“It would be a shame to part with it,” my uncle said.
“I’ll close it up for now,” I said.
“It will make an excellent pied-à-terre,” my aunt suggested.
“It would indeed,” Joel said. “With such a charming situation, perhaps your husband can be tempted to leave his sugarcane more often and join us here for the season.”
I took a good swallow of brandy, looking at Joel over the rim of the glass. Was it possible that he hadn’t guessed how I felt about my husband? Or was his remark just politesse, intended to distract my aunt and uncle? His eyes met mine, thoughtful, interested, there was a trace of a smile on his lips.
“My husband dislikes New Orleans,” I said.
JOEL’ SCASUAL REMARK was much in my thoughts as I went through Mother’s clothes, sorting some for charity and some for alteration. I had only a day to pack and close the house before my return to a place I hated for a duration I couldn’t anticipate. I felt like a prisoner who has been led from his dark cell into the daylight, shown a gay, lively, sunny world, and told, all this is yours, and whenever you can persuade your jailer to accompany you, you may see it again. As I worked, nostalgia and remorse visited me by turns, making each decision a kind of torture, as if a kerchief’s or an earring’s fate had momentous implications for my own. Peek and Sarah were in and out, taking up carpets, putting covers on the furniture, polishing silver and storing it in felt bags. What will become of me? I thought, turning a garnet brooch over and over in my hand. I could remember the exact shape and size of the box it came in, the deep wine color of the velvet bow, and my father’s amused glance in my direction as Mother pulled the ribbon apart eagerly. How had I moved so relentlessly from that bright moment to this one?
In the evening I dined with my aunt and we discussed my arrangements for the morrow. As I was leaving, she insisted on sending a servant with a lantern to accompany me back to the cottage, which was hardly necessary as the streets were well lit and the distance but a few blocks, heavily patrolled. It was a clear, chilly night, and as I passed beneath my neighbors’ balconies I could hear the muted sounds of talking and laughing, the occasional shout of pleasure as someone won at cards or delighted the company with a bit of scandalous gossip. How plain and quiet my own little house seemed in comparison, yet I felt again a pleasurable twinge of ownership as I put the key in the lock and opened the door into the darkened parlor. I lit the lamp and closed the shutter behind me. The room had a ghostly, abandoned look to it already. The furniture was covered in loose cream-colored cases, the grate was swept and dry. Peek had gone to her new mistress, and Sarah, I presumed, was asleep. I passed into my bedroom, which is never entirely dark, as the light from the street filters through the shutters. My nightdress was laid out upon the chair, the pitcher filled with water, the bed linens turned back invitingly. I undressed quickly, and slipped beneath the quilt. Tomorrow, I thought, I will not find so welcome a resting place.
But I had scarcely closed my eyes when my drifting thoughts were focused upon the sound of whispering. At first it seemed to be coming from my pillow. One voice, then another, then a pause. I turned onto my back and lay still, listening. There was nothing. From far off I heard a horse’s hooves approaching the corner, turning off toward the Place d’Armes. I closed my eyes. At once the whispering began again. The voice was urgent this time. Was it a man or a woman? No matter how I concentrated, I couldn’t make out one word. It was coming from the floor. After a pause the other voice answered at some length. I sat up in the bed. Was it the floor or the wall? This one sounded like a woman. She was vexed, insistent. I slipped out of the bed and knelt on the bare floor. The voice stopped; there was no answer. A minute passed in which I heard only my own breathing. Just as I decided to get back into the bed, the second voice—I thought it must be a man—began again, lowered, placating, attempting to calm the first. It was coming from the wall, of course. There was a narrow alley between the cottage and the larger town house next door. Yet I was sure the sound was rising up through the boards between my knees. The space beneath the house was open on that side, but it was low, a man would have to crouch to get in there. Whisper, whisper. At length I made out the word “afraid,” and another word repeated, which was either “never” or “better.” I dropped onto my hands and pressed my ear against the floor. At once the voice fell silent.
I’m going mad, I thought.
Part III
Insurrection
I HOPED MY husband would be occupied with his roofing project and I might at least have the leisure to change from my traveling clothes without seeing him, but as soon as we made the last turn into the drive there he was, stamping up and down on the porch, waving a walking stick which he clearly did not require. He was shouting at Mr. Sutter, who sat astride his horse. In the next moment this gentleman tore off at a gallop, charging past us without a word as if pursued by the devil. My husband came to the steps to attend our arrival.