Then my husband pressed him to stay the night, but there was never any hope of that. I could see the wasted afternoon through Joel’s eyes, napping or reading or looking at dogs when he could be arriving in town in time for an elegant supper, followed by gambling and flirting. What would it be like to be married to such a man, I thought, to enter on his arm a room full of envious girls? A familiar gloom descended upon me. With Joel, I would have had children.
Sarah came in with the blancmange, which Joel, smiling at me, pronounced his favorite. He ate an entire one once at my mother’s house, so it is a joke between us. Sarah set the dish down before me and my husband directed her to bring the port glasses. As she passed behind him on her way to the sideboard, she cast him a furtive look; she wasn’t happy about something. Then we heard a clattering in the hall, the door flew open, and Walter rushed in.
He was barefoot, wearing only white pantaloons and a red kerchief around his neck. He dashed around the table, his spindly arms raised over his head, his eyes rolling wildly, singing something he apparently thought was a song, though it had neither tune nor sense. He stopped at my husband’s chair only long enough to shriek and push himself off against the table, then he careened past me and threw himself at Joel, grasping him by the waist and burying his curly head in his waistcoat.
A good many things happened at once. My husband rose from his seat, shouting at Sarah to take the boy from the room. Walter lifted his face and began gibbering at Joel, who turned to me with an expression of astonishment and asked, “What have we here?” Then, as Sarah pulled the boy away by the arm, I saw Joel take in the mad creature’s marked resemblance to my husband. I believe his mouth dropped open. My husband understood that Joel understood, which infuriated him. He pushed back his chair and followed Sarah and the screaming child, directing slaps at one and then the other. The boy took the blow on the back of his head and howled, so enraged that he lost his footing. Sarah scooped him up by the waist and took him, kicking and screaming, from the room. My husband slammed the door behind them and came back to the table.
I could feel Joel’s eyes upon me and my cheeks burned with shame. I heard my father’s voice, reminding me that a gentleman never raises his voice to a servant in public. What would he have thought of a man who strikes a child at a dinner party? My husband sat down in a huff and busied himself pouring out the port. An awful silence enveloped the table, and I could think of no way to break it. At last Joel said, “Are you going to serve me that dessert, Manon, or is it just there to tempt my appetite?”
“Of course,” I said, taking up the spoon. “Just pass me your plate.” Then my husband asked Joel about the shooting at his place, a question which genuinely interested our guest, as he thinks the only pleasure in country living is the hunting, so they began to talk, and we went on as if nothing had happened, as if Joel wasn’t going back to town with a story that would amuse his bachelor friends: Manon Gaudet has no children, but her husband is not childless. It was a common enough tale; no one would think it a paradox. My only comfort was that I knew Joel would say nothing to my mother.
AFTER JOEL LEFT, my husband went to see Mr. Sutter and I went to my room. I was still flushed and tipsy from the wine, but my good humor had been thoroughly destroyed. As we stood on the porch bidding our guest farewell, my husband had insisted on passing his arm around my waist, and there was nothing I could do but bear it until Joel was out of sight. There we were, a loving couple, waving and smiling as our guest turned his horse toward the town, no doubt eager to be done with us and our sham of a marriage. When he was out of earshot, I removed my husband’s hand and said, “Won’t Joel have some amusing stories to tell when he gets to town?”
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“He can tell all my friends I live with a man whose bastard son runs wild in the dining room and who strikes his servants in public. That should paint an edifying picture of the choice I’ve made.”
He made no answer, but strode off toward the quarter.
In my room, I threw myself across my bed and wept. I cried until I fell asleep. When I woke, Sarah was there nursing her baby, her eyes closed, a dreamy expression on her face.
“Did you send Walter in to get even with me or with him?” I asked.
Her eyes snapped open. I turned my face away.
“He just snuck in,” she said.
I STAYED IN my room all evening. Sarah brought my supper on a tray, but I could scarcely eat it. Just after dark it began to rain and a wind picked up, rattling the shutters against the house. I changed into my nightclothes. After Sarah had brushed my hair, I sent her and the baby away for the night. Then I lay upon the bed thinking about Joel, about the look on his face when he turned to me over Walter’s babbling head and said, “What have we here?” Was it pity? I couldn’t bear that. I thought about my husband, and these thoughts, never warm, were like icy jets darting about in my brain. I could hear him moving about downstairs. I dozed, woke again to hear him climbing the stairs. He is heavy-footed. It’s hard to figure how one man walking can make as much noise as he does. He passed my door and went on to his own room. The rain had stopped, the wind had swept the clouds away, and moonlight streamed in through the window. My head ached from the wine and my throat was parched. I slipped out of bed, poured myself a glass of water, then went to look out the window, just for something to do. I felt I wouldn’t sleep again for years. It was still windy, the trees waved their upper branches as if they were calling me outside. I looked up at the clear sky, the glittering stars, then I looked down and discovered, near the foot of an oak, a man. Startled, I stepped away from the window. Had he seen me? I pulled the curtain in front of me and looked out past it cautiously, though my room was dark and it was unlikely that he could see me. It was a negro, dressed in a white shirt and loose breeches that whipped around in the wind. He was standing very still, his arms crossed, gazing up at the house. I couldn’t make out his features. Was he one of ours?