How dare you ask me such a question?” Emilie stumbled from the chair toward the door.
“If I am such a bad person, then darken my doorway no more, Emilie Gayarre. What use would you have for a father like me?”
Papa scalded the air with another round of curses that only the slamming of the door could silence. Even as she fell onto the cotton-cloud softness of her childhood bed a few moments later, Emilie could still hear the old man’s voice ringing in her ears. The biscuit she’d attempted to eat for breakfast lay heavy as a rock in her stomach, and her prayers felt as though they bounced off the canopy of her bed and dropped like lead onto the rose-strewn carpet below.
Emilie rolled onto her back and stared up at the blue silk overhead. As a child, she imagined it to be her own piece of the New Orleans sky and wondered what the sky might look like wherever her mother laid her head.
Her mother.
Emilie shook off the thought and left her room to slip into Papa’s bedchamber. The room sparkled with the fresh cleaning. Likely, Papa would appreciate the efforts on his behalf once Nate fetched him. Though there was no need to hurry, she hastened nonetheless to retrieve the miniature of Sylvie from the bedside table. Returning to her room, Emilie lay with it beneath her pillow until finally the morning rain gave way to the brilliant fingers of golden afternoon sunlight.
Despite the change in weather, Emilie knew only a return to Fair-weather Key would truly lift the melancholy that had settled like a fog around her. If only she’d ignored the tug of responsibility and had accompanied Reverend Carter on his voyage three days ago.
Darken my doorway no more, Emilie Gayarre .
She rose. Long gone was the defiant attitude of the morning. In its place was a resolve to leave New Orleans forever. With her mother dead and her father lost to her, what other purpose did remaining behind serve?
A soft knock was followed by Cook stepping into the darkened room. “Mercy, child, you can’t hardly go without eating.”
“I couldn’t, really,” she said as Cook lifted the silver cover to reveal more food than three people could eat.
Cook shook her head. “What happened to that girl I danced a jig with this morning?”
Emilie shrugged and tucked her feet beneath her. “Perhaps you will bring her back by telling me about my mother.”
“She was young and fair, and your papa was plumb taken with her,” Cook said as she leaned against the door. “And she with him.”
Reaching to clutch a pillow to her chest, Emilie regarded the older woman with what she hoped was a calm expression. “Did she love me?”
“Sweet girl, your mother loved the idea of you more than life itself.”
“Yet she did not. . .” Tears prevented her from continuing. Cook came to Emilie and wrapped her in an embrace. When Emilie had collected herself, she leaned away. “Yet,” she continued, “I never knew her.”
“Honey,” Cook said as she straightened, “she was weak from your birth and never recovered. I reckon neither did your papa.”
The simple answer made all the other facts fit together. Emilie glanced at the clock on her mantel. A quarter to two. “I’ll need Nate to bring the carriage around.”
“Yes’m,” she said, “I’ll fetch him now.”
When Cook had gone, Emilie climbed off the bed and walked past the tray to don her shoes and reach for her handbag. As she leaned over, something slipped from her pocket.
“The letter.”
Emilie retrieved it and hurriedly slipped it open. Inside, she read two paragraphs of chatty information from Isabelle, then one more that contained an impassioned plea for her quick return.
“And pray that our father has given his consent to fund the schoolhouse project,” Emilie read, “for I fear Judge Campbell is as stubborn as ever on his deadline of the first day of August.”
A second page followed, this filled with the scribbled notes of every child who attended
“If I am such a bad person, then darken my doorway no more, Emilie Gayarre. What use would you have for a father like me?”
Papa scalded the air with another round of curses that only the slamming of the door could silence. Even as she fell onto the cotton-cloud softness of her childhood bed a few moments later, Emilie could still hear the old man’s voice ringing in her ears. The biscuit she’d attempted to eat for breakfast lay heavy as a rock in her stomach, and her prayers felt as though they bounced off the canopy of her bed and dropped like lead onto the rose-strewn carpet below.
Emilie rolled onto her back and stared up at the blue silk overhead. As a child, she imagined it to be her own piece of the New Orleans sky and wondered what the sky might look like wherever her mother laid her head.
Her mother.
Emilie shook off the thought and left her room to slip into Papa’s bedchamber. The room sparkled with the fresh cleaning. Likely, Papa would appreciate the efforts on his behalf once Nate fetched him. Though there was no need to hurry, she hastened nonetheless to retrieve the miniature of Sylvie from the bedside table. Returning to her room, Emilie lay with it beneath her pillow until finally the morning rain gave way to the brilliant fingers of golden afternoon sunlight.
Despite the change in weather, Emilie knew only a return to Fair-weather Key would truly lift the melancholy that had settled like a fog around her. If only she’d ignored the tug of responsibility and had accompanied Reverend Carter on his voyage three days ago.
Darken my doorway no more, Emilie Gayarre .
She rose. Long gone was the defiant attitude of the morning. In its place was a resolve to leave New Orleans forever. With her mother dead and her father lost to her, what other purpose did remaining behind serve?
A soft knock was followed by Cook stepping into the darkened room. “Mercy, child, you can’t hardly go without eating.”
“I couldn’t, really,” she said as Cook lifted the silver cover to reveal more food than three people could eat.
Cook shook her head. “What happened to that girl I danced a jig with this morning?”
Emilie shrugged and tucked her feet beneath her. “Perhaps you will bring her back by telling me about my mother.”
“She was young and fair, and your papa was plumb taken with her,” Cook said as she leaned against the door. “And she with him.”
Reaching to clutch a pillow to her chest, Emilie regarded the older woman with what she hoped was a calm expression. “Did she love me?”
“Sweet girl, your mother loved the idea of you more than life itself.”
“Yet she did not. . .” Tears prevented her from continuing. Cook came to Emilie and wrapped her in an embrace. When Emilie had collected herself, she leaned away. “Yet,” she continued, “I never knew her.”
“Honey,” Cook said as she straightened, “she was weak from your birth and never recovered. I reckon neither did your papa.”
The simple answer made all the other facts fit together. Emilie glanced at the clock on her mantel. A quarter to two. “I’ll need Nate to bring the carriage around.”
“Yes’m,” she said, “I’ll fetch him now.”
When Cook had gone, Emilie climbed off the bed and walked past the tray to don her shoes and reach for her handbag. As she leaned over, something slipped from her pocket.
“The letter.”
Emilie retrieved it and hurriedly slipped it open. Inside, she read two paragraphs of chatty information from Isabelle, then one more that contained an impassioned plea for her quick return.
“And pray that our father has given his consent to fund the schoolhouse project,” Emilie read, “for I fear Judge Campbell is as stubborn as ever on his deadline of the first day of August.”
A second page followed, this filled with the scribbled notes of every child who attended
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