Property(49)

The shoemaker, Mr. Gaston, an elderly man rumored to be related to the police chief, came out from behind his counter to offer his condolences for my recent losses. He had kept Mother in shoe soles for twenty years and had seen me often enough at her side when I was a girl. He was a tall, thin man, very light, with black eyes and thick curly white hair he kept cropped close to his skull. As I thanked him for his kind words, he lowered his eyes, then raised them again, and with a slow smile inquired how he might be of service to me. Something in his manner, perhaps it was only the irritating lack of deference, reminded me of Sarah. We discussed my shoes and parted agreeably. When I was on the street, I thought of how he had lowered his eyes modestly, then the suddenness of his redirected gaze. I had come to the turn to my own house, but I passed it by and proceeded to Rue Chartres, where I turned south toward my aunt’s residence. I walked quickly, pressed by the force of revelation, as well as a sense that time was of the essence. I was as certain of the facts as if I had read them in the journals. The dark baby Mr. Leggett described was indeed Sarah’s child, and she was traveling with her mother. But her mother was not the servant, who was an impostor, hired by Mr. Roget to play a part. And the old gentleman en route to visit his doctor was neither seriously ill nor a gentleman. He was Sarah.



MOURNING FORBADE MY appearance at large gatherings, but a small dinner party of friends and family was not denied me. My aunt was anxious to alleviate my loneliness, and as my health returned, she insisted that I dine at her house two or three times a week. Often she invited another guest or two to fill out the table. Our family has been much decimated by the ravages of time. I have lost both my parents and two baby brothers; my aunt’s two brothers both died before they were twenty and, of her three children, one son survived to adulthood, only to be killed in a hunting accident a week before his wedding day. My uncle’s family fared little better, though he has several grown nephews and nieces and one brother, who lives in France. So we are all in all to each other. My childlessness had long been a source of vexation to my aunt; she had joined Mother in urging me to seek medical counsel, but as my husband was gone and I was not a marriageable commodity, I expected that she would resign herself and think of me as her last child. Yet she was so constituted that she couldn’t give up all hope. One day, when she found me sitting in my darkened parlor with red-rimmed eyes, she opined that I should not despair; I was still young and beautiful; a suitor would materialize as soon as I returned to society. This was so unlikely, I told her, it was funny, and I thanked her for cheering me. Who would marry a cripple with only enough money to keep herself? Poor Aunt Lelia resorted to pointing out the promising rise in property values in our neighborhood.

I thought her surprisingly chilly to Joel Borden the following Saturday evening when we sat down to her dining table. I knew there was no hope of Joel’s marrying me; he was desperate for money. That he behaved toward me as gallantly as any suitor was an irony I was prepared to accept, but I saw that it was not pleasing to my aunt. She had invited another gentleman, Mr. Duffossat, a dull, myopic young man just finishing his law studies, who followed the banter between Joel and me with a furrowed brow. He was ponderous and overweight, showing signs of animation only at the presentation of dessert.

After supper we took our coffee to the dining room and sat down to a game of écarté. It was an unseasonably warm night and the balcony doors were open, the lamps dimly lit. From the street the sounds of talking, laughing, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, drifted up to us. My uncle did not play but occupied himself in standing behind my aunt’s chair, supervising her game. Joel was in high spirits, impulsively raising the bid again and again. My aunt took a card and sighed. Uncle Emile, resting his hand upon her shoulder, leaned down to whisper a word of advice into her ear. She smiled, adjusted her cards, then absently raised her hand to tap affectionately at his fingers. I looked away; it seemed such an intimate gesture I felt embarrassed to have seen it. My deflected gaze collided with Mr. Duffossat’s, which he redirected to his cards with a similar flustered haste. He had been closely observing the peculiarly lifeless slope of my right shoulder.

I felt a wave of heat rising from my neck and across my face. I glanced at Joel, who was speaking to my uncle about someone with an odd name, Balboa. Then I realized it was not a man, but a horse. My heart pounded in my ears and I was short of breath. I laid my cards facedown upon the table.

“Manon?” my aunt said. “Are you feeling unwell?”