A sense of pride came to Aimee Fontaine as she walked out of the house to greet her visitors. She thought of the almost two years that had passed as Fontaine Maison was rising, and she was filled with a strong sense of possession. The house had become her life, for although Cretien was drawn often to the city, where he enjoyed the theater and dining and excitement of cosmopolitan life, Aimee loved the plantation.
She paused for a moment as the carriage pulled up and turned to look at the exterior of the house. The French influence on the structure was strong. She had wanted to make it a miniature Versailles, but not quite that formal.
Fontaine Maison was a raised structure with large columns in the lower story and colonnettes in the upper. It had a typical French roof slanting upward to a peak, and she had designed it with many, many windows so that every room would be bathed in light. The house was surrounded by a white fence that also protected a large garden. In years to come it would be more attractive, but at least the seeds were sown.
Aimee felt a strong love for the place, and at the same time a guilt of sorts. She had prayed that she would not make the house an idol, but it had become a haven for her, and she loved it with all of her heart.
A tall man stepped out of the carriage and turned to help a woman. Aimee at once advanced, saying, “Monsieur Despain, Madame Despain, I welcome you to Fontaine Maison.”
Charles Despain was the mayor of New Orleans, and his wife, Margaret, was one of the social leaders in the city. The Fontaines had visited many times with the Despains in their home.
Despain removed his hat and bent over Aimee’s hand to kiss it. “We are an imposition, I fear.”
“Not at all. Come inside. My husband is not here, and I’m afraid he won’t be back until tomorrow.”
She turned to Margaret, who kissed her. Margaret Despain, an attractive woman in her late forties, had a real affection for Aimee. Hers was one of the true friendships that Aimee had formed since her arrival in Louisiana.
Now Aimee said, “Are you hungry? There is food ready.”
“No, first you must show us the grounds,” Margaret insisted.
When they had seen the outside, Aimee urged them to come in. “It is a little cold for March. Come inside to the fire.”
They entered the house, where they were served cafe au lait and pastries. “Our cook is a Cajun,” said Aimee, “and fixes the most fiery dishes you can imagine. She makes the best gumbo in the world.”
“‘In the world’ means New Orleans. I don’t think gumbo is enjoyed anywhere but Louisiana,” Despain said.
Aimee took them on a tour of the house, and the pair exclaimed many times over the exquisite furnishings.
“It feels so much like a home!” Margaret exclaimed. “Many grand houses seem more like museums, but this house has a comfortable feel about it.”
“I must confess I love it, Margaret. Too much, perhaps. It’s easy to learn to love things instead of God.”
Margaret laughed and put her hand on her husband’s arm. “I think you should preach a little of that doctrine to my husband. He’s stocking up with houses and land and money as if he were going to live forever.”
Despain laughed shortly. He was, indeed, a man who loved things, but he did not like to be reminded of it. “Well, I know I won’t be on this earth forever, but I intend to enjoy the time I have here. Now, show us some more of the house.”
The three ended their tour in the drawing room. It was a large room with deep burgundy rugs on the polished hardwood floors and velvet curtains of the same color pulled to one side at each of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The walls were papered with a flocked gold-and-burgundy paper and were decorated with numerous paintings of landscapes, all with gilded frames.
A large stone fireplace took up almost the whole wall at the far end; the grate and accessories were made of ornate wrought iron, and a large mantel above held tiny porcelain boxes and vases of all shapes and sizes. There were four high-backed chairs of red-and-ivory damask flanking the fireplace, and a large couch of ivory damask took its place among these. More of the same chairs were placed along the walls of the room, with highly polished mahogany tables and glass lanterns at the sides of some. A beautiful piano stood open with an array of music on its stand.
Despain said, “It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? I suppose you’ll be spending less time here when you go to your new town house.”
A silence came over the room, and the Despains saw distress in Aimee Fontaine’s eyes.
“A house in New Orleans?” Aimee said, a thickness coming to her throat. Suddenly the room was uncomfortable.
“My dear, you should not have said that!” Mrs. Despain said.
Mr. Despain flushed and stammered an apology. They had lunch and then quickly made their departure. No one spoke again of the house in town. As soon as they were in their carriage, however, and pulling away from Fontaine Maison, Margaret turned to her husband.
“You are a fool, Charles! Why did you have to mention the house?”
“I’m afraid you’re right, but I didn’t know it was a secret.”
“Well, it obviously was! Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to get elected to any office. You’re the most tactless man who ever lived!”
Despain slumped down in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes while his wife continued to rebuke him. Finally he threw his hands up in a gesture of despair. “Well, how am I to know what to say and what not to say? I supposed that Cretien had told her about the house.”
“Well, he obviously hadn’t. He was planning a surprise.” Margaret shook her head. “I’m glad you didn’t mention seeing Cretien having dinner with that actress. What’s her name?”
“Nan Strickland.”
“She’s nothing but a harlot. If I ever hear of you running around with harlots, I’ll see to it that you’re sorry!”
“I’ve got no intention of running around with harlots, and you know it!” Charles protested. “And besides, you don’t know that Fontaine is guilty of anything—except indiscretion. He should know better than to be seen in public with a woman like that.”
“Oh, you mean it’s all right in private?”
“I give up. Have your own way.”
“I’m worried about the Fontaines, Charles. Cretien is gambling a lot, and sometimes he doesn’t go home for days.”
“It never pays to meddle in other people’s marriages. They have to take care of themselves. Let’s talk about something else.”
Cretien came back excited, full of plans for buying the property next door to their plantation. Aimee, on the other hand, was quiet. She ate practically nothing of the excellent dinner, and when they moved into the drawing room, where Robert served them coffee and small cakes, she sat before the fire without saying a word.
Cretien finally sat down and gave her an odd look. “What’s wrong, dear? You’ve hardly said a word.”
“The Despains came by today.”
“Yes, so you told me. I’m sorry I missed them.”
Aimee turned to face him. “Charles told me that you bought a house in New Orleans.” She saw something like guilt sweep across her husband’s face, but he quickly recovered.
“Blast the man! It was meant to be a surprise. A Christmas present for you.”
“A Christmas present? You’re buying me a house for Christmas?”
“Well, yes, and I’ve been dickering for months on the place.”
“But why do we want a house in New Orleans when we have Fontaine Maison?”
Cretien put his arms around his wife and drew her close. “For variety, sweet. I love this place as you do, but there’s so little to do here, especially in the winter. When we go to town we have to live in hotels, but now we can have the best of all worlds. It’s a small house, but so beautiful! Not like this place, of course, but comfortable. We can have guests there. We can go to the theater and then come home. You’ll love it.”
Aimee listened as Cretien spoke. While his plan pleased him, it only made her anxious. She knew that her husband was not suited to the life of the city. He had weaknesses that he would have been shocked to know that she had discerned.
But since the deed was done and impossible to avoid, Aimee made herself smile. “I’m sure I’ll love it, dear.”
Cretien was pleased. He kissed her and waltzed her around the room. “We’ll go tomorrow, Aimee. I can’t wait to show it to you! We’ll be able to move next month.”
Cretien’s eyes danced with excitement. Aimee knew he loved her, but she also knew that he was a selfish man. In her private moments, she had wondered many times if he had married her for her money.
Aimee again forced a smile and said, “I can’t wait to see it, Cretien. I’m sure it will be very beautiful.”