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Mrs. McPherson’s eyes sparkled like golden topaz, their bright, inquisitive gaze darting about the room with an intensity that belied her languid demeanor. Her tresses, a rich, honey-blonde hue, seemed to echo the warm tones of her irises, which would often become lost in some inner reverie, as if mesmerized by the whispers of her own thoughts. Her eyebrows, a shade darker than her hair, were thick and almost horizontal, framing the depths of her eyes like a masterful artist’s strokes.
Her face, though not conventionally beautiful, was captivating in its frankness, its subtle play of features weaving a spell of enchantment around all who beheld her. Her manner, too, was engaging, imbued with a warmth and hospitality that put even the most skeptical of souls at ease.
Taylor, meanwhile, rolled a cigarette with a practiced hand, the paper crackling softly as he worked. He smoked cigarettes, he claimed, because his modest means precluded the luxury of cigars. Yet, a glance at his pocket revealed a solitary cigar, a gift from Mr. McPherson, which he was saving for the indulgent pleasure of an after-dinner smoke. This seemed a perfectly natural and proper decision, one that suited his carefree nature.
In coloring, Taylor bore a striking resemblance to his companion, a likeness accentuated by his clean-shaven face. His countenance, untroubled by the shadows of care, reflected the languid beauty of the summer day, his eyes gathering in the light like a tranquil lake.
As the warmth of the afternoon deepened, Mrs. McPherson reached for a palm-leaf fan, its delicate fronds whispering softly as she began to fan herself. Taylor, meanwhile, sent gentle puffs of smoke drifting into the air, the sweet scent of tobacco mingling with the heady aroma of blooming magnolias. The two chatted incessantly, their conversation flowing like a lazy bayou, touching upon the whimsical adventures of their day, the capricious wind, the rustling trees, and the lively gathering at the Chênière.
Their words danced about the children, laughing and playing croquet beneath the ancient oaks, their joyous shouts carrying on the breeze. And, of course, they spoke of the Farival twins, whose lively performance of the overture to “The Poet and the Peasant” seemed to capture the very essence of the sun-kissed afternoon. As they talked, the world around them seemed to slow its pace, surrendering to the languid charm of a Louisiana summer day.
Taylor’s words flowed like a lazy river, as he regaled Mrs. McPherson with tales of his own ambitions and adventures. Youthful enthusiasm sparkled in his eyes, and he spoke with an unbridled passion, unaware of the art of subtlety.
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“I’m going to Mexico in the autumn, Mrs. McPherson,” he said, his voice filled with conviction. “Fortune awaits me there. I’ve always intended to go, but somehow I never quite make it.”
Mrs. McPherson’s eyes sparkled with amusement, her voice like honey dripping from the comb, sweet and languid. “You’re always intending to go to Mexico, Mr. Taylor, but you never seem to get there. Meanwhile, you hold on to your modest position in a mercantile house in New Orleans, where your familiarity with English, French, and Spanish makes you a valuable asset as a clerk and correspondent.”
Taylor chuckled, his face flushing with pleasure. “You’re right, Mrs. McPherson. I suppose I’m just not ready to leave the comforts of home behind. But I’ll get there one day, mark my words.”
As they sat on the porch, surrounded by the gentle lapping of the Gulf waves, Mrs. McPherson began to talk about her own life. Her voice carried the faintest hint of French, a whispered secret lost in the dilution of time.
“I grew up on my father’s Mississippi plantation,” she said, her eyes gazing out at the sea. “And my girlhood home was in the old Kentucky blue-grass country. I’m an American woman, with just a small infusion of French, it seems.”
Taylor’s curiosity was piqued, and he leaned forward, his eyes shining with interest. “Tell me more, Mrs. McPherson. What were your sisters like? What was your father like? And how long has your mother been gone?”
Mrs. McPherson’s face softened, her eyes clouding over with memories. “My sisters were dear girls, Mr. Taylor. We were a close-knit family, and our father was a kind and gentle man. My mother passed away when I was just a girl, but I remember her as a warm and loving presence in our lives.”
As she spoke, Mrs. McPherson read a letter from her sister, away in the East, and Taylor’s interest was further piqued. “What’s the news from your sister, Mrs. McPherson?” he asked, his voice filled with curiosity.
Mrs. McPherson’s face lit up with a smile. “She’s engaged to be married, Mr. Taylor. I’m so happy for her, though I must admit I’ll miss her dearly.”
When Mrs. McPherson folded the letter, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow on her face, she announced it was time to dress for the early dinner. “I see Léonce isn’t coming back,” she said, with a glance in the direction whence her husband had disappeared. “I suppose he’s still at Klein’s, enjoying the company of the New Orleans club men.”
Taylor nodded, his eyes following hers. “I suppose so, Mrs. McPherson. I’ll take a stroll over to the croquet players, if you’ll excuse me. The little ones are always a delight to be around.”
As Mrs. McPherson retired to her room, Taylor descended the steps, his boots creaking on the worn wood. He strolled toward the croquet players, where, during the half-hour before dinner, he delighted in the company of the little McPherson children, who adored him with an unbridled enthusiasm. The air was alive with the sound of laughter and the soft thud of mallets on balls, as the world slowed its pace, surrendering to the languid charm of a Louisiana summer afternoon.