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“Do me a favor, Taylor,” the elegant woman beside him spoke as they strolled homeward beneath the umbrella he held above them.
“Of course, anything you wish,” he replied, meeting her thoughtful gaze.
“I ask just one thing: refrain from pursuing Mrs. McPherson,” she requested earnestly.
“Ah, Madame Rogers is jealous!” Taylor exclaimed with a boyish laugh, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“Nonsense! I’m serious; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. McPherson be,” she insisted.
“Why?” Taylor inquired, his tone shifting to seriousness at her plea.
“She’s different, not one of our circle. She might misunderstand your intentions,” she explained.
Annoyance flashed across Taylor’s face, and he impatiently beat his soft hat against his leg. “Why shouldn’t she take me seriously?” he retorted sharply. “Am I a mere entertainer, a jester? Why shouldn’t she? You Creoles! I can’t stand being seen as a mere amusement. I hope Mrs. McPherson does take me seriously. I hope she sees beyond the surface. If there’s any doubt—”
“Enough, Taylor!” Madame Rogers interjected, breaking into his heated response. “You’re speaking without thinking. Your words lack the reflection expected of you. If your attentions to married women were meant to be convincing, you wouldn’t be the gentleman we know you to be, unfit to associate with those who trust you.”
Madame Rogers believed firmly in what she said, and Taylor impatiently shrugged his shoulders. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, adjusting his hat with irritation. “You seem to forget that such remarks aren’t flattering.”
“Must our conversations always be a string of compliments?” she retorted.
“It’s not pleasant to be lectured by a woman—” Taylor began but abruptly changed the subject, recounting stories of scandalous affairs involving other men, diverting attention from Mrs. McPherson’s potential misunderstanding.
Upon reaching Madame Rogers’s cottage, she retired for her customary hour of rest. Before parting ways, Taylor apologized for his abruptness, acknowledging it as rudeness, despite his good intentions.
“You’ve pointed out one thing, Adèle,” he remarked, a playful smile gracing his lips, “Mrs. McPherson taking me seriously is about as likely as me taking myself seriously. Your advice would have been more fitting if you warned me against that! Anyway, au revoir. But you seem tired,” he added, concern in his voice. “Would you fancy a cup of bouillon? Or perhaps a toddy? I can mix you one with a hint of Angostura.”
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She agreed to the bouillon, finding the idea comforting. He made his way to the kitchen, a separate building at the back of the house. Returning with a delicate Sèvres cup filled with golden-brown bouillon and a couple of flaky crackers, he handed it to her. She extended a bare, white arm from behind her curtain, gratefully receiving the cup. “You’re a good lad,” she complimented sincerely.
Taylor thanked her and headed towards “the house.”
Meanwhile, lovers strolled into the pension’s grounds, their intimacy mirroring the arching water-oaks. Their ethereal connection seemed to lift them above earthly concerns. The lady in black, trailing behind, appeared wearier than usual. Mrs. McPherson and the children were notably absent, likely enjoying their time until dinner.
Taylor made his way up to his mother’s room at the top of the house, with its odd angles and sloping ceiling. Two dormer windows offered views of the Gulf. Inside, Madame Williams worked diligently at the sewing-machine, aided by a little black girl. Taylor perched on a dormer window sill, engrossed in a book while the sewing-machine clattered in the background.
In a brief pause, conversation drifted between Taylor and his mother.
“Where’s Mrs. McPherson?”
“At the beach with the children.”
“I promised her the Goncourt. Don’t forget to take it down when you go; it’s on the bookshelf over the small table.” More clattering followed.
“Where’s Victor taking the rockaway?”
“The rockaway? Victor?”
“Yes, down there. He seems to be preparing to drive somewhere.”
“Call him,” Madame Williams urged over the noise.
Taylor whistled sharply, trying to get Victor’s attention without success.
Madame Williams rushed to the window, calling out, “Victor!” Her waving handkerchief accompanied her calls as she tried to get the attention of the young man below, who promptly climbed into the vehicle and spurred the horse into a gallop.
Returning to her sewing machine, Madame Williams was visibly irritated. Victor, her younger son and brother, was a hothead, prone to fits of temper and possessing a will as unyielding as iron.
“I’m ready to reason with him, if only he’d listen,” Taylor offered, sensing his mother’s frustration.
“If only your father were still here!” Madame Williams exclaimed, resuming her work with a determined clatter.
She then shifted the conversation. “Any news from Montel?” Montel, a middle-aged acquaintance, had long sought to fill the void left by Monsieur Williams’s passing.
“I have a letter somewhere,” she rummaged through her workbasket, retrieving the letter. “He mentions he’ll be in Vera Cruz next month,” she continued amidst the clattering noise, “and he’s still open to your joining him.” The noise from the sewing machine punctuated her words.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Mother? You know how much I—” Taylor’s sentence was lost in the clatter of the machine.
Madame Williams, not missing a beat, observed, “Mrs. McPherson is heading back with the children. She’ll be late for lunch again. She always leaves everything to the last minute.” Her hands continued their rhythmic movements on the machine. “Where are you off to?” she asked Taylor.
“Where did you say the Goncourt was?” Taylor inquired, preparing to retrieve the book for Mrs. McPherson.