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Evelyn McPherson couldn’t quite explain why she initially declined Taylor’s invitation to the beach, only to later follow it impulsively. There was a dawning realization within her, a light flickering in the depths of her being—a revelation that simultaneously beckoned and warned.
This newfound awareness stirred her thoughts, weaving dreams and moments of deep contemplation, reminiscent of the midnight when tears had flowed freely. Mrs. McPherson, at twenty-eight, was beginning to grasp her place in the vast universe, sensing her connection to the world within and around her. It was a weighty realization for someone so young, laden with a wisdom that felt both profound and unsettling.
The genesis of self-awareness is a tumultuous journey, marked by confusion, chaos, and profound introspection. Many souls falter in this initial upheaval, lost in its labyrinthine complexities.
The sea’s voice held a seductive allure, a ceaseless symphony of whispers, cries, and invitations to delve into solitary abysses, to immerse oneself in introspective labyrinths. Its touch was sensuous, enveloping the body in a tender, intimate embrace.
Mrs. McPherson wasn’t one to easily share her thoughts, a trait that had always been a part of her. Even as a child, she lived a secluded life within herself, understanding early on the dichotomy of existence - the outward conformity and the inward questioning.
That summer at Grand Isle marked a slight shift in her reserved demeanor. Various influences, both subtle and overt, played their roles in this change, but none was as impactful as Adèle Rogers. The Creole woman’s physical allure initially drew Evelyn in, her sensuous appreciation of beauty stirred. Yet, it was Adèle’s open honesty, a stark contrast to Evelyn’s guarded nature, that forged a connection. Who could decipher the metals used by fate to create the bond we call sympathy, perhaps even love?
One morning, the two women strolled arm in arm to the beach under a vast white sunshade. Evelyn convinced Madame Rogers to leave the children behind, although Adèle insisted on bringing a small roll of needlework, which she cleverly tucked away. Somehow, they slipped away from Taylor’s watchful eye.
The path to the beach was a journey in itself, a sandy trail bordered by unruly growth. Yellow camomile stretched for acres, while further away, gardens flourished with citrus trees scattered among them, their dark green clusters shimmering in the sunlight.
Both women stood tall, Madame Rogers embodying a more feminine, matronly figure. Evelyn’s allure was subtle yet captivating, her body’s lines long, clean, and symmetrical, capable of striking poses that spoke of elegance rather than mere fashion. A passerby might overlook her, but a discerning eye would recognize her noble beauty and graceful poise.
That morning, Evelyn wore a cool white muslin dress with a brown vertical line, a white linen collar, and a large straw hat perched on her yellow-brown hair. Madame Rogers, mindful of her complexion, wore a gauze veil and dogskin gloves, her attire a soft white with ruffles that accentuated her rich beauty.
As they walked, the sea breeze played with their clothes, weaving a tale of subtle connections and unspoken understandings between these two women from different worlds yet bound by the invisible threads of shared experiences.
The beach was dotted with sturdy bath-houses, their rugged yet solid structures facing the water with protective galleries. At Williams’s, each house comprised two compartments, fully equipped for bathing and adorned with whatever comforts the occupants desired. On this day, however, the intention wasn’t to bathe but to enjoy a leisurely walk and the soothing proximity of the water. The compartments of Mrs. McPherson and Madame Rogers were adjacent, sharing the same roof.
Mrs. McPherson, guided by habit, unlocked her compartment’s door and entered. Moments later, she emerged with a rug, spreading it on the gallery floor. She also brought out two large hair pillows covered in crash fabric, placing them against the building’s front. The two women settled comfortably in the shade, leaning against the pillows with their feet stretched out.
Madame Rogers removed her veil, delicately dabbing her face with a handkerchief and using a fan that hung from her person on a narrow ribbon. Evelyn loosened her collar and unfastened her dress slightly at the throat. Taking the fan from Madame Rogers, she began to fan both of them, the warmth of the day prompting casual exchanges about the weather and the sea’s shimmering brilliance.
A brisk breeze danced over the water, creating choppy waves that frothed and splashed. It tousled the women’s skirts, leading them to adjust their attire and secure hairpins and hatpins. In the background, a few individuals enjoyed the water, while the beach remained tranquil, interrupted only by the rhythmic sound of the lady in black reading her morning devotions on a nearby porch and the whispered confessions of young lovers beneath an unoccupied children’s tent.
Evelyn, her gaze drawn to the vastness of the sea, marveled at the clear day that extended the view to where the sky met the ocean’s expanse. White clouds lazily hung over the horizon, while distant sails, including a lateen sail towards Cat Island, seemed almost motionless in the distance.
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Adèle, observing her companion’s absorbed expression, inquired, “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing specific,” replied Mrs. McPherson, momentarily startled. “Well, that’s rather dull of me! But isn’t that the instinctive response to such questions? Let me think,” she added, tilting her head back and narrowing her eyes, which sparkled like twin points of light. “Let me think. I wasn’t consciously thinking of anything, but maybe I can trace my thoughts back.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” laughed Madame Rogers. “I’m not that demanding. Especially not in this heat—it’s too much to ask anyone to think deeply about thinking.”
“For the sake of amusement,” persisted Evelyn. “The sea stretching endlessly, the sails against the sky—it formed a captivating picture I couldn’t tear my eyes from. And the hot wind against my face reminded me—without a clear link—of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow that felt as vast as the ocean to a young girl wading through grass taller than her waist. She moved her arms like she was swimming, parting the tall grass like water. Ah, I see the connection now!”
“Where were you heading that day in Kentucky, wandering through the grass?” inquired Madame Rogers, intrigued by Evelyn’s recollection.
“I can’t quite recall. I was simply meandering across a vast field, my sun-bonnet limiting my view. All I could see was the endless green ahead of me, as if I were destined to walk forever without reaching its end. I can’t remember if I felt scared or delighted. I must have been entertained,” Evelyn reflected.
“It’s quite likely it was a Sunday,” she chuckled, “and I might have been escaping prayers, avoiding the Presbyterian service read with such solemnity by my father, a memory that still sends a chill down my spine.”
“Have you been evading prayers ever since, ma chère?” Madame Rogers teased, enjoying the conversation.
“Oh, no, not at all!” Evelyn clarified quickly. “In those days, I was just a thoughtless child following whims without much consideration. On the contrary, religion had a profound impact on me for a time, from around twelve until... well, until now, I suppose, although I haven’t dwelled on it much—simply carried along by habit. But you know,” she paused, locking eyes with Madame Rogers and leaning in closer, “sometimes this summer feels like that green meadow again to me: aimless, thoughtless, and directionless.”
Madame Rogers gently placed her hand over Evelyn’s, which was nearby. Sensing no resistance, she held it warmly, even affectionately stroking it with her other hand, whispering softly, “Pauvre chérie.”
Initially taken aback by the gesture, Evelyn soon embraced the Creole’s tender touch. Affectionate expressions, spoken or shown, were not common in her life. Her relationship with her younger sister, Janet, often teetered on quarrels due to ingrained habits. Margaret, the elder sister, carried herself with a matronly dignity, likely from assuming responsibilities early in life after their mother’s passing. Margaret was practical and reserved, traits Evelyn mirrored. Her school friendships tended towards the reserved as well, perhaps influenced by her own reserved nature.
Reflecting on her past, Evelyn recalled a childhood infatuation with a solemn cavalry officer who visited their Kentucky home, his sad eyes reminiscent of Napoleon’s. Another time, her affections were stirred by a young man engaged to a neighbor. Despite her young age and the reality of her insignificance to him, the experience left a bitter imprint as dreams faded away.
She had reached adulthood when fate seemingly peaked for her. It was when the visage and allure of a renowned tragedian began to captivate her imagination and stir her emotions. The persistence of this infatuation lent it an air of authenticity, while its unattainability colored it with the grandeur of a profound passion.
A framed portrait of the tragedian adorned her desk, a possession that raised no suspicion or comment—an aspect she secretly relished. In public, she voiced admiration for his talents, passing around the photograph and highlighting its faithful likeness. Yet in solitude, she would sometimes caress the cold glass with passionate kisses.
Her union with Léonce McPherson was a twist of fate, resembling many other marriages that masqueraded as predestined. It was amid her hidden infatuation that she encountered him. He fell deeply in love, as men often do, ardently pursuing her with a devotion that left nothing to be desired. She found pleasure in his company; his unwavering dedication flattered her. She fancied a shared understanding of thoughts and tastes, a notion she would later realize was mistaken. Factor in her father and sister Margaret’s vehement opposition to her union with a Catholic, and the motives behind her acceptance of Monsieur McPherson as her husband become clear.
The pinnacle of bliss, embodied in a marriage to the tragedian, eluded her in reality. As the devoted wife of a man who adored her, she sensed a certain dignity in the real world, closing the doors forever on the realm of fantasies and dreams.
Yet soon, the tragedian joined the cavalry officer and the engaged young man in the realm of memories, and Evelyn confronted the stark realities of life. She grew to care for her husband, finding a strange satisfaction in the absence of overwhelming passion or artificial warmth in her affection, which could have threatened its foundation.
Her love for her children was uneven, marked by impulsive moments of tenderness followed by lapses in attention. The previous summer, they had stayed with their grandmother McPherson in Iberville, and while she missed them occasionally, their absence provided a peculiar relief—a release from responsibilities she had blindly shouldered.
On that summer day with Madame Rogers, Evelyn didn’t reveal all of this, but much spilled out. She rested her head on Madame Rogers’s shoulder, flushed with the intoxicating taste of candor and the liberation of her own voice.
Approaching voices interrupted their moment, heralding Taylor and a group of children, including the little McPhersons and Madame Rogers’s daughter. The women rose, gathering their belongings as the children scampered off. Madame Rogers complained of cramps, leaning on Taylor’s arm as they headed back, leaving behind the scene of intruding lovers and playful children.