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“Well?” questioned Hamilton, who had remained with Evelyn after the others had departed.
“Well,” she echoed, rising from her seat and stretching her arms, feeling the need to relax her muscles after the long evening.
“What next?” he asked.
“The servants left with the musicians. I dismissed them. The house needs to be closed and locked. I’ll head over to the pigeon house, and I’ll send Celestine in the morning to tidy up.”
He looked around, starting to turn off some of the lights. “What about upstairs?” he inquired.
“I think it’s all secure, but there might be a window or two unlatched. We should check. Could you take a candle and see? And bring me my wrap and hat from the foot of the bed in the middle room.”
Hamilton nodded, taking a candle and heading upstairs while Evelyn began closing the doors and windows. She loathed shutting in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Hamilton soon returned with her cape and hat, helping her to put them on.
When everything was secured and the lights extinguished, they left through the front door. Hamilton locked it and took the key for Evelyn. He assisted her down the steps.
“Would you like a spray of jasmine?” he asked, breaking off a few blossoms as they passed.
“No, I don’t want anything,” she replied, sounding disheartened and withdrawn. She took his arm, which he offered, while she held up the weight of her satin train with her other hand. She noticed the black line of his leg moving in and out so close to her own against the yellow shimmer of her gown. The distant whistle of a train and the ringing of midnight bells punctuated their quiet walk.
The pigeon house stood behind a locked gate, surrounded by a neglected shallow parterre. A small front porch led to the front door and a long window. The door opened directly into the parlor, with no side entry. In the back yard, a room for servants housed old Celestine.
Evelyn had left a lamp burning low on the table. She had managed to make the room look homelike and inviting. Books lay on the table, and a lounge was nearby. Fresh matting covered the floor, with a few rugs, and tasteful pictures adorned the walls. The room was filled with flowers, a surprise orchestrated by Hamilton, who had Celestine arrange them during Evelyn’s absence. Her bedroom adjoined the parlor, and across a small passage were the dining room and kitchen.
Evelyn seated herself with evident discomfort.
“Are you tired?” Hamilton asked.
“Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel like I’ve been wound up too tight, and something inside of me has snapped.” She rested her head against the table on her bare arm.
“You need to rest and be quiet. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Yes,” she replied softly.
He stood beside her, smoothing her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His touch conveyed a physical comfort, and she felt she could have fallen asleep right there if he continued. He brushed her hair upward from the nape of her neck.
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“I hope you feel better and happier in the morning,” he said. “You’ve tried to do too much these past few days. The dinner was the last straw; you could have skipped it.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “It was foolish.”
“No, it was delightful, but it’s worn you out.” His hand strayed to her shoulders, and he felt her response to his touch. He sat beside her and kissed her lightly on the shoulder.
“I thought you were going away,” she said unevenly.
“I am, after I say goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” she murmured.
He didn’t answer, continuing to caress her. He didn’t say goodnight until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties.
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When Mr. McPherson learned of his wife’s intention to abandon their home and reside elsewhere, he immediately penned a letter of unequivocal disapproval and remonstrance. He found her reasons unacceptable and urged her to reconsider, emphasizing above all else the importance of what people would say. Although scandal was not his primary concern—such a notion never crossed his mind regarding his wife or himself—he was deeply worried about the potential damage to his financial reputation. Rumors of the McPhersons facing financial difficulties could wreak havoc on his business prospects.
Knowing Evelyn’s whimsical nature and foreseeing that she might have already acted on her impetuous decision, Mr. McPherson swiftly grasped the situation and handled it with his characteristic business acumen and cleverness.
The same mail that brought Evelyn his letter of disapproval also carried detailed instructions to a well-known architect about remodeling their home, plans he had long contemplated and now wanted executed during his temporary absence. He engaged expert movers to secure the furniture, carpets, and pictures, transforming the McPherson house into a bustling site for artisans. The renovations included a small snuggery, frescoing, and hardwood flooring in rooms yet to be upgraded.
Additionally, a brief notice in one of the daily papers announced that Mr. and Mrs. McPherson were planning a summer abroad, and their residence on Esplanade Street was undergoing luxurious renovations, not ready for occupancy until their return. Mr. McPherson had masterfully preserved appearances.
Evelyn admired his skillful maneuvering and avoided any actions that might disrupt his plans. Once the situation he described was accepted, she seemed satisfied to leave it at that.
The pigeon house delighted her, quickly becoming an intimate home imbued with a charm she herself created. Although she felt a sense of descending in social status, she experienced a corresponding spiritual ascent. Every step toward freeing herself from obligations strengthened her individuality. She began to see and understand life’s deeper currents with her own eyes, no longer content to “feed upon opinion” when her soul invited her to explore more profound truths.
A few days later, Evelyn spent a week with her children in Iberville. The February days were delicious, filled with the promise of summer. She was overjoyed to see the children, tears of happiness flowing as their little arms embraced her and their ruddy cheeks pressed against her own. She gazed at them with hungry eyes, soaking in their presence. They had endless stories about the pigs, cows, mules, and their adventures—riding to the mill with Uncle Jasper, fishing in the lake, picking pecans with Lidie’s children, and hauling real chips for old Susie’s fire.
Evelyn immersed herself in their world, living a whole week filled with their young vitality. She listened breathlessly as they recounted the commotion of workmen at the Esplanade Street house. Curious and excited, they bombarded her with questions about their bed, rocking-horse, and the whereabouts of Joe, Ellen, and the cook. Most of all, they were eager to see the little house around the block, wondering if there were boys to play with next door. Evelyn assured them the fairies would take care of everything.
The old Madame was delighted with Evelyn’s visit, showering her with delicate attentions and relishing the news of the dismantled Esplanade Street house, as it promised an extended stay for the children.
Leaving her children was heart-wrenching for Evelyn. She carried with her the sound of their voices and the touch of their cheeks, their presence lingering like a sweet melody. However, by the time she returned to the city, the song had faded, and she was once again alone.