Page 78 of Frankly, My Dear

Selene started to protest, but Mrs. Baptiste waved a hand dismissively and continued, “Alors! I think there was a whole battalion of mice and as many bats inhabiting the house. And the swamp…mon Dieu, the swamp!…had grown right up to the doorsteps.”

“Weren’t there people living here then?” Selene asked. “I mean, Blossom mentioned that she and some of the other slaves were here when James arrived.”

“Oui, but M’sieur Declouet and his wife had been traveling abroad and left the property in the care of an overseer. They never realized until their return how negligent he’d been in his duties.” She made a low tsk-ing sound of disgust as her eyes misted with memory.

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the first course, a rich turtle soup carried by Hyacinth in a magnificent china tureen. Next came salty, home-cured ham with parsleyed Irish potatoes, sweet peas, dandelion with bacon and vinegar dressing, fresh bread and butter. And, of course, the table was never missing the sassafras-flavored Creole gumbo served over fluffy white rice.

After a sinfully sweet caramel glacé dessert, Reba and Fergus excused themselves, still unable to keep their hungry eyes off each other.

Then Etienne proceeded to leave, too, having consumed three of the custards, with the permission of his grandmère. He reminded Selene with a roguish grin that tomorrow they were going to study “bye-olive-gee” in a favorite marsh setting he wanted to show her. Blossom had told her it would be all right as long as they didn’t go too far.

“Don’t forget to bring that book of animal drawings and their descriptions that I bought in New Orleans for your classes.”

“Sacrebleu! You’re gonna make me read, even outdoors.” He rolled his eyes comically as he left.

Selene and Mrs. Baptiste lingered over delicate china cups of strong Creole coffee. Selene wished Mrs. Baptiste would resume her earlier conversation about James.

As if reading her thoughts, Mrs. Baptiste proffered suddenly, “He is a good son, you know. He must seem hard to you, but to me he is just a good son. You are aware, of course, that he is illegitimate. Well, he was never able to accept our…situation. It was a mistake, I see now, to live in the city where daily he saw the contrast between our manner of living and his father’s family. Always, always, he compared his life to that of his half brother, Victor, and saw that he came up short.”

Selene swallowed hard over the growing lump in her throat, not sure she wanted to hear anything about James that would make her care more than she already did.

“And, most of all, it pained him to see me brought so low. I was not raised to be a mere mistress, you see. My father was an English trader and my mother a Creole, disowned by her family when she married beneath herself. We were not wealthy, but we lived well, until my parents died in a shipping accident just before my planned wedding to Jean-Paul.”

“Wedding?” Selene gasped. “But I thought…”

Mrs. Baptiste tilted her head in understanding. “Oui, I can see how you would think otherwise, but Jean-Paul did love me. That is why I accepted such a demeaning role in his life.” She ran the tip of her forefinger around the rim of her cup, lost in reverie. “But it was selfish of me because I never considered the effect our love would have on my son. James grew up wild and increasingly bitter. I realize now that his forays into the bayous, which I considered mere boyish pranks then, were really a means of escape for him from the degradation of our life…a cry for help which I failed to heed.”

“Mrs. Baptiste, perhaps you shouldn’t be telling me all this.”

The lady raised her eyes resolutely. “Non, I want to tell you. I beg you will not judge him too harshly.”

Selene tried to protest, but Mrs. Baptiste raised a halting hand and continued, “When my parents died just before my wedding, I lost my dowry and was left penniless. Jean-Paul needed to wed a wealthy woman, his own finances having suffered from some unfortunate gambling losses. If I had been wealthy, there never would have been a problem.”

“Oh, this is intolerable,” Selene said, throwing her napkin to the table with disgust, unable to bite her tongue any longer. “This is just what I was saying this afternoon to Iris. Women…women throughout time…keep blaming themselves. If only they were better in some way—richer, prettier, slimmer, fatter, whatever—then everything would work out all right. When…when, in the name of God…are women going to learn that changing themselves to please another person…a man…isn’t the answer?”

Mrs. Baptiste’s small mouth opened in amazement.

“I’m sorry. I had no right.”

“Non, do not stop because you fear offending my sensibilities.” She scrutinized Selene speculatively. “You are a very interesting woman, ma chérie. I look forward to seeing the role you will play in my son’s life.”

“None, actually. He’s sending me away.”

“Never! He would not do so.”

“Well, he invited the Collins here on Sunday with the intention of having me go away with them.”

“Really? How curious! Hmmm. We shall see. In any case, I wanted you to understand the reasons why my son is…the way he is.”

Selene frowned, unsure what message she was supposed to glean from Mrs. Baptiste’s remark.

Seeing Selene’s confusion, Mrs. Baptiste went on, “When he was thirteen, James could no longer tolerate the ignominy of our position in the city, dependent on his father’s generosity for our every coin. He ran away, signed a document of indenture with a shipping firm, which took him to Santo Domingo and the sugar plantations there. For more than ten years, he worked as little more than a slave until he earned enough to return for me and purchase Bayou Noir.”

Selene inhaled sharply with sudden understanding. Now she comprehended James’s insistence that he not get involved in an affair with her. Without commitment, theirs would be a less than honorable relationship, just like the one his father had foisted on his mother. And James knew better than most the pain that could emanate from the momentary easing of lust, especially if a child were involved.

“Oh, Mrs. Baptiste, please forgive me if I’ve seemed condescending of this plantation, or you, even of James. It’s not James’s work here that upsets me…although I do hate slavery. It’s James himself. He’s always saying or doing something to rile me.”

“He riles you, does he?” Mrs. Baptiste smiled softly, knowingly. “That is good. Oui. Très bien.”