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In the languid summer air of Grand Isle, a subtle yet palpable sense of discontent had taken up residence in the McPherson household. It was a feeling that Mr. McPherson couldn’t quite put his finger on, but one that he couldn’t shake off either. His wife, Mrs. McPherson, was a woman of refined beauty and elegance, but there was something about her that seemed to be lacking in her role as a mother. The McPherson boys, with their tousled hair and sun-kissed complexions, would often tumble and fall while at play, but they wouldn’t rush to their mother’s arms for comfort. Instead, they would pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and continue their rough-and-tumble games with the other children.

It was as if Mrs. McPherson had abdicated her role as a mother, leaving the quadroon nurse to handle the more mundane tasks of childcare. The nurse, with her gentle hands and soothing voice, was more of a fixture in the household, tasked with the daily routine of buttoning up waists and panties, and brushing and parting the children’s hair. It was a peculiar arrangement, one that seemed to be at odds with the traditional role of a mother in 19th century Southern Louisiana.

In contrast, the mother-women of Grand Isle seemed to embody the very essence of motherhood. They fluttered about, their wings spread wide, protecting their precious brood from any real or imagined harm. They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and took pride in effacing themselves as individuals to become ministering angels. One such woman was Adèle Rogers, a paragon of beauty and charm. Her spun-gold hair seemed to have a life of its own, and her sapphire blue eyes sparkled like the morning dew. Her lips, a deep crimson, pouted enticingly, and her hands, with their tapering fingers, were a joy to behold.

Madame Rogers was a frequent visitor to the McPherson household, often bringing her sewing and sitting with Mrs. McPherson in the afternoons. She would rock gently in the creaking rocker, her hands moving deftly as she sewed away on the little night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib. The afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans was no exception. Madame Rogers was sitting in the rocker, busily engaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers, designed to enclose a baby’s body so effectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like an Eskimo’s.

Mrs. McPherson’s mind, however, was not on the present material needs of her children. She couldn’t see the use of anticipating and making winter night garments the subject of her summer meditations. But she didn’t want to appear unamiable and uninterested, so she had brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and under Madame Rogers’s directions, she had cut a pattern of the impervious garment. As they worked, the warm afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the scene, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the gentle hum of cicadas. It was a moment of tranquility, one that seemed to belie the underlying tensions that simmered just beneath the surface of the McPherson household.

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It was a languid summer afternoon, the air thick with the scent of blooming magnolias and the gentle hum of cicadas, as Taylor settled into his accustomed seat on the gallery of the McPherson household. Beside him, Mrs. McPherson reclined listlessly against the post, her porcelain skin glistening with a subtle sheen of perspiration. A delicate box of bonbons, adorned with intricate lace and a satin ribbon, rested in her lap, and at intervals, she would extend it to Madame Rogers, who sat beside her, her sapphire blue eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Madame Rogers, a paragon of Creole beauty, with her spun-gold hair and crimson lips, seemed at a loss to make a selection from the box, her fingers fluttering over the delicate confections as she wondered aloud if the nougat might be too rich, if it could possibly hurt her. It was a peculiar concern, one that seemed to belie her robust constitution, for Madame Rogers had been married seven years, and in that time, had borne three babies, with a fourth possibly on the way. Her “condition,” as she was wont to call it, was a subject of frequent conversation, though her slender figure and radiant complexion gave no indication of her impending motherhood.

Taylor, ever the gallant, began to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who had subsisted upon nougat during the entire duration of her pregnancy, but seeing the color mount into Mrs. McPherson’s face, he checked himself, and with a tactful smile, changed the subject. The atmosphere was one of languid tranquility, the warm sun casting a golden glow over the scene, as the cicadas provided a soothing background hum.

Mrs. McPherson, though she had married a Creole, was not yet thoroughly at home in the society of Creoles. She had never before been thrown so intimately among them, and the experience was proving to be a revelation. The Creoles of Williams’s pension, where they were summering, were a tight-knit community, bound together by ties of family and friendship. They knew each other intimately, and their relations were characterized by an amicable warmth, a sense of belonging that was palpable.

But it was their freedom of expression, their unbridled candor, that had taken Mrs. McPherson aback. She was not accustomed to such forthrightness, such a lack of prudery, and it had taken her some time to reconcile it with the lofty chastity that seemed to be an inborn characteristic of the Creole woman. She had been shocked, on more than one occasion, by Madame Rogers’s forthright tales of childbirth, tales that had left her blushing and aghast.

And then, there was the book. A certain tome had been making the rounds of the pension, and when it came her turn to read it, Mrs. McPherson had done so with profound astonishment. The subject matter was not one that she would have chosen to read, and yet, she had been drawn into its pages, her eyes wide with wonder. She had felt moved to read it in secret, to hide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps, though none of the others had done so. It was openly criticised and freely discussed at table, and Mrs. McPherson had finally given over being astonished, concluding that wonders would never cease in this strange, new world of Creole society.