highcamp sat between Hamilton and Victor Williams, followed by Mrs. Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle Reisz next to Monsieur Rogers.
The table was a vision of splendor with a cover of pale yellow satin under strips of lace. Wax candles in massive brass candelabra burned softly under yellow silk shades. Full, fragrant roses, both yellow and red, abounded. Silver and gold accents and crystal that glittered like jewels adorned the table.
The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been replaced by the most luxurious ones available in the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being very small, was elevated on cushions, much like a child at the table.
¡°Something new, Evelyn?¡± exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, her lorgnette directed at the magnificent cluster of diamonds sparkling in Evelyn¡¯s hair.
¡°Quite new; ¡®brand¡¯ new, in fact. A present from my husband. It arrived this morning from New York. I may as well admit that today is my birthday, and I am twenty-nine. I expect you to drink to my health. Meanwhile, let¡¯s start with this cocktail, created by my father for Sister Janet¡¯s wedding.¡±
Each guest had a tiny glass that sparkled like a garnet.
¡°Then, all things considered,¡± Hamilton said, ¡°let¡¯s begin by drinking to the Colonel¡¯s health in the cocktail he created, on the birthday of his charming daughter¡ªthe woman he invented.¡±
Mr. Merriman¡¯s genuine, contagious laugh set an agreeable tone for the dinner.
Miss Mayblunt begged to keep her cocktail untouched before her, just to admire its marvelous color. She compared it to nothing she had ever seen and declared the Colonel an artist.
Monsieur Rogers, taking things seriously, looked up from his pompano and asked Hamilton if he was related to the Hamilton of Laitner and Hamilton, lawyers. Hamilton admitted that Laitner was a friend who allowed his name to appear on the firm¡¯s letterhead and shingle on Perdido Street.
¡°There are so many inquisitive people and institutions these days,¡± said Hamilton, ¡°that one is forced to assume the virtue of an occupation, even if one doesn¡¯t have it.¡±
Monsieur Rogers stared a little, then turned to Mademoiselle Reisz, asking if she thought the symphony concerts met last winter¡¯s standards. Mademoiselle Reisz replied in French, which Evelyn found rude but characteristic. She had only negative things to say about the symphony concerts and made insulting remarks about all the musicians in New Orleans. Her interest seemed to lie solely in the delicacies before her.
Mr. Merriman¡¯s comment about inquisitive people reminded him of a man from Waco he had encountered at the St. Charles Hotel. However, his wife, knowing his stories often lacked punch, swiftly cut him off.
¡°Do you remember the name of that author whose book I bought last week? I need to send it to a friend in Geneva,¡± she asked, steering the conversation back to her ongoing discussion about books with Mr. Gouvernail.
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Meanwhile, Mr. Merriman leaned in to share the Waco man story privately with Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused, her laughter ringing with an exaggerated delight.
Mrs. Highcamp, sitting beside Victor Williams, listened with languid but genuine interest to his enthusiastic conversation. Her attention never wavered from him until he turned to the more vivacious Mrs. Merriman. With easy indifference, she waited for an opportunity to reclaim his focus.
The gentle strumming of mandolins floated in from a distance, an agreeable accompaniment rather than a disruption to their conversation. The soft, monotonous splash of a fountain outside mingled with the heavy scent of jessamine wafting through the open windows, creating an enchanting atmosphere.
Evelyn¡¯s golden satin gown shimmered in the candlelight, its rich folds spreading elegantly on either side. A delicate lace fell softly around her shoulders, matching her skin tone, though lacking its vibrant hues. Her posture, reclining against the high-backed chair with her arms spread, exuded a regal presence, a woman who ruled and observed from a solitary height.
Yet, as she sat among her guests, a familiar ennui crept over her, a hopelessness that descended like an obsession. It felt like a chill breath from a vast cavern of discord, bringing with it an acute longing for the unattainable beloved, overwhelming her with a sense of loss.
Despite Evelyn¡¯s inner turmoil, a feeling of camaraderie enveloped the group, binding them together with jest and laughter. It was Monsieur Rogers who first broke the pleasant charm, excusing himself at ten o¡¯clock. His wife was waiting for him at home, filled with a vague dread that only his presence could soothe.
Mademoiselle Reisz rose with Monsieur Rogers, accepting his offer to escort her to the car. She had indulged in the rich wines and seemed a bit tipsy, bowing pleasantly to all as she left. She kissed Evelyn on the shoulder and whispered, ¡°Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage,¡± before Monsieur Rogers gallantly took her arm and led her away.
Mrs. Highcamp, meanwhile, was weaving a garland of yellow and red roses. When she finished, she placed it lightly on Victor¡¯s black curls. Reclining in a luxurious chair, he held a glass of champagne to the light. The garland transformed him into a vision of Oriental beauty, his cheeks the color of crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowing with a languishing fire.
¡°Sapristi!¡± exclaimed Hamilton.
Mrs. Highcamp added a final touch, draping a white silken scarf across Victor, concealing his black evening dress. He smiled faintly, his eyes narrowing at the light through his champagne glass, unbothered by the attention.
¡°Oh, to be able to paint in color rather than in words!¡± Miss Mayblunt exclaimed, lost in a rhapsodic dream as she gazed at him.
¡°There was a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a ground of gold,¡± murmured Gouvernail under his breath.
The wine¡¯s effect on Victor shifted his usual talkativeness to silence, and he seemed lost in a pleasant reverie.
¡°Sing,¡± Mrs. Highcamp entreated. ¡°Won¡¯t you sing to us?¡±
¡°Let him alone,¡± Hamilton said.
¡°He¡¯s posing,¡± offered Mr. Merriman. ¡°Let him have it out.¡±
¡°I believe he¡¯s paralyzed,¡± laughed Mrs. Merriman. Leaning over Victor¡¯s chair, she took the glass from his hand and held it to his lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass, she laid it on the table and wiped his lips with her delicate handkerchief.
¡°Yes, I¡¯ll sing for you,¡± Victor said, turning toward Mrs. Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head and began to hum softly, testing his voice like a musician tuning an instrument. Then, looking at Evelyn, he started to sing:
¡°Ah! si tu savais!¡±
¡°Stop!¡± she cried, her voice cutting through the room. ¡°Don¡¯t sing that. I don¡¯t want you to sing it.¡± She placed her glass on the table with such force that it shattered against a carafe. Wine spilled over Hamilton¡¯s legs and trickled down Mrs. Highcamp¡¯s black gauze gown. Victor, oblivious or dismissive of her earnest plea, laughed and continued:
¡°Ah! si tu savais Ce que tes yeux me disent¡ª¡±
¡°You mustn¡¯t! You mustn¡¯t,¡± exclaimed Evelyn. She pushed back her chair and, moving behind him, placed her hand over his mouth. He kissed the soft palm that pressed against his lips.
¡°No, no, I won¡¯t, Mrs. McPherson. I didn¡¯t know you meant it,¡± he said, looking up at her with tender eyes. The touch of his lips was like a pleasing sting on her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his head and flung it across the room.
¡°Come, Victor; you¡¯ve posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf.¡±
Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from around him with her own hands. Miss Mayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail, sensing the change in atmosphere, decided it was time to say goodnight. Mr. and Mrs. Merriman also wondered how it could be so late.
Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her daughter, knowing she would be charmed to meet him, converse in French, and sing French songs. Victor expressed his eagerness to visit Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity. He asked if Hamilton were going his way, but Hamilton was not.
The mandolin players had long since stolen away, leaving a profound stillness that had settled over the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Evelyn¡¯s disbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the night.
Chapter 24
¡°Well?¡± questioned Hamilton, who had remained with Evelyn after the others had departed.
¡°Well,¡± she echoed, rising from her seat and stretching her arms, feeling the need to relax her muscles after the long evening.
¡°What next?¡± he asked.
¡°The servants left with the musicians. I dismissed them. The house needs to be closed and locked. I¡¯ll head over to the pigeon house, and I¡¯ll send Celestine in the morning to tidy up.¡±
He looked around, starting to turn off some of the lights. ¡°What about upstairs?¡± he inquired.
¡°I think it¡¯s all secure, but there might be a window or two unlatched. We should check. Could you take a candle and see? And bring me my wrap and hat from the foot of the bed in the middle room.¡±
Hamilton nodded, taking a candle and heading upstairs while Evelyn began closing the doors and windows. She loathed shutting in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Hamilton soon returned with her cape and hat, helping her to put them on.
When everything was secured and the lights extinguished, they left through the front door. Hamilton locked it and took the key for Evelyn. He assisted her down the steps.
¡°Would you like a spray of jasmine?¡± he asked, breaking off a few blossoms as they passed.
¡°No, I don¡¯t want anything,¡± she replied, sounding disheartened and withdrawn. She took his arm, which he offered, while she held up the weight of her satin train with her other hand. She noticed the black line of his leg moving in and out so close to her own against the yellow shimmer of her gown. The distant whistle of a train and the ringing of midnight bells punctuated their quiet walk.
The pigeon house stood behind a locked gate, surrounded by a neglected shallow parterre. A small front porch led to the front door and a long window. The door opened directly into the parlor, with no side entry. In the back yard, a room for servants housed old Celestine.
Evelyn had left a lamp burning low on the table. She had managed to make the room look homelike and inviting. Books lay on the table, and a lounge was nearby. Fresh matting covered the floor, with a few rugs, and tasteful pictures adorned the walls. The room was filled with flowers, a surprise orchestrated by Hamilton, who had Celestine arrange them during Evelyn¡¯s absence. Her bedroom adjoined the parlor, and across a small passage were the dining room and kitchen.
Evelyn seated herself with evident discomfort.
¡°Are you tired?¡± Hamilton asked.
¡°Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel like I¡¯ve been wound up too tight, and something inside of me has snapped.¡± She rested her head against the table on her bare arm.
¡°You need to rest and be quiet. I¡¯ll leave you to it.¡±
¡°Yes,¡± she replied softly.
He stood beside her, smoothing her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed a physical comfort, and she felt she could have fallen asleep right there if he continued. He brushed her hair upward from the nape of her neck.
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¡°I hope you feel better and happier in the morning,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯ve tried to do too much these past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you could have skipped it.¡±
¡°Yes,¡± she admitted. ¡°It was foolish.¡±
¡°No, it was delightful, but it¡¯s worn you out.¡± His hand strayed to her shoulders, and he felt her response to his touch. He sat beside her and kissed her lightly on the shoulder.
¡°I thought you were going away,¡± she said unevenly.
¡°I am, after I say goodnight.¡±
¡°Goodnight,¡± she murmured.
He didn¡¯t answer, continuing to caress her. He didn¡¯t say goodnight until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties.
When Mr. McPherson learned of his wife¡¯s intention to abandon their home and reside elsewhere, he immediately penned a letter of unequivocal disapproval and remonstrance. He found her reasons unacceptable and urged her to reconsider, emphasizing above all else the importance of what people would say. Although scandal was not his primary concern¡ªsuch a notion never crossed his mind regarding his wife or himself¡ªhe was deeply worried about the potential damage to his financial reputation. Rumors of the McPhersons facing financial difficulties could wreak havoc on his business prospects.
Knowing Evelyn¡¯s whimsical nature and foreseeing that she might have already acted on her impetuous decision, Mr. McPherson swiftly grasped the situation and handled it with his characteristic business acumen and cleverness.
The same mail that brought Evelyn his letter of disapproval also carried detailed instructions to a well-known architect about remodeling their home, plans he had long contemplated and now wanted executed during his temporary absence. He engaged expert movers to secure the furniture, carpets, and pictures, transforming the McPherson house into a bustling site for artisans. The renovations included a small snuggery, frescoing, and hardwood flooring in rooms yet to be upgraded.
Additionally, a brief notice in one of the daily papers announced that Mr. and Mrs. McPherson were planning a summer abroad, and their residence on Esplanade Street was undergoing luxurious renovations, not ready for occupancy until their return. Mr. McPherson had masterfully preserved appearances.
Evelyn admired his skillful maneuvering and avoided any actions that might disrupt his plans. Once the situation he described was accepted, she seemed satisfied to leave it at that.
The pigeon house delighted her, quickly becoming an intimate home imbued with a charm she herself created. Although she felt a sense of descending in social status, she experienced a corresponding spiritual ascent. Every step toward freeing herself from obligations strengthened her individuality. She began to see and understand life¡¯s deeper currents with her own eyes, no longer content to ¡°feed upon opinion¡± when her soul invited her to explore more profound truths.
A few days later, Evelyn spent a week with her children in Iberville. The February days were delicious, filled with the promise of summer. She was overjoyed to see the children, tears of happiness flowing as their little arms embraced her and their ruddy cheeks pressed against her own. She gazed at them with hungry eyes, soaking in their presence. They had endless stories about the pigs, cows, mules, and their adventures¡ªriding to the mill with Uncle Jasper, fishing in the lake, picking pecans with Lidie¡¯s children, and hauling real chips for old Susie¡¯s fire.
Evelyn immersed herself in their world, living a whole week filled with their young vitality. She listened breathlessly as they recounted the commotion of workmen at the Esplanade Street house. Curious and excited, they bombarded her with questions about their bed, rocking-horse, and the whereabouts of Joe, Ellen, and the cook. Most of all, they were eager to see the little house around the block, wondering if there were boys to play with next door. Evelyn assured them the fairies would take care of everything.
The old Madame was delighted with Evelyn¡¯s visit, showering her with delicate attentions and relishing the news of the dismantled Esplanade Street house, as it promised an extended stay for the children.
Leaving her children was heart-wrenching for Evelyn. She carried with her the sound of their voices and the touch of their cheeks, their presence lingering like a sweet melody. However, by the time she returned to the city, the song had faded, and she was once again alone.
Chapter 25
Sometimes, when Evelyn visited Mademoiselle Reisz, the little musician was out, either giving a lesson or making a necessary household purchase. Evelyn knew where the key was hidden in the entryway. If Mademoiselle Reisz was away, Evelyn would usually let herself in and wait for her return.
One afternoon, after knocking and receiving no response, Evelyn unlocked the door and entered the empty apartment. Her day had been exhausting, and she sought solace, a refuge, and a chance to talk about Taylor with her friend. She had spent the morning working on her canvas, a young Italian character study, without her model. Despite completing her work, she faced numerous interruptions from both her modest housekeeping duties and social visits.
Madame Rogers had visited, avoiding the main thoroughfares. She complained that Evelyn had been neglecting her lately and was curious to see the little house and its management. She also wanted to hear about the dinner party, as Monsieur Rogers had left early. She praised the champagne and grapes Evelyn had sent over, mentioning how they had refreshed her weak appetite. She also questioned where Mr. McPherson and the boys would stay in such a small house and made Evelyn promise to come to her during her hour of need.
¡°Any time, any time of the day or night, dear,¡± Evelyn assured her.
Before leaving, Madame Rogers said, ¡°In some ways, you seem like a child, Evelyn. You act without the reflection necessary in life. That¡¯s why I want to advise you to be careful while you¡¯re living here alone. Why don¡¯t you have someone stay with you? Wouldn¡¯t Mademoiselle Reisz come?¡±
¡°No, she wouldn¡¯t want to, and I wouldn¡¯t want her here all the time,¡± Evelyn replied.
¡°Well, you know how people talk. Someone mentioned Ace Hamilton visiting you. It wouldn¡¯t matter if Mr. Hamilton didn¡¯t have such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Rogers said his attentions alone could ruin a woman¡¯s name.¡±
¡°Does he boast of his successes?¡± Evelyn asked, indifferently, as she squinted at her painting.
¡°No, I don¡¯t think so. He¡¯s a decent fellow in that regard, but his character is well known among the men. I shouldn¡¯t have come today; it was imprudent.¡±
¡°Mind the step!¡± Evelyn called out.
¡°Don¡¯t neglect me,¡± Madame Rogers pleaded. ¡°And don¡¯t mind what I said about Hamilton or having someone stay with you.¡±
¡°Of course not,¡± Evelyn laughed. ¡°You can say anything to me.¡± They kissed goodbye. Madame Rogers didn¡¯t have far to go, and Evelyn watched her walk down the street from the porch.
Later that afternoon, Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp made their ¡°party call.¡± Evelyn felt it was unnecessary but accepted their invitation to play vingt-et-un at Mrs. Merriman¡¯s. She was to come early for dinner, and either Mr. Merriman or Mr. Hamilton would take her home. Evelyn accepted, though she often felt tired of Mrs. Highcamp and Mrs. Merriman.
By late afternoon, Evelyn sought refuge at Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s and waited alone, feeling a sense of peace in the shabby, unpretentious room. She sat by the window, which overlooked the rooftops and the river. The window frame was filled with flower pots, and Evelyn picked dry leaves from a rose geranium. The warm day and the pleasant breeze from the river were soothing. She took off her hat and placed it on the piano, continuing to pick at the leaves and dig around the plants with her hatpin.
Once, she thought she heard Mademoiselle Reisz approaching, but it was a young black girl delivering a small bundle of laundry. The girl deposited it in the adjoining room and left. Evelyn then seated herself at the piano and softly picked out the bars of a piece of music with one hand. Half an hour passed. Occasionally, she heard people moving in the lower hall. She was absorbed in her music when there was another knock at the door. She vaguely wondered what people did when they found Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s door locked.
¡°Come in,¡± Evelyn called, turning her face toward the door. This time, it was Taylor Williams who entered. She tried to stand but felt overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions, so she remained seated on the piano stool, exclaiming, ¡°Why, Taylor!¡±
Taylor approached her, clasping her hand, seemingly unaware of his actions. ¡°Mrs. McPherson! How do you¡ªoh! You look wonderful! Is Mademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you.¡±
¡°When did you come back?¡± Evelyn asked, her voice unsteady as she wiped her face with her handkerchief. She felt awkward on the stool, and Taylor gently suggested she take the chair by the window.
Mechanically, she moved to the chair while he sat on the stool. ¡°I returned the day before yesterday,¡± he said, leaning his arm on the piano keys, producing a discordant crash.
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¡°Day before yesterday!¡± she repeated aloud, and then to herself, ¡°day before yesterday.¡± She had imagined him seeking her out the moment he arrived, but he had been back for days and only stumbled upon her by chance. Mademoiselle must have lied when she said, ¡°Poor fool, he loves you.¡±
¡°Day before yesterday,¡± Evelyn repeated, breaking off a spray of Mademoiselle¡¯s geranium. ¡°If you hadn¡¯t met me here today, would you have¡ªwhen¡ªdid you plan to see me?¡±
¡°Of course, I would have come to see you. There have been so many things¡ª¡± He nervously turned the pages of Mademoiselle¡¯s music. ¡°I started back with the old firm yesterday. There¡¯s as much opportunity here as there was there. The Mexicans weren¡¯t very congenial.¡±
So he had returned not for her, but because the Mexicans were not congenial and business was as profitable here as there. She remembered sitting on the floor, turning the pages of his letter, searching for the untold reason.
Evelyn hadn¡¯t noticed how he looked, only felt his presence. Now, she deliberately observed him. He hadn¡¯t changed much in the few months he had been away. His hair, the same color as hers, waved back from his temples as before. His skin was no more tanned than it had been at Grand Isle. When he looked at her, his eyes held the same tender caress, with added warmth and entreaty, the same glance that had penetrated her soul and awakened it.
A hundred times, Evelyn had imagined Taylor¡¯s return and their first meeting. She always pictured him seeking her out at once, expressing his love. But here they sat, ten feet apart, she at the window, crushing geranium leaves, and he twirling on the piano stool, saying, ¡°I was surprised to hear of Mr. McPherson¡¯s absence. It¡¯s a wonder Mademoiselle Reisz didn¡¯t tell me. And your moving¡ªmother mentioned it yesterday. I thought you¡¯d go to New York with him or to Iberville with the children instead of dealing with housekeeping here. And you¡¯re going abroad, too, I hear. We won¡¯t have you at Grand Isle next summer. It won¡¯t seem the same. Do you see much of Mademoiselle Reisz? She often mentioned you in her few letters.¡±
¡°Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you left?¡± Evelyn asked, a flush spreading across his face.
¡°I couldn¡¯t believe my letters would interest you.¡±
¡°That¡¯s an excuse; it isn¡¯t the truth.¡± Evelyn reached for her hat on the piano and adjusted it, carefully sticking the hatpin through her hair.
¡°Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?¡± Taylor asked.
¡°No, she tends to stay out late if she¡¯s gone this long.¡± She drew on her gloves, and Taylor picked up his hat.
¡°Won¡¯t you wait for her?¡± Evelyn asked.
¡°Not if she¡¯ll be back late,¡± he said, suddenly aware of his discourtesy. ¡°And I¡¯d miss the pleasure of walking you home.¡± Evelyn locked the door and placed the key back in its hiding spot.
They walked together, navigating the muddy streets and sidewalks cluttered with the displays of small tradesmen. Part of their journey was spent on the streetcar, and after disembarking, they passed the McPherson mansion, which appeared dilapidated and half-torn apart. Taylor, unfamiliar with the house, observed it with curiosity.
¡°I never knew you in your home,¡± he remarked.
¡°I¡¯m glad you didn¡¯t,¡± she replied.
¡°Why?¡± he asked, but she remained silent.
They rounded the corner, and Evelyn felt as if her dreams were finally coming true when Taylor followed her into the little house.
¡°You must stay and dine with me, Taylor. I¡¯m all alone, and it¡¯s been so long since I¡¯ve seen you. There¡¯s so much I want to ask you.¡±
She removed her hat and gloves. Taylor hesitated, making excuses about his mother expecting him and some vague engagement. Evelyn struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it was growing dark. Seeing her face in the lamplight, pained and devoid of its usual softness, Taylor threw his hat aside and sat down.
¡°Oh! You know I want to stay if you¡¯ll let me!¡± he exclaimed. Her face softened, and she laughed, placing her hand on his shoulder.
¡°This is the first moment you¡¯ve seemed like the old Taylor. I¡¯ll go tell Celestine.¡±
She hurried away to instruct Celestine to set an extra place, even sending her off to find some added delicacy she hadn¡¯t considered for herself. She emphasized the importance of carefully dripping the coffee and ensuring the omelet was cooked perfectly.
When Evelyn returned, Taylor was idly flipping through magazines, sketches, and the various items strewn across the table. He picked up a photograph and exclaimed, ¡°Ace Hamilton! What on earth is his picture doing here?¡±
¡°I tried to sketch his head one day,¡± Evelyn explained, ¡°and he thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. I thought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawing materials.¡±
¡°I should think you¡¯d give it back to him if you¡¯re done with it.¡±
¡°Oh! I have so many such photographs. I never think of returning them. They don¡¯t mean anything.¡± Taylor continued to examine the picture.
¡°Do you really think his head is worth drawing? Is he a friend of Mr. McPherson¡¯s? You never mentioned you knew him.¡±
¡°He isn¡¯t a friend of Mr. McPherson¡¯s; he¡¯s a friend of mine. I¡¯ve always known him, but it¡¯s only recently that I¡¯ve gotten to know him well. But I¡¯d rather talk about you and hear what you¡¯ve been seeing, doing, and feeling in Mexico.¡± Taylor tossed the picture aside.
¡°I¡¯ve been seeing the waves and the white beaches of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy streets of the Ch¨ºni¨¨re; the old fort at Grande Terre. I¡¯ve been working like a machine and feeling like a lost soul. Nothing was interesting.¡±
Evelyn leaned her head on her hand, shading her eyes from the light. ¡°And what have you been seeing, doing, and feeling all these days?¡± he asked.
¡°I¡¯ve been seeing the waves and the white beaches of Grand Isle; the quiet, grassy streets of the Ch¨ºni¨¨re Caminada; the sunny old fort at Grande Terre. I¡¯ve been working with a little more comprehension than a machine, but still feeling like a lost soul. Nothing was interesting.¡±
¡°Mrs. McPherson, you are cruel,¡± he said with emotion, closing his eyes and resting his head back in his chair. They sat in silence until old Celestine announced dinner.
Chapter 26
The dining room was cozy, with Evelyn¡¯s round mahogany table nearly filling the space. A sense of formality settled upon them with the announcement of dinner. Taylor shared stories from his time in Mexico, and Evelyn recounted events that had occurred during his absence. The meal was simple, with a few delicacies she had acquired. Celestine, with her bandana tignon, bustled in and out, engaging in lively patois conversations with Taylor, whom she had known since childhood.
After dinner, Taylor stepped out to buy cigarette papers. When he returned, Celestine had served black coffee in the parlor.
¡°Maybe I shouldn¡¯t have come back,¡± Taylor remarked. ¡°If you tire of me, just say so.¡±
¡°You never tire me. Remember our hours at Grand Isle? We grew accustomed to each other and being together,¡± Evelyn replied.
¡°I haven¡¯t forgotten anything from Grand Isle,¡± he said, rolling a cigarette. His silk tobacco pouch, embroidered with intricate designs, caught Evelyn¡¯s eye.
¡°You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch,¡± she noted, examining the embroidered pouch.
¡°Yes, but it got lost.¡±
¡°Where did you get this one? In Mexico?¡± she asked.
¡°A Vera Cruz girl gave it to me; they¡¯re quite generous,¡± he replied, lighting his cigarette.
¡°Mexican women must be quite beautiful, with their black eyes and lace scarfs,¡± Evelyn remarked.
¡°Some are picturesque, others not so much, just like women everywhere,¡± Taylor observed.
¡°What was the girl like who gave you this pouch? Did you visit her house?¡± Evelyn inquired, curious about his experiences in Mexico.
¡°She was ordinary, not important. I knew her casually,¡± he explained.
¡°Did you visit many homes? I¡¯d like to hear about the people you met and the impressions they left,¡± she pressed.
¡°Some people leave fleeting impressions, like ripples from an oar,¡± Taylor mused.
¡°Was she one of those?¡± Evelyn asked.
¡°It wouldn¡¯t be fair for me to say,¡± Taylor replied, putting the pouch away.
Hamilton entered, delivering a message about a postponed card party. Taylor rose, acknowledging Hamilton¡¯s presence.
¡°Oh, Williams, back from Mexique, I hear,¡± Hamilton greeted.
¡°Fairly well,¡± Taylor replied.
¡°Stunning girls in Mexico, aren¡¯t they?¡± Hamilton remarked.
¡°Didn¡¯t they embroider slippers and such for you?¡± Evelyn asked.
¡°Oh, not quite. I was more taken by them than they were by me,¡± Hamilton admitted.
¡°Less fortunate than Taylor, then,¡± Evelyn quipped.
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¡°Always less fortunate than Taylor,¡± Hamilton joked. ¡°Have you been sharing tender confidences?¡±
¡°I¡¯ve stayed long enough,¡± Taylor said, bidding farewell to Evelyn. ¡°Please send my regards to Mr. McPherson.¡±
After Taylor left, Hamilton remarked, ¡°Williams is a fine fellow. I never heard you mention him before.¡±
¡°I met him last summer at Grand Isle,¡± Evelyn replied, pushing the photograph toward Hamilton. ¡°Do you want this back?¡±
¡°What use do I have for it? Toss it,¡± Hamilton replied nonchalantly as she placed the photo back on the table.
¡°I won¡¯t be going to Mrs. Merriman¡¯s,¡± Evelyn declared. ¡°If you see her, let her know. But I might as well write to her. I¡¯ll express my regrets about her child and advise her not to count on me.¡±
¡°Sounds like a good plan,¡± Hamilton agreed. ¡°Can¡¯t blame you; what a dull crowd!¡±
Evelyn opened the blotter, got paper and pen, and started writing. Meanwhile, Hamilton lit a cigar and read the evening paper he had tucked in his pocket.
¡°What¡¯s today¡¯s date?¡± she asked.
Hamilton supplied the date. ¡°Will you mail this for me later?¡±
¡°Of course,¡± he replied, reading snippets from the paper while she tidied the table.
¡°What do you feel like doing?¡± he inquired, setting aside the paper. ¡°A walk? A drive? It¡¯s a lovely night for either.¡±
¡°I just want quiet. You go enjoy yourself. Don¡¯t stay,¡± Evelyn insisted.
¡°I¡¯ll leave if I must, but I won¡¯t enjoy myself. You know I feel alive only when I¡¯m near you,¡± Hamilton confessed as he stood to bid her good night.
¡°Is that your standard line with women?¡± she teased.
¡°I¡¯ve used it before, but I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve meant it quite like I do now,¡± he admitted with a smile. However, her eyes held a distant, dreamy gaze.
¡°Good night. I adore you. Sleep well,¡± he said, kissing her hand before departing.
Alone, Evelyn drifted into a reverie, reliving every moment with Taylor since his arrival at Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s door. She recalled his words, his expressions¡ªhow sparse they were for her longing heart. A vision of a captivating Mexican girl surfaced, stirring a pang of jealousy. She wondered when Taylor would return, realizing he hadn¡¯t promised to. Despite being with him, hearing his voice, and feeling his touch, he somehow felt closer to her in Mexico.
The morning dawned with a golden glow, filling Evelyn¡¯s room with warmth and the promise of something extraordinary. She lay awake, her eyes bright with anticipation. ¡°He loves you, poor fool,¡± echoed in her mind. If only she could firmly believe in that sentiment, everything else would pale in comparison. She chided herself for her despondency the night before, realizing that Taylor¡¯s reserved behavior likely stemmed from understandable reasons. They were obstacles that love could overcome, barriers that would crumble before the power of their passion, a sentiment she hoped he would come to understand in due time.
She imagined Taylor¡¯s morning routine¡ªhis attire, his stride down familiar streets, his interactions at work, his lunch break, perhaps even his subtle search for her presence amidst the bustling cityscape. She envisioned their potential meeting in the afternoon or evening, his casual demeanor as he rolled his cigarette, exchanged words, and departed, much like the night before. Yet the thought of having him by her side was tantalizing. She resolved not to dwell on his reserved nature if he chose to maintain it.
Evelyn breakfasted in a half-dressed state, interrupted by a delightful note from Raoul expressing love and sharing news of adorable piglets. Her husband¡¯s letter arrived, promising an upcoming journey abroad made possible by successful Wall Street ventures. A midnight note from Hamilton arrived, expressing devotion and hoping for reciprocal feelings.
She responded cheerfully to the children and her husband, maintaining a friendly yet distant tone, as reality seemed to slip away, replaced by a sense of acceptance toward whatever Fate had in store. Hamilton¡¯s note went unanswered, tucked away out of sight.
Evelyn immersed herself in work, visited only by a picture dealer inquiring about her potential Parisian studies. Taylor¡¯s absence weighed heavily on her, each day beginning with hope and ending with disappointment. Tempted to seek him out, she restrained herself, avoiding places he might frequent.
One evening, Hamilton proposed a drive to the lake on the Shell Road. The spirited horses and swift pace exhilarated Evelyn, and they returned to her dining room early in the evening for refreshments. Hamilton¡¯s visits were becoming more frequent, driven by an understanding of Evelyn¡¯s hidden desires.
That night, as Evelyn drifted to sleep, there was neither despair nor hope in her heart, just a quiet acceptance of the present.
Chapter 27
In the quiet outskirts, nestled amidst leafy corners and orange trees, there lay a hidden gem¡ªa garden sanctuary where time seemed to pause. An old cat basked lazily in the sun, and a seasoned mulatresse, keeper of this tranquil oasis, presided over the green tables, offering exquisite delights like none other. Her coffee was renowned, her fried chicken a golden marvel.
This humble haven, too modest for the elite and too serene for the revelers, had become Evelyn¡¯s cherished discovery. She stumbled upon it by chance, drawn in by the dappled sunlight and the nostalgic taste of Iberville¡¯s milk. It became a retreat during her wanderings, a place to read under the whispering trees, occasionally dining alone in its peaceful embrace.
On one such quiet afternoon, as she savored a simple meal, engrossed in a book and stroking the friendly feline, Taylor entered through the gate, surprising her yet not entirely unexpected. ¡°Fate seems to delight in our chance encounters,¡± she remarked, making space for him at the table.
¡°Have you frequented this place?¡± he inquired, visibly taken aback.
¡°It¡¯s become a second home to me,¡± she confessed, offering to share her meal with him. Her initial resolve to remain distant melted away in his presence, replaced by a candid curiosity.
¡°Why have you kept your distance?¡± she asked, closing her book.
¡°Why the interrogation, Mrs. McPherson? Must we dance around veiled excuses?¡± His words carried a hint of frustration. ¡°I might say I¡¯ve been busy, or unwell, or that my attempts to visit you were thwarted. Pick one.¡±
¡°You¡¯re self-absorbed,¡± she retorted. ¡°You shield yourself from something¡ªI don¡¯t know what¡ªbut your neglect is palpable. You¡¯re insensitive to how I perceive it. Call it unwomanly if you must; I¡¯ve grown accustomed to speaking my mind.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not cruel, just inadvertently callous,¡± he countered. ¡°You prod at wounds without intent to heal.¡±
¡°Let¡¯s not spoil the meal with words,¡± she deflected, noticing his untouched food.
¡°I only came for coffee,¡± he admitted, his demeanor softened by the serene ambiance.
¡°This place is a hidden gem,¡± she changed the subject. ¡°It¡¯s serene, untouched. Have you noticed the silence? It¡¯s a rarity these days. And the coffee¡ªalways piping hot. Celestine¡¯s coffee doesn¡¯t compare. Do try some cress with your chop; it adds a delightful zest. And here, you can enjoy a smoke with your coffee. In the city¡ªaren¡¯t you going to smoke?¡±
¡°After a while,¡± he remarked, placing a cigar on the table.
¡°Who¡¯s the generous giver of cigars?¡± she teased.
¡°I actually bought this one. I might be turning reckless; got a whole box,¡± he confessed, trying to lighten the mood.
The cat, finding a new companion in Taylor, nestled into his lap as he smoked. He ran his fingers through her silky fur, engaging in small talk about her quirks. Glancing at Evelyn¡¯s book, which he had perused earlier, he spared her the effort of finishing it by sharing its ending.
Once again, he escorted her back home, the evening casting shadows as they arrived at her quaint abode, nicknamed the ¡°pigeon-house.¡± Sensing her unspoken invitation, he chose not to linger, grateful for the unspoken understanding that spared him from awkward excuses. Helping her light the lamp, he watched as she disappeared into her room to freshen up.
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When she returned, Taylor was no longer perusing magazines; instead, he sat in contemplative silence, lost in thought. Evelyn, after tidying up the books, approached him, bending over the arm of his chair to get his attention.
¡°Taylor,¡± she whispered, ¡°are you awake?¡±
His gaze met hers as he replied, ¡°Yes, I am.¡±
She leaned in and planted a soft, lingering kiss on his lips, a delicate touch that ignited a fervor within him. Drawing her closer, he held her, enveloped in a moment of tenderness. She reciprocated, her hand caressing his cheek as their emotions spilled over.
¡°Now you understand,¡± he murmured, ¡°what I¡¯ve struggled with since last summer; what brought me back.¡±
¡°Why did you fight it?¡± she inquired, her face aglow with affection.
¡°Because you were bound to L¨¦once McPherson. I couldn¡¯t help loving you, even knowing that,¡± he confessed, his emotions laid bare.
¡°But you never wrote to me,¡± she interjected.
¡°Somewhere, I convinced myself you cared for me, and I lost my senses. I forgot everything but the dream of you being mine,¡± he admitted, his face flushed with emotion.
¡°You dreamed of the impossible,¡± she reminded him gently, her fingers tracing his features.
¡°In Mexico, thoughts of you consumed me,¡± he continued, his voice filled with longing.
¡°But when you returned, you avoided me,¡± she observed, still caressing his cheek.
¡°I realized how foolish it was, even if you were willing,¡± he confessed, his tone tinged with regret.
Taking his face in her hands, she kissed him tenderly, each touch a declaration of their shared passion. Their exchange was interrupted by a knock at the door¡ªa messenger with urgent news.
As Evelyn prepared to leave, Taylor pleaded, ¡°Don¡¯t go. Stay with me.¡±
¡°I must go, but I¡¯ll return,¡± she promised, embracing him one last time. Her words echoed with longing, weaving a bond of mutual devotion between them.
Evelyn peered into the drug store, observing Monsieur Rogers as he meticulously prepared a concoction, dropping a crimson liquid into a tiny glass. His gratitude for her presence was palpable; he believed her being there would bring comfort to his ailing wife. Madame Rogers, enduring a trying time without her usual support, had been inconsolable until Evelyn, in her kindness, promised to be with her. The nurse, having traveled a great distance, had been attending to them during the nights, and Dr. Mandelet had been in and out throughout the afternoon, expected back imminently.
Taking a private stairway from the rear of the store to the apartments above, Evelyn found the children peacefully sleeping in a back room. Madame Rogers, on the other hand, sat in the salon, draped in a flowing white peignoir, her face drawn and weary, her once vibrant eyes now dulled by pain. Her hair, usually a cascade of golden locks, was now gathered tightly in a braid on the sofa pillow. The nurse, a comforting figure in her white apron and cap, urged Madame to return to her bedroom.
¡°There¡¯s no use,¡± Madame lamented to Evelyn. ¡°We need to find a more reliable doctor; Mandelet is too careless.¡±
The nurse, maintaining her cheerfulness even in such circumstances, tried to comfort Madame, but her distress was evident. Wiping her sweat-drenched forehead, Madame expressed her frustration at the delay, feeling abandoned and neglected.
¡°Neglected, indeed!¡± exclaimed the nurse, trying to reassure her. She pointed out the imminent arrivals of Monsieur Rogers and Dr. Mandelet, which seemed to placate Madame momentarily.
As Madame Rogers reluctantly returned to her room, Doctor Mandelet arrived, accustomed to Madame¡¯s outbursts during such moments. He welcomed Evelyn and suggested she join him in the salon, but Madame insisted she stay by her side.
Amidst the anguished moments, Madame Rogers found solace in light conversation, diverting her mind from her suffering. Evelyn, however, grew increasingly uneasy, a vague dread settling over her. Memories of her own past experiences during childbirth surfaced faintly, a mixture of pain, anesthesia, and the miracle of new life.
She wished she hadn¡¯t come, feeling her presence was unnecessary. Yet, she remained, silently witnessing the agony unfold, her heart rebelling against the harsh realities of childbirth.
After the ordeal, as she leaned over to bid her friend farewell, Madame Rogers, exhausted yet still mindful, whispered, ¡°Think of the children, Evelyn. Oh, think of the children! Remember them!¡±
Chapter 28
Evelyn stepped outside, still reeling from the emotional intensity of the evening. The doctor¡¯s carriage waited at the porte coch¨¨re, but she declined the ride, opting to walk alone. Dr. Mandelet directed his carriage to meet him later, choosing to accompany Evelyn on her walk home.
Under the starlit sky, the night air was a blend of mildness and spring freshness. They strolled slowly, the doctor¡¯s measured steps contrasting with Evelyn¡¯s distracted pace, reminiscent of her walks at Grand Isle, where thoughts raced ahead, elusive yet compelling.
¡°You shouldn¡¯t have been there, Mrs. McPherson,¡± the doctor commented. ¡°That wasn¡¯t the place for you. Ad¨¨le is unpredictable at such times. There were others who could have been there, less susceptible women. I found it rather cruel.¡±
Evelyn shrugged, her mind preoccupied. ¡°Does it matter? Someone has to think of the children eventually; might as well be sooner than later.¡±
¡°When is L¨¦once returning?¡±
¡°Sometime in March.¡±
¡°And your plans for travel?¡±
¡°Maybe¡ªnot sure. I don¡¯t want to be coerced into anything. I prefer to be left alone. Nobody has the right¡ªexcept perhaps children¡ªand even then, it¡¯s complicated¡ªor it used to be¡ª¡± Her words trailed off, reflecting her inner turmoil.
¡°The trouble is,¡± the doctor sighed, grasping her unspoken sentiments, ¡°youth is ensnared by illusions. It¡¯s Nature¡¯s lure to ensure the continuity of life, oblivious to moral quandaries or the constructs we impose and struggle to maintain.¡±
¡°Yes,¡± she agreed. ¡°The past feels like a dream¡ªbetter to wake up and face reality, painful as it may be, than to live in perpetual illusion.¡±
As they parted ways, the doctor offered his support. ¡°If ever you feel inclined to share your troubles, know that I would understand and offer help. There aren¡¯t many who would, my dear.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t feel like talking about my troubles right now,¡± Evelyn admitted. ¡°But thank you for your sympathy. There are moments of despair that overwhelm me. All I want is to live on my terms, even if it means disregarding others¡¯ lives, hearts, and beliefs¡ªbut I don¡¯t want to trample on innocent lives. Oh, I¡¯m rambling, Doctor. Goodnight. Don¡¯t hold it against me.¡±
¡°Visit me soon,¡± the doctor insisted. ¡°We¡¯ll discuss things you¡¯ve never dared talk about. It¡¯ll be cathartic for us both. Whatever happens, don¡¯t blame yourself. Goodnight, my dear.¡±
Evelyn sat on her porch step, the night calming her turbulent emotions. She reminisced about Taylor¡¯s affectionate words, longing for his presence. The thought of waking him with a kiss filled her with anticipation, despite Ad¨¨le¡¯s reminder to think of the children, a responsibility that weighed heavily on her soul.
Entering her home, she found Taylor absent but his message, filled with love and farewell, left her reeling. She collapsed on the sofa, awake through the night, lost in contemplation and emotion, until Celestine arrived in the morning to begin the day.
Victor was engrossed in patching a corner of the gallery, with Mariequita nearby, fascinated by his work and eager for conversation. The sun¡¯s heat bore down on them as they chatted for over an hour. Mariequita hung on Victor¡¯s every word as he vividly recounted the dinner at Mrs. McPherson¡¯s, embellishing every detail to make it sound like a lavish feast fit for royalty. According to Victor, the flowers were in opulent tubs, champagne flowed from colossal golden goblets, and Mrs. McPherson herself was a vision of beauty and luxury at the head of the table, surrounded by enchanting women.
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Mariequita, caught up in the tale, began to suspect Victor¡¯s infatuation with Mrs. McPherson, and his ambiguous responses only fueled her belief. She grew moody, shedding tears and threatening to leave him to his high society acquaintances. Victor, in a bid to console her, declared his intention to confront C¨¦lina¡¯s foolish and disrespectful husband.
Their conversation still centered on the allure of city life and the dinner when Mrs. McPherson unexpectedly appeared. Both youngsters were stunned by her presence, seeing her as almost ethereal. Mrs. McPherson, looking weary from her journey, mentioned she walked from the wharf and praised Victor¡¯s repair work on the porch.
Victor, taking some time to process her arrival, offered her his room for rest. Mrs. McPherson, indifferent to any fuss, accepted any corner. Victor, considering the arrangements, mentioned the possibility of Philomel¡¯s mother coming over to cook during her stay.
Mariequita, initially suspecting a romantic tryst, quickly abandoned the idea as Mrs. McPherson¡¯s nonchalance and Victor¡¯s surprise dispelled any such notion. Instead, she observed Mrs. McPherson with great interest, fascinated by her reputation for hosting extravagant dinners and captivating men.
As they discussed dinner plans, Evelyn expressed a desire to visit the beach for a refreshing wash and perhaps a swim. Both Victor and Mariequita protested, citing the cold water. However, Evelyn was determined, considering the sun¡¯s warmth. Victor hurriedly packed his tools, offering his room for Evelyn to freshen up.
Evelyn, heading towards the beach, seemed lost in thought, not dwelling on any particular topic, except for the lingering feelings from Taylor¡¯s departure, which kept her awake until morning.
She repeated to herself, almost like a mantra, ¡°Today it¡¯s Hamilton; tomorrow it¡¯ll be someone else. L¨¦once McPherson doesn¡¯t matter to me, but Raoul and Etienne!¡± She now understood the clarity in her past words to Ad¨¨le Rogers about giving up what¡¯s nonessential but never sacrificing herself for her children.
A deep despondency had settled in during that sleepless night, never lifting. She felt no specific desire, no longing for anyone¡¯s presence except Taylor¡¯s. Yet, she also realized that even he and thoughts of him would eventually fade from her life, leaving her alone. Her children seemed like adversaries who had conquered her, trying to bind her in a soul¡¯s enslavement forever. But she knew a way to evade them. These thoughts weren¡¯t on her mind as she walked to the beach.
The Gulf¡¯s water sparkled before her, a million sunlit lights dancing on its surface. The sea¡¯s voice was alluring, a constant whisper, beckoning the soul to wander into solitary abysses. Along the empty beach, not a soul in sight, a bird with a broken wing struggled in the air above, descending towards the water.
Evelyn found her old, faded bathing suit still hanging in the bath-house. She put it on, leaving her clothes behind. But as she stood by the sea, utterly alone, she shed the uncomfortable garments, standing naked for the first time in the open air, vulnerable to the elements.
The sensation of standing bare under the sky was strange and awe-inspiring, yet delightful. She felt like a newborn, seeing the familiar world in a new light. The foamy waves embraced her ankles, inviting her further. She waded in, feeling the sensuous touch of the sea around her.
She swam out, her body enveloped by the sea¡¯s caress. Memories flooded her mind¡ªthe night she swam far out, the fear of losing the shore. Now, she swam on, reminiscent of childhood meadows that seemed endless.
Exhaustion crept in, her thoughts drifting to L¨¦once and the children. They were part of her life, but she refused to be possessed by them wholly. Mademoiselle Reisz¡¯s words echoed in her mind, mocking the idea of possession. Exhausted, she thought of Taylor¡¯s note, his lack of understanding, and the missed opportunity to confide in Doctor Mandelet.
As she looked into the distance, old fears momentarily resurfaced, then faded. She heard echoes of her father¡¯s voice, her sister Margaret¡¯s laughter, the barking of the old dog, and the sounds of everyday life.
The End