hand.
“All right, then,” she said in a tone she struggled to keep civil, “I’ll leave you to eat while I do some tidying up in here.”
The room was a mess; this much was true. Papa had refused entry to all but Cook and Mama Dell, neither of whom claimed any domestic skills beyond the kitchen. The chamber pot had seen regular cleaning, but the maids were shooed out should they attempt anything else.
Emilie’s motives were not to bring a sparkle to the dust-covered mantel but to wear down her father’s resistance. While she dusted, she thought of the seventeenth psalm. She’d read it upon awakening and immediately purposed to commit verse three to memory: “Thou hast proved mine heart; thou hast visited me in the night; thou hast tried me, and shalt find nothing; I am purposed that my mouth shall not transgress.”
“My mouth shall not transgress.” She would have to work hard to achieve that.
A knock sounded, and one of the kitchen help peered around the door. “I’ve a letter for the miss,” she said.
“Go away,” Papa shouted.
Ignoring her father, Emilie accepted the letter and handed the girl the rag. “Please send someone up to clean my father’s room,” she said. “I want a thorough cleaning. Top to bottom. And have Nate come up and help me move my father to another room while the cleaning is being done.”
Wide-eyed, the girl nodded, then scurried out of the room, Jean Gayarre’s curses following her. Folding the letter into the pocket of her dress, Emilie closed her eyes and said a quick prayer in hopes that the Lord might provide strength to still her tongue so she might not transgress.
“Father,” she finally said, “I would have you stop this nonsense at once. Either you’ve taken leave of your senses, or you have not. In either case, I demand to know.”
“Perhaps I have, Emilie, but I speak the truth.” He gave her what almost passed for a pleading look. “If it is any consolation, I loved your mother best. I gave you a life that Sylvie—”
“That I was never entitled to.”
His eyes followed her as she walked toward him and took a seat near his bedside. Papa clamped his lips shut and stared. The contents of his breakfast tray shifted as he set his coffee cup down without looking.
“Did Elizabeth know I was not her daughter?” She paused. “Is that why she left?”
“I’ll not speak of her,” Papa said, his voice rising, “for there’s not a word I can say about Elizabeth would be pleasant to a girl with delicate ears.”
Emilie could feel the heat in her face, even as she fisted her hands and held them behind her back. Though in the process of dying, Jean Gayarre remained a difficult and hurtful man.
“I am no girl, and you let me believe Elizabeth was my mother,” Emilie said evenly. “I would know more.”
“You would know more?” Her father spat on the Aubusson carpet, not bothering to see if a spittoon was near. “Sylvie may have been raised to please men, but Elizabeth’s ample charms were well known in New Orleans and beyond.” He leaned forward, obviously warming to the topic. “Twice I took the woman back, and twice Elizabeth bore me a child. In both cases, I never knew whether that child belonged to me or some stranger whose wallet was fatter than mine.” With a sweep of his hand, Papa cleared the bed of his breakfast tray. “Be glad not to find yourself in that number, Emilie. You may be the daughter of a slave, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing you alone of all my children are truly mine.”
“Did you know I laid awake and cried for her?”
He looked away. “I was told of it.”
“And you let me believe I was the cause of her leaving.”
Now he stared. “Do you not think this was difficult for me as well?”
“For you?” The temper she’d held at bay broke free, and she gave voice to her outrage. “Unlike you, I had no anesthesia for my loss. I neither took to the bottle nor knew what I was missing.
“All right, then,” she said in a tone she struggled to keep civil, “I’ll leave you to eat while I do some tidying up in here.”
The room was a mess; this much was true. Papa had refused entry to all but Cook and Mama Dell, neither of whom claimed any domestic skills beyond the kitchen. The chamber pot had seen regular cleaning, but the maids were shooed out should they attempt anything else.
Emilie’s motives were not to bring a sparkle to the dust-covered mantel but to wear down her father’s resistance. While she dusted, she thought of the seventeenth psalm. She’d read it upon awakening and immediately purposed to commit verse three to memory: “Thou hast proved mine heart; thou hast visited me in the night; thou hast tried me, and shalt find nothing; I am purposed that my mouth shall not transgress.”
“My mouth shall not transgress.” She would have to work hard to achieve that.
A knock sounded, and one of the kitchen help peered around the door. “I’ve a letter for the miss,” she said.
“Go away,” Papa shouted.
Ignoring her father, Emilie accepted the letter and handed the girl the rag. “Please send someone up to clean my father’s room,” she said. “I want a thorough cleaning. Top to bottom. And have Nate come up and help me move my father to another room while the cleaning is being done.”
Wide-eyed, the girl nodded, then scurried out of the room, Jean Gayarre’s curses following her. Folding the letter into the pocket of her dress, Emilie closed her eyes and said a quick prayer in hopes that the Lord might provide strength to still her tongue so she might not transgress.
“Father,” she finally said, “I would have you stop this nonsense at once. Either you’ve taken leave of your senses, or you have not. In either case, I demand to know.”
“Perhaps I have, Emilie, but I speak the truth.” He gave her what almost passed for a pleading look. “If it is any consolation, I loved your mother best. I gave you a life that Sylvie—”
“That I was never entitled to.”
His eyes followed her as she walked toward him and took a seat near his bedside. Papa clamped his lips shut and stared. The contents of his breakfast tray shifted as he set his coffee cup down without looking.
“Did Elizabeth know I was not her daughter?” She paused. “Is that why she left?”
“I’ll not speak of her,” Papa said, his voice rising, “for there’s not a word I can say about Elizabeth would be pleasant to a girl with delicate ears.”
Emilie could feel the heat in her face, even as she fisted her hands and held them behind her back. Though in the process of dying, Jean Gayarre remained a difficult and hurtful man.
“I am no girl, and you let me believe Elizabeth was my mother,” Emilie said evenly. “I would know more.”
“You would know more?” Her father spat on the Aubusson carpet, not bothering to see if a spittoon was near. “Sylvie may have been raised to please men, but Elizabeth’s ample charms were well known in New Orleans and beyond.” He leaned forward, obviously warming to the topic. “Twice I took the woman back, and twice Elizabeth bore me a child. In both cases, I never knew whether that child belonged to me or some stranger whose wallet was fatter than mine.” With a sweep of his hand, Papa cleared the bed of his breakfast tray. “Be glad not to find yourself in that number, Emilie. You may be the daughter of a slave, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing you alone of all my children are truly mine.”
“Did you know I laid awake and cried for her?”
He looked away. “I was told of it.”
“And you let me believe I was the cause of her leaving.”
Now he stared. “Do you not think this was difficult for me as well?”
“For you?” The temper she’d held at bay broke free, and she gave voice to her outrage. “Unlike you, I had no anesthesia for my loss. I neither took to the bottle nor knew what I was missing.
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