He threw his hands into the air. “Bah, what does it matter? Try the soursop.”

  I bit warily into the fruit for fear it would be sour, with that name, but I needn’t have worried. Its flesh was firm and tasted like a combination of strawberry and pineapple, with an underlying creamy flavor. “Ambrosia,” I said.

  “I am happy to have pleased you.”

  “Oh, Monsieur, you please me in everything. Everything is perfect, just perfect.”

  He looked up at me through thick, dark eyelashes. “I am glad. By the way,” he said softly, holding my gaze, “you have a charming speaking voice. So light and breathy.”

  I murmured my thanks for the compliment. Now I’d be trying to listen to myself all evening. In spite of the great fan, perspiration trickled down my chest into my cleavage. I snatched up a napkin and dabbed at it.

  Naturally my godfather took note. “We battle the heat with lukewarm baths and ice and fans, but even a king would have no way to stay cool here in June.” He clapped his hands. “George, bring Mademoiselle Sophia an ice. Quickly!”

  George hurried from the room.

  He returned shortly with a cut-glass bowl of ice cream with peaches, the first I had ever eaten. More ambrosia.

  “I store the ice in a hole fifty feet down at the plantation,” M. de Cressac said, a look of pleasure on his face as he watched me eat. “Someday I will take you there. It is like a crystal palace. And believe it or not, it does freeze occasionally in northern Mississippi in wintertime. When the cold comes, we must get you a set of white furs so you may be a snow queen.”

  I pictured myself in a fluffy white hat and muff and gave a shiver of anticipation. “You always have known what gifts would please me most. Through the years we all used to wait eagerly to see what would come next. You see, we never had much money, so when I look back on birthdays and Christmases and such, the things you sent shine in my memory like miracles.”

  Once we grew too old for glorious and ingenious toys, the inappropriateness of the gifts my godfather thought appropriate for our simple lifestyle had also provided amusement, but I didn’t mention that. Although I myself loved lavish, pretty things, and would stroke the sumptuous fabrics and finger the jewelry, my siblings used to laugh at how excessive everything was. M. de Cressac seemed to delight in the ornate and opulent. If a brooch should have two curlicues, the one he sent me would have six. If a pair of kid half boots should have one rosette, the ones he gave me would be spotted with them.

  I wondered if I ought not to speak of our poverty. But surely M. de Cressac must have known all about it. Throughout my life, the fretting regarding money had draped over my family like layers of cobweb, delicate but intrusive.

  I sighed and decided to speak the complete truth. “Anne says our trouble is that we’re genteel, but only in a theoretical way.”

  He leaned forward. “What does she mean?”

  “Theoretically, we know how to wear our clothes and order dinners and—and how to ride, that sort of thing, but in practice we can’t afford decent dressmakers or fine food or horses. Thank you, though, for paying for my riding lessons. I enjoyed them.” I paused as I reflected on the effect our theoretic gentility had on us—endless frustration and endless yearning for those things we could not have. “But please,” I continued quickly, “don’t think we did without necessities or were unhappy. On the contrary, we did very well. I only wanted you to know how we appreciated your kindness.”

  “Pauvre petite.” His voice was gentle. “I worried about you. I could do so little. I would have done more, but I feared your father would not have liked it. I tried to send money once, long after his attorney fees were paid, and he returned it. His pride, you know.”

  Darling Papa, so gentle and weak and lovable; occasionally, however, the iron would enter his soul and he would be surprisingly stubborn about certain things.

  My eyes blurred as they still often did when I thought of him.

  M. de Cressac squeezed my hand. His own hand was very warm. “Ah, see how the tears yet come. Your father was a good man. I am sorry I saw him so little in late years and that he is now gone, although it brought you to me. I know I cannot replace him or be worthy to be your father, but will you allow me to be your dear friend and companion? Will you let me share my world with you and will you confide in me?”

  “Of course.”

  He held my hand palm up to study.

  “This,” he said, “is a fine-boned hand made for true gentility and not the theoretical type of which you speak. It is so small and delicate; how can you even hold anything?”

  I smiled and drew it back. “I promise, my hands are completely functional.”

  His eyes twinkled. He lifted his fork but paused with it in midair. “Ah, I nearly forgot. We must continue your lesson in cuisine. Some delectable calf brains.” He started to signal for Charles.

  “No, thank you!” I hastened to exclaim.

  My godfather looked at me for a moment and then gave a great barking laugh. “I shall so enjoy having you here. And shall relish the challenge of teaching you about the good things in life. Do you know, you remind me of a ballerina I once met in Russia. She …”

  He regaled me with a charming story, and I listened mesmerized, forgetting to be tired, especially since I reminded him of the beautiful ballerina in question. Had I truly not drunk any spirits? I felt intoxicated.

  At the end of the tale he called over the fan and insect boys, who had also obviously been listening. “Now, Sir Tater Bug and Sir Reuben, what do you expect for your gallant efforts at keeping the mosquitoes and heat at bay?”

  The boys grinned. “Candy, sir,” one of them said stoutly.

  M. de Cressac laughed and rubbed the boy’s head. “What? No requests for calf brains from you either? Well, you are good boys and deserve your reward. Here, then.”

  He dug in his pocket and drew out a handful of lemon drops for each of them.

  “Now,” he said, “off to bed with the both of you. It is getting late, and we must manage without your services.”

  The boys scampered away, and I smiled at my godfather.

  “His name really is Tater Bug,” M. de Cressac explained. “At least I have never heard him called anything else.” Suddenly he banged his fist on the table, causing me to start. “I am remiss,” he said. “I have not yet thanked you for discarding the black.”

  I nodded in acknowledgment. “But, sir, there’s no need for thanks. I must admit I was happy to have an excuse to wear pretty clothes. Black is a ghastly color on me.”

  He laughed again, although I wasn’t sure what I had said that was funny.

  “Now,” he said, patting my shoulder in a fatherly way, “will you oblige me with one more thing?”

  Again I nodded, waiting.

  “This ‘sir’ business—must we stand on formality? May we not be good friends? I call you Sophia; won’t you call me by my given name, Bernard, s’il vous plaît? Yes, I am your godfather, but you make me feel an old, old man when you look up with those great, trusting blue eyes and address me as ‘Monsieur’ this and ‘sir’ that in an oh-so-deferential tone. You make me seem at least eighty. Do I appear to be eighty to you?”

  “Now, you know you don’t. How absurd! Why, I don’t believe you can be much above—thirty.” I switched from saying “forty” at the last moment, since I had no idea how old he actually was and didn’t wish to offend. Although it had been he who had called himself an old man in his invitation letter. “And you appear to be strong and in excellent health.”

  “Diplomatically put,” he said wryly. “My gout and lumbago rarely keep me crippled long. And I am very strong indeed, as I might perhaps show you someday.”

  I peeked up at him and was relieved that his amber eyes danced.

  “But tell me,” he continued, “will you not call me Bernard?”

  “I should like to oblige, sir, but would it be fitting when you stand in place of a father to me?”

  “The devil with ‘fitting.’ It is what I wish, and I warn you I am persistent in getting what I want.”

  “Then you have been very spoiled,” I said sternly, and immediately wondered if I should have. I was teasing, but some people wouldn’t have understood. I simply had no practice in how to behave out in the world. I considered myself a modern girl, and back in our home I was allowed to be more spirited and free-speaking than my mother would have been at my age. However, I still believed in abiding by society’s traditional rules as long as I understood the reason for them. Of course the world was a much nicer place when people practiced respect and consideration and morality. Thankfully, my godfather was smiling at my words, so he was not offended. Onward, then. I tossed my head. “And why ‘warn’ me? Should I be wary of your wishes?”

  “Hopefully not.” His voice was soft.

  I looked to see if he was still smiling. Now he was not.

  Suddenly he shrugged. “Besides, you are too young to be concerned with what is ‘fitting.’ You should be enjoying life. There is a poem in Latin by the great Horace: Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Translated it means: ‘Pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.’ Plucking the day is my philosophy.”

  I made no comment on this way of thinking, since it sounded quite irresponsible. “Perhaps I might address you as Uncle Bernard. Would that do?”

  “ ‘Uncle.’ No. I will not be called your uncle. Dashed if I’ll be an uncle!” His eyes flashed with pretend indignation.

  It might be as much fun to tease and be teased by my godfather as it was with my brother Harry. “Then perhaps Monsieur Bernard,” I suggested.

  “Mais oui, an excellent solution. For now.”

  The dinner lasted till nearly eleven o’clock.

  “Oh, mon chaton,” he said at last. “My poor sleepy kitten can barely keep her eyes open. Come and kiss me good night, then, and Charles will show you back to your room.”

  I leaned in to him a little stiffly since he was still practically a stranger, and I bravely kissed his cheek. It was not terrible, being the extraordinarily attractive cheek it was, after all. Quite the opposite.

  Charles led me to my chamber, where a yawning housemaid waited. The girl helped me undress and don a rather revealing but beautiful silken night shift. She braided my hair without comment, except to tell me her name was Talitha. She was a pretty girl in an exotic way, tall and willowy, with golden undertones to her dark skin, wearing a simple black dress along with a snowy apron and head kerchief.

  “You must be worn out by this time of night,” I said. “Do they work you awfully hard?”

  She seemed startled to be asked such a question. She paused before speaking, as if weighing how she ought to answer. “It ain’t too bad,” she said finally. “Better than pulling out joint grass from the cotton fields.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “If that’s the other choice. But I’m sorry to have kept you up late.”

  I had watched the field hands on my way here. The heat-hazed landscape had been dotted with bent figures of women and girls wearing faded prints and rags on their heads, of men and boys in homespun shirtsleeves and limp hats, hoeing and pulling weeds and picking off bugs. I pitied them for their hard work in this heat. I pitied them for their ghastly clothing.

  This Talitha must be close to my age. Could we talk to each other sometimes? At least a little bit? I tried again. “Having your hair up in a kerchief must be much cooler than the way I do mine. Mine is so hot on the neck.”

  She didn’t vouchsafe this attempt with any comment. She simply raised her beautifully arched eyebrows slightly to acknowledge my words and turned back the covers of the bed. When I was tucked in, she pulled the mosquito netting canopy down to the bedposts.

  A great buzzing swelled from outside. I bolted straight up. “What’s that sound?”

  Talitha’s lips quirked in what appeared to be amusement. “Them be cicadas. A kind of bug in the trees.”

  “They’re going to drive me insane.”

  She shrugged. “You get used to them.”

  “Good night,” I said, but she was already sweeping regally from the room.

  Instantly I clambered from bed, getting myself tangled in the netting on the way. I turned the key in the door. I needed the security of a lock between myself and that vast maze of rooms.

  I heaved a sigh of relief, as if I had accomplished a great feat to be standing there, prepared for bed. I had left the bosom of my family to travel by rail and by coach, had seen new sights, eaten new foods, and made a few new acquaintances. It was indeed an achievement for a girl such as me who had always been sheltered from the outside world.

  While I knelt by the bed to pray, I absently twisted the ring on my finger. It fell jingling to the marble floor and bounced under the bedstead. I lowered the lamp to reveal it lying there deep in the recesses. By wriggling myself partially under, I reached it, and was edging back out when something caught my eye. I peered closer at the inner leg of the bed. There, scratched into the opalescent paint, was a name—Adele.

  But wasn’t M. Bernard’s wife named Tatiana? Maybe a housemaid had done it, might have scratched her own name. What a foolish thing—anyone seeing it would know who the culprit was, and she would be promptly punished.

  I blew out the lamp and slipped between fragrant sheets, silky to the touch. My toes glided instead of catching on the fabric as they had at home. Fine-twined linen, I thought. That was in the Bible. Unless it was in Shakespeare. Who could keep them straight?

  Outside, the incessant cicadas droned. Inside, some large insect fluttered against the netting.

  What were my family’s cozy evenings like now in our gaunt, gray stone house, without their little sister to tell them funny stories or to tease Harry about his dandy’s clothes or to play the piano while they sang? I had always been surrounded by people who cherished me. Homesick tears welled behind my closed eyelids. I wiped them on the fine-twined linen. I must remember I was here for my siblings’ sake as much as for my own.

  The smell from the waxy, whiter-than-white camellias on the mantel was too strong. Their scent cloyed. Suffocated. Once again I dislodged myself from the netting, careful not to let the insect in. I padded across cool, smooth marble and then sank into the velvety plush of the rug, removed the vase, set it outside on my balcony, and returned to bed.

  It was too hot. I kicked off the covers. Now I was too exposed and vulnerable. At last I compromised by pulling the sheet across my middle but leaving legs and arms bare.

  “Bonjour, Sophia.”

  Below me, my godfather had stepped out onto the terrace and was gazing up at my balcony. He was in his shirtsleeves, with the collar open. A lock of black hair fell across his forehead. In the sunlight he looked young and energetic and so handsome my limbs went weak.

  I realized I still wore my meager night shift and quickly crossed my arms over the front. I had been so transfixed by the view it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone might observe me.

  Evidently my prudish actions amused him because there was laughter in his voice when he called up, “It is a beautiful morning, no? The picture of a June day. I regret I shall not be joining you until tonight. Too much business, alas. Mortgages and stock yields. Bah! But I will see you at supper. Make yourself at home, ma chérie.”

  He disappeared back into the house.

  Once he strode safely out of sight, the vista, which I had stepped out to see, drew from me an exclamation of delight.

  Directly below lay a terrace with blood-red roses swarming over the stone balustrade. Beyond that, set out in a variety of shades of green, was a topiary garden, the dense foliage sculpted into amazing shapes. The largest were a life-sized elephant, a giraffe, and a lion, but dozens of other figures spiked up in frames of boxwood—human figures, obelisks and pyramids, cones and tapering swirls. The people shapes were a bit disturbing—alive yet not alive, and eyeless. What could I give them for eyes? I thought of roses, and the image made me laugh.

  Pristine flower gardens reached down to a little lake, spotted with swans and spanned by a Palladian bridge, with columns and classical symmetry. Beyond the vast expanse of lake and lawn and parkland, trees stretched on forever. The estate was ringed with a wall of wildwood that crouched, waiting its chance to take over the cleared land once again.

  The sky was still tinted pinky gold from dawn. A mockingbird landed, singing, on the rail nearby, and I breathed in a lungful of already-warm air perfumed by roses and pine needles. This was a beautiful place, and I was happy, happy, happy.

  I went inside, leaving my doors open to sun and sweet air. What to do now? I had no idea how a day here began. I should have slept in longer, since, from all the novels and serial stories I had read, that was the way of ladies of leisure. But I was too excited to drift off again.

  My trunk waited beside the fireplace. I unlocked the door in case the maid should come, and I began unpacking my belongings, spreading them about. My books went on the desk. I touched the tooled blue leather cover, stamped in silver, of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Wyndriven Abbey might well be the castle in any one of them. My mother’s miniature belonged on the night table and my workbasket beside a chair. Perhaps they weren’t so fine and didn’t match the underwater grotto theme, but they made the lovely room seem more truly my own. I needed pieces of home in this place.

  The tall jewelry box, a long-ago gift from my godfather, now stood on a chest of drawers. It was of Chinese design in black and gold lacquer, with drawers behind latched doors. In it glittered the jewelry he had sent me throughout the years, a few small childhood treasures, my godfather’s epistles to me, and the only love letters I had ever received. I opened the bottom drawer to make sure I had indeed tucked in Felix’s letters.

  Felix, my father’s young law clerk, had been sweet on me the year I was fifteen. There were several notes. I didn’t care for him in that way, but I didn’t discourage him because I liked having an admirer and he was the only boy I knew. At last, taking pity on him, Anne made me write, instructing me to tell “the poor mooncalf” that I was too young for such things. But I reread his words sometimes, and in spite of the fact that Felix was only a couple of years older and equally inexperienced in the ways of romance, they were precious to me. He waxed awkwardly lyrical about my midnight blue eyes and skin like peaches and cream. A girl couldn’t help but be flattered. Especially a girl who worried about her complexion. He had scrawled his notes on scraps of legal paper, which amused me at the time, as the Ladies’ Monthly Assistant assured that “for love letters good paper is indispensable.” What would the worthy Mrs. Ophelia Taylor think of poor Felix’s missives?

 

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