by Calia Read
Étienne hands drift from my waist and settle on my shoulders, making soothing circles. He gives me a half-smirk. “A baby.”
A short burst of laughter escapes me. “I know. That baby is inside me.”
“Did you really think I would take this as bad news?”
“It’s just we’ve never exactly had the baby talk. So I was worried.”
“You’re right. We haven’t. But now seems like the perfect time.” Étienne’s face turns serious. “Serene, I would love to have children with you.”
Rolling my eyes, I gently shove him back. “Glad we had that talk.” I give the test one last look before I focus on Étienne. “What does this mean for us, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re from two different worlds, Étienne. We both know this pregnancy is an anomaly. If this child is born, which time does he or she belong in?”
The weight of my question lands solidly on his shoulders. It’s apparent in his heavy sigh and his words. “I’m in the present day, and you just told me you’re pregnant. Let’s take this one day at a time, shall we?”
Étienne holds his arms wide, and I walk into them. I wrap my arms around him and settle my cheek against his chest. The rhythmic beat of his heart causes the panic bubbling inside me to settle for a moment.
Étienne is right. We need to take this one day at a time.
If I close my eyes, Belgrave is in front of me. The sound of rushing water comes from the fountain in the middle of the circular driveway. The allée stands between the imposing plantation and the Low Country. Four fluted Corinthian columns greet me as I walk up the steps instead of the twenty-one that wrapped around Brignac House. When I tilt my head back and stare at the porch ceiling, I’ll see the signature haint blue.
If I close my eyes, I’m in the place where I grew up.
I can’t afford to close my eyes, though. Right now, whimsy and dreams have no place in my life. As I draw in a deep, deep breath, my lungs constrict from the action. This morning, the maid didn’t pull on the strings of the corset any more vigorously than usual. Nonetheless, the material digs into my flesh.
My heart thrashes in my chest, begging to be set free. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I remind myself I’m living my dream by being married to someone who adores me. I can’t ask for anything more. I once told Serene I would learn to love Oliver. I need to be patient with myself and my marriage because love doesn’t grow overnight. It starts with a single feeling and has to be nurtured. What I found so enthralling in regards to Oliver is he’s the very opposite of Asa.
From the beginning, Oliver noticed me. To him, I wasn’t a little girl, and there was nothing to prove. His personality was gentle whereas Asa had sharp edges. If you weren’t careful, Asa would cut you to the quick. Oliver was an open book, and the table of contents was ready for my perusal. I’ve known Asa since childhood, but even so, I only knew what he allowed me to know, and it wasn’t enough.
With Oliver, I was allowed the luxury to envision the future, and everything I had wanted for my entire life felt within reach. I could be a wife and a mother. It almost felt too good to be true. Now that I lived with his mother, I realized it was.
As I step into the central hall, I’m greeted by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Unlike Belgrave, there’s no Ben waiting by the front door at Brignac House. Servants constantly bustle from room to room, but more so out of fear of being caught by Matilda and forced to listen to the myriad of rants waiting to flow off her viperous tongue.
Very swiftly, I discovered she was the matriarch not only of the family but of the servants too. What she says goes. When she isn’t hosting a charity event, she remains locked in her room with the blinds and the canopy curtains around her bed closed. She sleeps the days away with morphine on her bedside table. Once she runs out, and her doctor isn’t immediately available, she throws fits only Oliver and his father can handle. From what I’ve gathered, severe headaches incapacitated Matilda during Oliver’s childhood. At first, she was given opium, but then her doctor substituted the opium with morphine. Years later, the morphine prescription was swapped when Bayer aspirin was introduced. According to Oliver, the non-addictive tablets were not powerful enough for Matilda’s headaches. She has switched doctors numerous times. There are people who walk through the front door that aren’t even doctors. Some are “pharmacists,” voodoo priests, and others with titles I’ve never been told.
Matilda will try anything once, but morphine will always be her best friend.
Naïvely, I once thought I could help Matilda while she was “taking the cure.” Oh, how wrong I was. She was nearly inconsolable. Hadn’t bathed in days and was still wearing her nightgown. Her belongings were strewn throughout her room, making it apparent the servants hadn’t stepped in her bedroom in days. A valise was open on the floor with empty bottles spilling out.
She wept, then screamed at me, then begged for me to call anyone to ease her pain. When I began to retreat from the room, she reached out with a surprisingly strong grip. I stared at her, shock reflecting in my eyes. “Listen to me, girl,” she said. Her Southern drawl seems the same as mine, but it’s actually different. “Understand somethin’ about me right now. I was born in this world alone. I was joined in holy matrimony alone. But I refuse to die alone.”
As quickly as she latched onto me, she let go. She fled to her bed, and I ran out of the room, my heart racing. Her words haunted me. What did they mean? It was the closest I’d get to an explanation of why Matilda was so dependent on her medications.
Numerous times, I’d think back on the rare moments I spent with Matilda before I became her daughter-in-law. Was her behavior concerning? Not particularly. I assumed Matilda’s reticence and frazzled nerves stemmed from me marrying her only son. I told myself once she knew me better, we’d get along well. Well, that has never happened. That is the strange thing about Matilda. She can show her face in polite society. She rubs shoulders with the elite. In fact, she rounds out the elite. Every etiquette book was written with her as the model.
Quietly, I close the heavy front door although the front latch still manages to echo around the central hall. I take a deep breath and immediately regret the action. The design of Brignac House centers around allowing fresh air in. Upon entering the hall, you see the stairs up the left wall. The half landing has a spacious window above the space, giving you a view of the land behind Brignac House. The red carpet runner that starts on the first floor extends to the third.
From the hall, you have access to each room on the first floor, and within the rooms are hidden pocket doors. The back door is within clear sight. Not only was this plantation home built with the idea to let in fresh air but it was also designed to allow family members and the staff to move around freely. Sconces adorn the wall, though they’re not lit. Gigantic pictures in gilt frames swallow the ivory walls. A set of ivory velvet Louis XV hand-carved chairs and sofas line the walls. Large rugs lie in front of the front and back doors.
The air in the house is muggy and thick with sweat from warm bodies being so close to each other. When I left my bedroom this morning and walked past Matilda’s closed door, I heard her having a civil conversation with her maid. I departed for town feeling upbeat, thinking today would be good. But judging from how the shutters are closed and the entire house is deathly quiet, I can see I was sorely mistaken.
A servant peeks their head out from the library doorway. Their relief is palpable when they see it’s me. “Mrs. Claiborne. I didn’t know you were home.”
One by one, I tug at the ends of my kid gloves before they’re loose enough to yank off with one pull. “I arrived minutes ago.” I finish my words with a smile, but the servant isn’t soothed. The probability of Matilda wreaking utter chaos on the servants’ entire day is high. The servant steps into the hall right as a shriek sounds above us, and an object strikes the floor. In unison, the two of us look at the ceiling. The servant appears nonplussed; I, however, am still adjusti
ng and flinch at the noise. Sometimes I feel as though I’m in an insane asylum. I’m constantly on guard and tense so badly my shoulders nearly touch my ears. I never know what each day will bring or how Matilda will feel.
I’m beginning to grow weary of the emotional barrage.
“You received a telegram while you were in town, ma’am.”
“I did?” My heart speeds up, but I stop myself from throwing my gloves on the end table and approach the servant. Who is it from? My brothers barely strike a conversation in person, so the chances of them sending me a telegram are slim. Perhaps my aunt on my father’s side? Or maybe a friend of mine?
Or maybe Asa?
It’s a fanciful thought. Fanciful and foolish. I haven’t spoken to Asa Calhoun in nearly a year. The last time I did, it ended with disastrous results and the end of my childhood dream.
Nonetheless, it must be a close friend or acquaintance. I don’t realize how lonely I truly am until I’m tearing the envelope open to read what’s inside. Typically, making friends comes easily to me, but in Savannah, the ladies give me a wide berth. Pleasantries are always exchanged but never extended. If I see them a second or third time at an event or at a shop, they smile and continue as though they have never seen me before.
It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever been rebuffed by polite society, and it begs the question: did the Lacroix name give me immediate access to the elite in Charleston and allow me to believe making friends came easily or was there something else I was not seeing? Was there something attached to the Claiborne name? Like my family—they too have money but their fair share of secrets. Do the people of Savannah know about Matilda’s frequent headaches and dependence on morphine? It’s a possibility. Every city has a family or a person they prefer to keep hidden away in the shadows. If Matilda doesn’t lend her last name or money, do the residents of Savannah rather she remains at Brignac House?
From the way my gut churns, I think I already know the answer to my own question.
Before I read the telegram, I check the time and date: 1914 April 15 AM 11:36
NATHALIE CLAIBORNE
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
LAST NIGHT LIV WAS FOUND BADLY WOUNDED ON THE STREET CAN’T FIND ÉTIENNE LIV CURRENTLY IN OUR CARE PLEASE COME QUICKLY.
PLEASONTON
The smile on my face when I took the telegram from the servant slowly dims. I re-read the message three times. The room begins to the spin. Reaching out, I place my hand against the wall for balance, but I still feel as if I’m going to fall over.
What happened to Livingston? Where is Étienne? And how did Livingston’s best friend, Miles Pleasonton, become involved?
“Ma’am? Are you okay?”
“No. I’m not. It’s one of my brothers.” Feeling sick to my stomach, I hurry to the stairs with the telegram in one hand and the hem of my dress in the other.
“What do you mean you’re leavin’ for Charleston tomorrow?” Oliver asks.
With my eyes focused on the servants as they move between the armoires and the open trunks near the left side of my bed, I answer him. “My brother was in a bad accident. I need to make sure he’s okay.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t your brothers live in the same town?”
My gaze travels to Oliver. “Yes,” I say as patiently as possible. “They do.”
“Then why do you need to go? They have one another.”
“Because I’m their sister, and I will always be there for my brothers,” I reply, leaving out the small part about no one being able to find Étienne. To say that’s unusual is an understatement because Étienne is the most reliable man I’ve ever known. He arrives at least thirty minutes early to his office, sometimes sooner. Punctuality is important to him. He would never leave Livingston. Especially at a moment like this.
Something is wrong with him too. Deep in my heart is a carved-out hollow space where Étienne once filled. And I think I know. Even though I have no physical proof, he’s not here in this era. It’s just a gut instinct, but I have a feeling if I were to find Serene, Étienne wouldn’t be far behind.
Dear Lord, what did they do now?
My stomach churns at the very thought. Couple that with the idea of Livingston being hurt and I want to climb into the empty armoire, close the doors, and not come out until everything is over. But no, that can’t happen. I have to face this head on.
A servant closes the lid to one trunk and pulls the latches down on the sides before she helps the other servant finish packing the last trunk.
“Nat, I have no qualms with you seein’ your family. However, we’ve just settled in. Must you leave?”
Oliver’s words aren’t coated with condemnation or derision, yet I still find myself irritated by his line of questioning. Not long into our engagement, I told him about my parents and brother dying when I was a child. Oliver said he understood Étienne and Livingston were all I had, but if he truly felt that way, then why is he so upset?
My chin juts out as I look my husband in the eye. “Livingston’s friend wouldn’t have sent a telegram if it wasn’t an emergency. Whatever happened to my brother left him in critical condition. I am leavin’ tomorrow mornin’,” I finish, knowing my words leave no room for argument.
In many ways, Oliver’s personality is similar to Livingston’s. They’re both jovial and even-tempered, but as the seconds tick by, a red flush crawls up his neck and spreads across his face. Oliver opens his mouth to respond when he realizes we’re not alone. The servants may not be looking our way, but they’re certainly listening.
“Leave us,” he demands.
They flee from the room without another word, closing the door quietly. I lace my fingers in front of me and silently watch Oliver as he drags his hands through his hair. His eyes have exhaustion etched around them. I know working at his family’s bank full-time and helping with Matilda wears on him. It’s wearing on all of us. At times, I wonder if he married me so I would shoulder half his responsibilities in taking care of his mother.
“You are my wife,” he says.
My shoulders sag, and with a sigh, I walk over to him. “I understand that. However, you will not reverse my decision. I do not plan on stayin’ in Charleston indefinitely. This is a visit, not a stay.” I take a deep breath before I continue. “My home is now Savannah.”
With those words, Oliver meets my gaze with steady and solemn eyes. My words were meant to soothe and defuse the situation, yet it’s clear Oliver doesn’t want me to leave. He doesn’t believe me when I say Savannah is my home.
Do I believe it when I say Savannah is my home?
The seconds tick by before Oliver dips his head. “Very well. I’ll let you freshen up. Please send your brother my regards.”
I give him a weak smile. “Thank you.”
Oliver leaves the same way he came in; through the adjoining door connecting our private living quarters. Once he’s gone, I hang my head and exhale. The weight of my future seems to be getting heavier with each passing day.
I shouldn’t be too troubled. Oliver treats me well and makes sure I want for nothing. With the exception of Matilda, my overall experience at Brignac House has been pleasant.
My bedroom is lovely. Slowly, my eyes scan my surroundings before settling on the Louis XVI style bed to my left. The fluted columns and carved floral garland are reminiscent of the exquisite crown moldings, cornices, and plasterwork at Belgrave. A white chenille quilt covers the hair mattress. In the middle is a medallion with the letter C.
A fireplace I’ve yet to use with an ornate mantle faces the opposite side of the bed.
Heavy green curtains with sheer lace gathered on top are tied back from the two windows facing the back of the property. It’s just as well I’m not facing the front of the house because the driveway is similar to Belgrave’s. Every morning I’d wake up, and every morning I’d think I’m back at Belgrave. Then I’d remember the truth.
I’m far from my childhood home. But if I hold my breath
and block out Matilda’s wails, I can hear the faint sounds of Belgrave calling my name.
I must go.
“Here. Will this work?”
Ian tosses the duffle bag onto the kitchen counter. Unzipping it, I pore through the clothes. Sweatpants, a gray hoodie, black henley, a few T-shirts and one pair of jeans. More than enough until I can coerce Étienne into going to a mall. But will the pants be long enough? I look at my brother from the corner of my eyes. He’s an inch or two shorter than Étienne. Good enough.
Zipping the duffel bag, I pat the top. “It’s perfect. Thank you for stopping by before work.”
Since I’ve found out I was pregnant, I’m normally sick at night, but this morning, I was sick. For the past hour, I’ve puked my guts out. When I finished, I accepted sleep wasn’t going to come to me and snuck out of my room. Étienne had a fitful night’s sleep. Before I left my room, I looked at him. He was snoring with his body in the middle of the bed, and I didn’t want to wake him. This will be his first full day in the present, and he needs all the rest he can get. I crept downstairs and texted Ian, asking if he could bring some clothes on his way to work.
“I had my reasons for coming over here anyway,” he replies as he makes a beeline for the coffee. Resting my elbows on the counter, I take a deep breath and try to quell my nausea. If this is a precursor to how this pregnancy will be, the next few months are going to go by very slowly.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I look at Ian from the corner of my eye. “What do you mean?”
“You’re really pale. Are you sick?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” I murmur. I just told Étienne I was pregnant. I wasn’t ready to let my family know. Soon, but not now.
My brother pours himself a cup of coffee and makes his way back to me. Wearily, I eye him. So much has happened in a short span of time. I found love with Étienne in a different era, and in the process, I lost the family I’d known my entire life. Étienne sacrificed our future together to save my great-great grandmother Emmeline, and in the process, he salvaged my family. Everything wasn’t one hundred percent with my family, but I could see their core, and Ian was more or less back.
