Page 77 of Frankly, My Dear

She walked about the rooms, inhaling deeply of the pungent odors of lemony cleaning solutions and strong beeswax polish. Here and there she touched a piece of furniture in admiration—Hepplewhite nesting tables in the corner, a mahogany upholstered sofa that could very well be Duncan Phyfe, a tall case clock with a scroll top and ogee bracket feet, an American empire sideboard, fine Hitchcock chairs.

Most of the furniture was in the simple federal style, using rich reddish brown mahoganies or highly grained native cypress, all stained to resemble the satinwoods so popular in Europe. But the most exquisite pieces, with their delicately molded panels, were made of palissandre, or violet ebony, and signed by a New Orleans furniture maker named Seignouret.

Selene vowed to research Seignouret when she returned to the future to see if his work was appreciated in her time. Then her spirits plummeted at the reminder that she would, in fact, have to leave this period in history, these people…James…all of whom she was beginning to cherish.

Shaking away those unwelcome thoughts, she listened as the grandfather clock chimed five times. Then she told Iris, “I think we can stop for the day.”

Iris nodded. “Are we gonna do arrow-backs again tomorrow?”

Selene smiled. “If you want. We’ll have to find another place to work out, though, since we’ve replaced the furniture in here. Maybe Etienne’s schoolroom, or even outside if the weather’s nice.”

The black woman patted her bottom and winked at Selene. “I feel smaller already, Mam’zelle. Betcha I could catch that Rufus if I had a smaller backside. Betcha he would stay longer ’n the other men I knowed if my body was more…” She searched for the word.

“…perfect?” Selene wept inside at the universal weakness of women who kept trying and trying to please others in order to be happy themselves. “Iris, I think you’ve already caught Rufus. But can’t you see that it’s wrong to try to change yourself to please someone else?”

“How else I gonna catch a man, and keep ’im?”

“Men are important. Hey, I like men a lot. But having a husband, or a lover, shouldn’t be the way women define themselves.”

“Huh?”

“Listen, women throughout time have been running in place, thinking that if they were only prettier, or smarter, or sexier, or more docile, or more aggressive, men would love them more. It doesn’t work. Believe me. It’s taken me five years of group therapy to understand that women need to be stronger, to learn to love themselves first.”

“Oh, Selene, everything you’re saying is just what I need to learn,” Reba interrupted enthusiastically.

Selene realized then that all the women were listening with interest to her conversation with Iris.

“Therapy?” Iris asked, her beautiful eyes wide with curiosity. “What’s that? Is it like arrow-backs for the head?”

Selene burst out laughing. “You could say that. Oh, Iris, really, you could very well say that therapy is like exercise for the mind.”

“Good! Then we can do therapy right after our arrow-backs everyday,” Iris declared excitedly, and all the rest of the women nodded their heads in agreement. “Lordy, I’m gonna be so perfect when you’re done with me there won’t be no man good enough for me.”

They all laughed and began to pick up the cleaning materials.

“Salut! May I join in your therapy group, as well?”

Selene turned with a jolt to see a slim, fiftyish woman standing in the doorway. Her black hair, sprinkled with strands of silver, was pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her blue eyes were hazy with deep sadness.

Walking with refined elegance toward Selene in a dress of gray silk moiré edged with snow-white lace and accented by an exquisite cameo brooch at the collar, the lady extended a frail hand in greeting. “You must be Mademoiselle Selene. I am Marie Baptiste, James’s mother. May I offer a long overdue welcome to Bayou Noir?”

Selene stood speechless with shock at finally meeting James’s reclusive mother.

Mrs. Baptiste smiled faintly, aware of her discomfort. “I’m so sorry if I interrupted a private conversation, my dear. But I could not help myself when I heard you say that women must learn to be stronger. Truly, even at my age, I could stand to learn that lesson.”

Selene acknowledged her greeting with a slight nod, then belatedly caught the implications of Mrs. Baptiste’s reference to learning something from Selene…to joining her amateur therapy group.

James, James, James. You are definitely not going to be happy with me today.

Chapter Thirteen

James did not show up for dinner that evening, sending word via Blossom that he had to go to a neighboring plantation for a part to replace a broken boiler coil. Selene wondered if the damage was related to Victor’s misdeeds, or if James was just finding excuses to avoid her.

Mrs. Baptiste did come, along with Etienne, Fergus, and Reba. James’s mother added a touch of refinement to the atmosphere of the now sparkling dining room with her soft-spoken, Creole-tinted language, her dainty mannerisms and polite conversation.

Selene listened with fascination to her accounts of her arrival at Bayou Noir ten years ago, when James would have been about twenty-five years old, and Mrs. Baptiste a healthier and more enthusiastic woman.

“Ah, chérie,” she said, looking kindly toward Selene, “you would not consider the state of this plantation today quite so sad if you could have seen it then.”