“Mr. Kenilworth,” I said. “He has come out of the North like a god, possessed of more money than sense and a fantasy about being a planter that I’ve no doubt will rob him of both.”
“Poor Mr. Kenilworth.” Joel chuckled, handing me my cup. “You know, I’m never certain if it is your wit or your beauty that pleases me most.”
“You are easily pleased,” I said. “Perhaps as easily as Mr. Kenilworth.”
“I care nothing for him,” Joel said, “but that he serve the purpose of making you rich.”
“Alas, I fear that’s something even Mr. Kenilworth cannot do.”
Joel resumed his seat, and stirred his coffee, looking puzzled.
“My husband was heavily in debt,” I explained. “Mr. Kenilworth’s offer will barely cancel it.”
“I didn’t know,” Joel said somberly, as if he’d just heard of the death of a favorite dog. He looked up, then back down. For the first time in my memory, he was at a loss for words. All this time he has been thinking I would be rich, I thought. For a moment we sat silently, staring into the reality of his requirements and my resources.
“Fortunately,” I said, “Mother’s estate is adequate. I’m not rich, but I am independent.”
“And well out of sugar,” Joel responded, rousing himself. “I’m sorry to hear that your husband was unsuccessful, but he was certainly not alone in that.”
“Do you never think of quitting it yourself?”
“I should,” he said. “I hate it. I never go to Rivière. But I’m continually advised to wait, as the economic tide will turn, or the weather change, or the negroes all get well by some miracle and start doing a decent day’s work. What else can I do? I’m not fit for business. Half the time I live on credit from my factor.” He sipped his coffee, resting his eyes on the portrait of my father, whom he never met. “It seems the happiest years are behind us,” he said.
I set my cup on the side table and leaned back into the cushions, seeking to ease the pain in my shoulder. “I’ve never known you to be melancholy,” I said. “I was counting on you to cheer me up.”
Joel opened his eyes wide, as if he’d just glanced at his reflection and seen someone he didn’t recognize. “As you have every right to expect,” he said. “You must forgive me.”
“I do,” I said. And I did, but the effort fatigued me. It seemed that happiness must always be just beyond me and I should always stand gazing in at it as through a shopwindow where everything glittered and appealed to me, but I had not enough money to enter. It was money, only money, that would keep Joel from ever being more than my friendly admirer.
Joel struggled to rise above the somber mood that had fallen upon us. “I have some excellent gossip for you,” he said. “Pierre Legrand has finally gotten his comeuppance.” He launched into an amusing story about a man we both despised whose wife had discovered his craven efforts to seduce her niece. After that he went on to another hilarious account of a distinguished lady who had proved a poor loser at bezique. “You are a tonic,” I said, when I had paused from laughing. “And I must pay for my medicine. May I offer you some champagne?”
“It is what the doctor recommends,” he exclaimed.
“Ring for Delphine,” I said, and he rose to pull the cord. She came in, wiping her hands on her apron, her chin tucked nearly into her breastbone. I gave her my instructions— there were oysters as well; I’d had Rose buy them in the morning—and she went out hurriedly. “She’s not accustomed to serving,” I said. “She is mortified to leave the kitchen.”
“What’s become of Peek?” he inquired.
“I had to give her away. She was getting on and her cooking really is abominable. Delphine is an accomplished cook. In a few weeks I will give a small dinner party and you may sample her daube.”
“Gladly,” he agreed. Delphine came in, desperately clutching a tray, in terror that the glasses must tumble over. Joel directed her to the desk, clearing away the few papers scattered over it. “Well done,” he said, as she backed away. “No need to stay. I’ll serve your mistress with pleasure.” She hurried out, casting me a cautious look, but I waved her away. Joel struggled with the cork, then there was the sharp pop that is the signifier of gaiety. He turned to me, holding the bottle close over a crystal flute as the golden liquid frothed inside. His eyes were bright, his smile infectious. He was turning his own pleasure over in his mind. My mother had offered maternal kindness, boundless admiration, and the occasional dinner. My tenure would be more enticing. He handed me a glass, filled one for himself, and proposed a toast. “To this house,” he said, “which is for me the sweetest refuge in the civilized world.”