the folds of her frothy white dress. The blue ribbon around her neck echoes the color of the sky, and pink roses—Julie had painted them from memory—flash impressionistically in the background.
Mama loved the portrait. She created a little shrine on the mantel below it with flowers and candles, and moved the prie-dieu from her room in front of the fireplace. Every day, she prayed here for several hours, her head bent low over her rosary beads. Her tears fell silently, wetting the needlepoint hearth rug.
Mama had not mentioned Paris since Valentine’s death, so I was surprised when she told me one morning in December that she had booked passage to France and we would be leaving in a week.
“I don’t want to go,” I protested.
“I can’t stay at Parlange,” she said. “Everything reminds me of Valentine.”
Mama had no plans beyond using part of her inheritance to buy a house in a fashionable neighborhood and launching herself in society, which, she said, meant getting to know the best people and being invited to their parties. It seemed like a waste of time to me.
The thought of leaving Parlange filled me with distress. I had settled in so happily that now I couldn’t imagine life off the plantation. What would I do without fields to roam in and a garden to play in? What would I do without Julie?
I’ll never forget how quiet the house was on the cool, sunny Sunday morning when we left. Mama and I ate breakfast alone in the dining room while Julie, Grandmère, and Charles went to town for services at St. Joseph’s Church. Our metal trunks, lying next to each other in the dim hall, looked like coffins. I thought of Papa and Valentine and gulped back a large sob.
From the dining room windows, I saw the buggy rattle up to the house. Charles helped Grandmère and Julie to the front gallery, where they settled themselves in wicker chairs. Then he loaded our trunks into the buggy and strode into the dining room.
“We better get going, ladies, if you want to make that one o’clock steamer.”
We rose from the table and went to the gallery. Grandmère and Julie stood to embrace us. Julie was leaning on her canes. “Take care of Valentine’s portrait for me,” Mama said.
At the mention of Valentine’s name, Grandmère began to sob. I had only seen her cry twice before. The first time was when we left Parlange, during the war, and the second time was at Valentine’s deathbed. Then she had wept quietly, modestly. Now her tears came in a great, noisy torrent.
She had survived so much—the deaths of her husbands and two of her children, the war. Those tragedies had somehow hardened her will to endure. But she was an old woman now, with creaky joints and liver spots on her cheeks. She thought of Parlange as a refuge, a nest in which her family could gather for comfort and protection. Valentine’s death had shattered her.
Mama and I climbed into the buggy next to Charles. He snapped the reins, and the two brown mares trotted off. Grandmère leaned against the railing, her chest heaving, her face contorted with sobs. Turning and waving, I watched Grandmère as the buggy rattled down the alley of oaks, until she disappeared into a blurry dark form between the gallery’s tall white posts.
Four
Following an uneventful crossing to Le Havre, Mama and I boarded a train for Paris, arriving on a cold night at Gare Montparnasse. We took a cab to a small Right Bank hotel, the Albion, left our trunks with the concierge, and went to the dining room, where a fire crackled in an enormous stone hearth. Settling ourselves at a table by the window, we ordered the bouillabaise and ate silently.
Our room on the third floor was a cramped space just big enough for a chair and a small four-poster. That night, Mama and I slept side by side under a heavy, flowered cotton quilt. The next morning, we awoke refreshed, donned clean frocks and warm jackets, and set off for a walk along the boulevards.
It was a frigid day, though
Mama loved the portrait. She created a little shrine on the mantel below it with flowers and candles, and moved the prie-dieu from her room in front of the fireplace. Every day, she prayed here for several hours, her head bent low over her rosary beads. Her tears fell silently, wetting the needlepoint hearth rug.
Mama had not mentioned Paris since Valentine’s death, so I was surprised when she told me one morning in December that she had booked passage to France and we would be leaving in a week.
“I don’t want to go,” I protested.
“I can’t stay at Parlange,” she said. “Everything reminds me of Valentine.”
Mama had no plans beyond using part of her inheritance to buy a house in a fashionable neighborhood and launching herself in society, which, she said, meant getting to know the best people and being invited to their parties. It seemed like a waste of time to me.
The thought of leaving Parlange filled me with distress. I had settled in so happily that now I couldn’t imagine life off the plantation. What would I do without fields to roam in and a garden to play in? What would I do without Julie?
I’ll never forget how quiet the house was on the cool, sunny Sunday morning when we left. Mama and I ate breakfast alone in the dining room while Julie, Grandmère, and Charles went to town for services at St. Joseph’s Church. Our metal trunks, lying next to each other in the dim hall, looked like coffins. I thought of Papa and Valentine and gulped back a large sob.
From the dining room windows, I saw the buggy rattle up to the house. Charles helped Grandmère and Julie to the front gallery, where they settled themselves in wicker chairs. Then he loaded our trunks into the buggy and strode into the dining room.
“We better get going, ladies, if you want to make that one o’clock steamer.”
We rose from the table and went to the gallery. Grandmère and Julie stood to embrace us. Julie was leaning on her canes. “Take care of Valentine’s portrait for me,” Mama said.
At the mention of Valentine’s name, Grandmère began to sob. I had only seen her cry twice before. The first time was when we left Parlange, during the war, and the second time was at Valentine’s deathbed. Then she had wept quietly, modestly. Now her tears came in a great, noisy torrent.
She had survived so much—the deaths of her husbands and two of her children, the war. Those tragedies had somehow hardened her will to endure. But she was an old woman now, with creaky joints and liver spots on her cheeks. She thought of Parlange as a refuge, a nest in which her family could gather for comfort and protection. Valentine’s death had shattered her.
Mama and I climbed into the buggy next to Charles. He snapped the reins, and the two brown mares trotted off. Grandmère leaned against the railing, her chest heaving, her face contorted with sobs. Turning and waving, I watched Grandmère as the buggy rattled down the alley of oaks, until she disappeared into a blurry dark form between the gallery’s tall white posts.
Four
Following an uneventful crossing to Le Havre, Mama and I boarded a train for Paris, arriving on a cold night at Gare Montparnasse. We took a cab to a small Right Bank hotel, the Albion, left our trunks with the concierge, and went to the dining room, where a fire crackled in an enormous stone hearth. Settling ourselves at a table by the window, we ordered the bouillabaise and ate silently.
Our room on the third floor was a cramped space just big enough for a chair and a small four-poster. That night, Mama and I slept side by side under a heavy, flowered cotton quilt. The next morning, we awoke refreshed, donned clean frocks and warm jackets, and set off for a walk along the boulevards.
It was a frigid day, though
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