Property(52)

But it wasn’t his card. It was larger and the lettering was different. I held it close to the light and read the legend:

EVERETT ROGET

Tasteful and elegant carpentry

Interior and exterior painting and plaster

Faux marble and fresco





I turned it over and read the carefully lettered message on the reverse:

Dear Mrs. Gaudet,

I hope you will allow me to call upon you tomorrow afternoon at two on a matter of import to us both.

Respectfully,

Everett Roget h.c.l.





AFTER BREAKFAST I consulted with my aunt, who agreed with me that Mr. Roget knew exactly where Sarah was and intended to make an offer pending her return. “He may seem sure of himself,” she said. “He has established some means of contacting Sarah quickly and he thinks she is so well hidden no one can find her. But he must know Mr. Leggett has been commissioned to apprehend her. This is a desperate measure.”

Mr. Roget did not appear in the least desperate when he arrived at my door that afternoon. As he followed Rose into the parlor his eyes darted confidently over the cornices, the mantel, the baseboards, then settled upon me with much the same quality of appraisal and assurance. He was neatly dressed, though not elegant in any part, except for his walking stick, which had a silver knob. He took the seat I directed him to, set his hat upon the side table, and held the stick between his legs. His hands, I noticed, were large, chapped from the cold and the dry plaster of his trade, the nails neatly trimmed. One was bruised black at the quick. He was light-skinned, though not so light as Sarah, and his features were pleasing, especially his eyes, which were wide, dark brown, the lashes thick for a man. He began almost at once, offering his condolences for my recent losses and apologizing for having taken the liberty to disturb me in my mourning.

“It is for just that reason that I must ask you to come directly to the point of your visit,” I said.

He compressed his lips in a tight, self-satisfied smile that suggested he had not expected to be treated courteously, and was now justified in that expectation. I leaned forward over the arm of my chair, giving him my close attention.

“I have come in hopes that you will accept an offer for the purchase of your servant Sarah.”

“Sarah?” I pretended surprise. “But she is not for sale. Are you in the habit of offering to buy servants who are not for sale?”

He raised his eyes to mine. “No,” he said.

“Then I wonder what has driven you to such impertinence in this case.”

“I made Sarah’s acquaintance when she was with her former owner, and I have long been desirous of purchasing her.”

“You know, of course, that she has run away.”

“I do,” he said. “My offer is made in the event of her return.”

“What makes you think she will return?” I asked. “She has eluded capture for over a month now.”

He looked down at the knob of his cane, making no reply. After a moment he rubbed at a smudge on the silver with his palm.

“How soon after I accept your offer might I expect her return?” I asked.

Still the infuriating man did not speak. His eyes wandered over the objects on the side table, stopping at the portrait of my father. How Father would have detested him, I thought, and seen through his despicable game. He wanted a wife lighter than he was, but no free quadroon would have him. In spite of his fortune, which I didn’t doubt was considerable, he was a laborer. Sarah was perfect for him. They could raise a houseful of yellow brats, one more useless than the next. But what, I wondered, would he do with the baby Sarah already had?

“You know that Sarah has a child with her,” I said.

He looked up from the portrait, his expression candid and businesslike. “I do,” he said.

“I assume that your offer would include that child. It is too young to be separated from its mother.”

“Of course,” he said.

“You have figured that into the offer, have you?” I said.

He frowned at my persistence on this point. “I have,” he said.

“Did you know that Sarah has another child?” I asked, watching his face closely. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. She didn’t tell him, I thought.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“A boy,” I said. “A healthy child. She left him behind.” I stood up and pulled the cord for Rose. “He is eight years old.” Rose came in at the dining room door. “Send Walter to me,” I said. She looked past me at Mr. Roget, then turned back hurriedly. She and Delphine were probably huddled together over the kitchen table in a fit of jabbering. I turned, smiling, to my guest, who had not moved, though his shoulders drooped. The interview was not going exactly as he had planned. “Walter is old enough to be separated from his mother,” I observed, “but that is a policy I have always abhorred. It is a cruelty to sell a child away from his only protector. My father, that is his portrait”—I lifted my chin indicating the picture—“was strongly opposed to the unnecessary breakup of family connections among our people, and I have tried to follow his example.”