Chapter Twelve

Even though wide awake and glad she had bought the modest blue cotton nightgown instead of sleeping in the nude, Laura had no desire to rise and get dressed when Angelle tiptoed into her room at seven a.m. to invite the houseguest to attend Mass. Her head throbbed against the old down pillows, and she wanted nothing more than to put one over her face and spend the rest of day hiding from Robert LeBlanc and his attention, a difficult trick since she lived in the man’s home.

Angelle, who had taken her first communion not too long ago and still took her religion seriously, appeared to ponder the state of Laura’s eternal soul before capitulating. “I guess it’s okay. My daddy never goes to Mass, and he’s not going to hell, he says.”

Between Angelle’s farewell benediction and the sound of the Lincoln heading down the drive toward Chapelle, Laura dozed. When the old house stood quiet on Sunday morning, she rose and slipped on the matching blue robe that buttoned securely beneath her chin and tied tightly around her waist and made her way toward the kitchen to brew some coffee as an antidote for her headache. She ran straight into Pearl.

The sideboard held a pitcher of orange juice, croissants in a basket and a caddy of butter and jelly. The housekeeper plugged in a hotplate holding a carafe of the strong and bitter coffee that made all other coffees taste like dishwater after one developed an immunity to—or an addiction for—it.

“We’ll have eggs and grits when Miss Lilliane and the child get back from Mass. Mr. Bob is out in the barn checking on the cattle,” the housekeeper said.

“Please.” Laura snatched the full cup of liquid caffeine Pearl held out to her. Sadly it was too hot to gulp. She took one cautious sip and asked, “Mr. LeBlanc never goes to Mass?”

“Never. There isn’t much place in the Church for a divorced man. He can’t take the sacraments, you know, and Mr. Bob, he refused to get an annulment. Said he wasn’t paying the Church to declare his daughter illegitimate.”

The screen door on the kitchen entrance slammed. Laura seized an unbuttered croissant and the cup of black coffee and fled the dining area, saying to Pearl as she passed through the doorway that she felt ill and would eat the roll in bed. Then, she worried her excuse would bring Robert LeBlanc into her bedroom to check on her condition.

As she heard the master of the house ask Pearl for coffee, Laura bypassed her own room. She slipped quietly up the wide stairs at the front of the hall and entered the old library, the only place offering sanctuary on a floor of deserted rooms. At first, she sat on the edge of the antique desk and sipped the coffee. Then, nibbling on the croissant, she paced the bookshelves. They held mostly old legal texts, some in cracked brown leather bindings as old as the desk, others dating back only half a dozen years in a cheaper modern paper format.

She crossed the room to where the books shifted from non-fiction to novels. Nearer to the sunny gallery a few pieces of wicker furniture gathered dust and aging novels crammed the shelves, some true collector’s items like the improbable romances of Emma Southworth, others, like the original Nancy Drew books, of great nostalgic value, no better or worse than the pop fiction being written for young girls today, but certainly more innocent. Clearly, the LeBlanc women of several generations had claimed this corner of the library for their own, escaping into novels from their trying, or boring, everyday lives.

The topmost shelves of this corner, well beyond the reach of small children and the view of the casual browser, held perhaps twenty small tan leather volumes without author or title on their spines. With stained covers the books looked much handled. Laura tipped the first of the set off the shelf. A small metal clasp with a tiny keyhole guarded the contents, but either broken or aged beyond use, the lock opened easily when Laura nudged it with a fingernail.

A fine feminine hand had embossed the first yellowed page in brown ink—The Diary of Caroline Montleon LeBlanc, 1851, Written in hope of informing future generations about the customs of our times. The volume did exactly that. The words chattered gaily about wedding plans: lengths of sprigged silk purchased and lists of nuptial gifts received, each with a small check beside it to indicate that a “gracious note of appreciation” had been sent by the bride.

Laura pulled the wicker chair toward the window and settled into the musty cushions to retreat for a while into a more untroubled time. The diary read like a travel guide to the antebellum homes along the Mississippi and the Teche, although many of these were gone now, lost to war, decay and fire. But in those times, the mansions had held the relatives and friends of the Montleons and the LeBlancs. The bridal couple lingered six weeks with the most congenial company and two weeks or less at the homes of those presumably less cordial. No hint of what had shortened some of the visits ever crept into the descriptions of endless evening balls, daily picnics and afternoons of horse racing.

Laura skimmed through the diary, skipping over passages that seemed repetitious or where the ink had faded enough to make reading a strain. She contrasted the contents to her own simple chapel wedding and brief honeymoon. She and David had been so eager to get on with the real things in life, creating careers, establishing a home and family. If Laura had kept a diary of those brief months, David’s name would have been on each page and the contents too personal to be used to inform future generations.

Caroline mentioned her husband only occasionally. “Adrien seems to be always the victor at the horse races, both on and off the race course,” or “Adrien danced with each and every lady, charming even those matrons who watch from their chairs aside the dance floor.” At the end of the volume, the bride adopted a more personal tone, describing her triumphal entry into Chateau Camille upon the newlyweds’ return from a year of post-nuptial visiting.

With the LeBlanc field hands and servants lining the roadside for several miles, a holiday having been declared by their master, Caroline entered the mansion “where I was immediately taken to the chamber of Mama LeBlanc who has not been well. I confided to her that I believed myself to be with child and have suffered so little indisposition that I may still be of use to her and Papa LeBlanc in running the plantation despite my condition. Indeed, I feel full of well-being and do not fear what is to come in the least. Mama Leblanc assures me the same midwife who brought Adrien safely into the world after so many fruitless deliveries is still among the servants and will assist me in ways known only to her. Above all things, Mama LeBlanc wishes for many grandchildren and does not want to burden me with duties in my delicate condition. Above all things, I have told her, I wish to be of use to Chateau Camille where already I feel quite secure.”

Laura closed the first volume and repositioned her chair in order to stretch for another. She suspected the bride was about to experience some mother-in-law trouble. At the same time, Laura wished she felt secure beneath the roof of Chateau Camille, peopled as it was with a hostile aunt, a distant servant, an impetuous child and a sexually attractive man. She could hear his heavy tread in the hall below. The sound of his presence and the memory of his kiss last evening made her want to both hide behind the library draperies and rush down the stairs to be near him. She chose to remain hidden with the diary still in her hands and recently stirred memories of David still in her heart.

Robert LeBlanc’s deep voice penetrated to her hideout. Anger made it echo in the stairwell.

“Why wasn’t Angelle with you in New Orleans?…Couldn’t find her! Why the hell didn’t you send Thurston, Vivien?…Didn’t like Laura’s attitude. Yes, Laura. She’s staying with us since Domengeaux’s burnt to the ground and almost took Angelle with it. Well, how could you know when you were on your way back to New Orleans? Go to hell Vivien! I only called to say that you can tell your parents if they want to see their grandchild they must come in person.” He slammed the receiver so hard its bell rang once in protest. Then, he left in a rage of slamming doors.

Leaning over the antique desk and peering through the window with its tiny ornamental balcony overlooking the rear gardens, Laura watched the angry man cut through the flower beds, taking a direct line to the barns as if he could not tolerate the convoluted pathways. Laura returned to the bookshelves. She wanted to select a second volume of the diaries to steady herself after being caught in the reverberations of Robert’s explosion. She desired a retreat into the past when life was lived with grace and the demands made upon women were predictable and preordained, but through the French doors on the other side of the room, she saw the black Lincoln nose like a turning whale into the drive. Reluctantly, she shelved the first volume, replaced her chair and went down to dress for breakfast.