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The McPhersons resided in a delightful home on Esplanade Street in New Orleans. Their abode, a spacious double cottage, boasted a wide front veranda supported by round, fluted columns beneath a sloping roof. Its dazzling white exterior was complemented by green jalousies or shutters. The meticulously kept yard bloomed with a variety of flowers and plants typical of South Louisiana. Indoors, the decor adhered to a conventional yet elegant style. Soft carpets and rugs graced the floors, while tasteful draperies adorned doors and windows. Paintings adorned the walls, carefully chosen for their aesthetic appeal. The cut glass, silverware, and exquisite damask used daily were the envy of many less fortunate women.
Mr. McPherson took great pleasure in inspecting every aspect of his home, relishing in the ownership of each item and the ambiance they collectively created. He particularly enjoyed admiring new acquisitions, whether they be paintings, statuettes, or rare lace curtains, reveling in their placement within his cherished abode.
Tuesday afternoons marked Mrs. McPherson’s reception day, drawing a steady stream of visitors. Women arrived in carriages, streetcars, or on foot, greeted by a light-colored mulatto boy in a dress coat who ushered them in with a diminutive silver tray for their cards. A maid in a white fluted cap offered liqueurs, coffee, or chocolate as per the guests’ preferences. Mrs. McPherson, elegantly attired for the occasion, graciously received her visitors in the drawing-room throughout the afternoon. Occasionally, men accompanied their wives for evening visits.
This routine had been faithfully followed by Mrs. McPherson since her marriage six years prior. On certain evenings, she and her husband enjoyed outings to the opera or the theater.
As they sat down for dinner one Tuesday evening, a few weeks after their return from Grand Isle, the McPhersons were alone together. The boys were being put to bed, their playful footsteps audible along with the gentle remonstrances of the quadroon. Mrs. McPherson, contrary to her usual Tuesday attire, was dressed casually. Mr. McPherson, ever observant, noted this as he served the soup.
“Feeling tired, Evelyn? How was the reception today? Many callers?” he inquired, seasoning his soup meticulously.
“There were quite a few,” Evelyn replied, relishing her soup. “I discovered their cards when I returned; I had been out.”
“Out?” Mr. McPherson’s surprise was evident as he paused in his seasoning. “What prompted you to go out on a Tuesday? Did you have any engagements?”
“No, I simply felt like going out, so I did,” she answered nonchalantly.
“Well, I hope you offered some explanation for your absence,” Mr. McPherson remarked, adding a dash of cayenne pepper to his soup.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“No, I didn’t. I told Joe to say I was out, that’s all,” Evelyn replied matter-of-factly.
“My dear, you must understand by now the importance of observing social niceties,” Mr. McPherson admonished gently. “If you felt the need to leave, you should have left a suitable explanation for your absence.”
“As for this soup,” he continued, “it leaves much to be desired. Any free-lunch stand in town serves better. Did Mrs. Belthrop visit today?”
“Joe, bring the tray with the cards,” Mrs. McPherson requested.
After a brief moment, Joe returned with the tray adorned with visiting cards, presenting it to Mrs. McPherson.
“Give it to Mr. McPherson,” she directed, and Joe complied, handing the tray to Mr. McPherson before clearing away the soup.
Mr. McPherson perused the names on his wife’s callers’ cards, commenting as he read, “The Misses Delasidas. I closed a substantial deal for their father this morning; delightful girls, high time they found suitable matches. Mrs. Belthrop. Let me tell you, Evelyn, we can’t afford to overlook Mrs. Belthrop. Belthrop could outbid us tenfold. His business brings considerable profit my way. You should send her a note. Mrs. James Highcamp. Best to keep your distance from Mrs. Highcamp. Madame Laforcé. She came all the way from Carrolton, poor soul. Miss Wiggs, Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.” With a dismissive gesture, he set the cards aside.
“Goodness!” Evelyn exclaimed, her frustration evident. “Why are you making such a fuss over this?”
“I’m not fussing, dear. It’s the little things that matter; they count,” Mr. McPherson replied earnestly.
The fish turned out overcooked, unappetizing to Mr. McPherson’s discerning palate. Evelyn, however, shrugged off the slightly burnt taste. The roast failed to meet his expectations, and he found fault with the vegetable presentation.
“It feels like we spend a fortune here and can’t manage a decent meal,” he remarked. “A man should be able to eat with dignity.”
“You used to praise the cook,” Evelyn remarked casually.
“She may have been good once, but everyone needs supervision, even cooks. Imagine if I let my office staff run amok without oversight; chaos would ensue,” Mr. McPherson explained.
Seeing her husband leave the table without eating, Evelyn questioned, “Where are you off to?”
“I’ll dine at the club. Good night,” he replied, grabbing his hat and stick before leaving.
Evelyn was no stranger to such incidents, which often left her distressed. Sometimes she lost her appetite entirely. On occasion, she’d confront the cook or retreat to her room, engrossed in cookbooks and menus, feeling unaccomplished.
That night, Evelyn finished her solitary dinner deliberately. Her face flushed with inner turmoil as she retreated to her room, directing the boy to excuse any further visitors.
Her room exuded grandeur in the soft, dim light. Standing by an open window, she gazed into the garden’s mystique, seeking solace. Yet, the night’s voices seemed mocking, devoid of hope. Frustrated, she paced the room, tearing a handkerchief and discarding her wedding ring, trying in vain to crush it underfoot.
In a fit of rage, she seized a glass vase and hurled it onto the hearth, reveling in the shattering noise. A concerned maid entered, picking up the broken pieces.
“It’s just a vase,” Evelyn dismissed. “Leave it till morning.”
“And here’s your ring, ma’am,” the maid offered, handing it to Evelyn, who silently slipped it back on her finger.