by Sarah Bryant
Mary and I had run out of energy to talk of going home; perhaps we had accepted that we were home. We had fallen into the routine of the people who lived with us, rising early, resting through the hottest part of the day, and staying up long into the night. The days began to form a pattern, and in time the pattern became so comfortable that its collapse was as abrupt as my first sight of the house had been.
I was up that morning before dawn. This was not a symptom of tropical sleeping patterns so much as the insomnia that had plagued me since my grandfather’s death. Though I was confident that the problem would take care of itself in time, Mary fretted about it constantly. So when she insisted that I see a doctor about it before we left Boston, on the basis of that peculiarly middle-aged belief that services would never be adequate anywhere except one’s native town, I humored her. I suppose I humored the doctor as well, in that I accepted his prescription for chloral hydrate drops. I had even tried this cure once or twice, but I found the effects of sleepless nights more tolerable than the leaden torpor inflicted by the drug.
So I was awake to see the sunrise that morning. It stained the woods and sky the dirty copper color of old pennies. I sat on the narrow dock jutting out into the still water of the lake, watching the eastern sky absorb the color; the journal and pencil I had brought with the intention of writing forgotten. I thought of Eve. I had not dreamed of her since that first horrible night following my grandfather’s death, now exactly six months past. Although I had not dreamed of her frequently since childhood—not at all, in fact, since I went away to school—I was feeling the loss as acutely as if she had been with me always. Perhaps, in a way, she had been. In childhood Eve had seemed to me a separate being from my mother, but I had come in time to attribute her comforting dream presence to my longing for the mother I had lost so early on.
I turned away from the sunrise, which had grown too bright to look at any longer, only to be blinded from the other side. I scrambled to my feet, sending the rickety dock pitching as the water rippled to life. Shading my eyes with my hands, I stared up at the western shore of the lake, where the sunlight reflected like brilliant jewels off the windows of a house at the top of the hill. I could not understand how I had lived four and a half months on the plantation and never noticed the house before, but the answer came almost immediately. As I stood staring, a cloud passed over the sun, extinguishing the brilliant windows. Without the illumination, at that precise angle, it blended into the surrounding forest. I shivered, watching the fire rekindle and then die slowly in the windows of the house on the hill as the sun reemerged, rose higher, and paled.
A cacophony of birdsong and the drone of insects moved in waves through the dense air. Finally I sat down, opened the journal, and began a detailed description of the house on the hill. I wrote until the sun grew too hot, then closed the book and started back toward my own house, naggingly preoccupied by the discovery. I walked up through the garden on the hill, an overgrown topiary with a crumbling stone stairway winding up the centre. I knew that Colette would have breakfast on the table already, and that Mary would worry if I wasn’t there. She worried so much about me that sometimes I regretted having asked her to come to Louisiana in the first place. Then again, Mary’s presence was serene and solid, an anchor in the immaterial landscape of Eden.
I shook my head as I came into the shadows of the kitchen, in an effort to clear it. I dropped the journal on the counter and smiled at Colette, the cook. She was a middle-aged Creole woman with black eyes, cinnamon skin, and cheeks like apples on either side of a perpetual smile.
“Breakfast’s set in the dining room, mademoiselle,” she told me. “Make sure and drink all that orange juice today.” I always had the feeling that she and her peers viewed Mary and me as invalids of a sort.
“Thank you, Colette. Is Mary up yet?”
“Don’t know’s I’ve heard her this morning. It’s early yet.”
But Mary was already seated at the dining room table when I entered. She was wearing her lavender silk kimono, and her hair hung in a long silver-blond braid to her waist. She smiled at me over her coffee cup, and all at once I was overwhelmingly glad of her presence.
“Up and out early this morning,” she said.
I sat down and began to pick at the breakfast Colette had laid out for us.
“You haven’t slept, have you?”
I sighed, being well weary of this line of questioning. “I slept a bit.”
She lifted her eyebrows at me in mild reproach, but changed the subject. “I’ve almost finished going over the accounts.”
“Oh?” I looked up with more interest than I felt for breakfast. After my grandfather’s death I had wanted to hire a lawyer to put the estate in order, but Mary, who had always managed her husband’s finances, had insisted on looking at it first. She had proven more than adequate to handle what could not have been an easy task, as my grandfather’s bookkeeping had been at least as erratic as the workings of his mind.
“You’ll be glad to know he didn’t leave you in debt.”
I sighed. “But he didn’t leave me much else?”
“Around six million dollars. Not all in currency, of course. There are a number of bonds, some easily liquidated assets . . .”
“Six million?”
“It’s not quite as much as you might have imagined—”
“Mary, I expected to be left in debt!”
She laughed. “I can see why, but you don’t have to worry about that. William invested money for you regularly and kept careful track of it, though his own accounts were a shambles. Keep in mind, of course, that it’s a rough estimate. And it doesn’t include the value of this place or the house in Boston. I thought that you would want to keep them both.”
I promptly forgot about finances at the mention of houses. “That reminds me! Did you see anything in the accounts or papers about another house on the plantation?”
“Another house?”
“Have you noticed the house up on the hill, on the left-hand side if you’re on the dock facing the water? It’s hard to tell—it might be as big as this one, but it looks like it was built more recently.”
Mary was frowning slightly. “You know, it’s funny that you mention it, because I’d meant to ask you about the place myself, and forgot about it until just now. There’s no account of that house anywhere, as far as I know, but I did see it, one of the first mornings we were here. At first I thought it was my eyes acting up, but then the sun caught the windows . . . it was odd, the way it seemed to just appear there on the hill.”
I sighed, looking through the open French doors toward the water. “Exactly. It seems strange that it isn’t mentioned anywhere. According to records, the nearest plantations are Chênes and Joyous Garde, but neither of them is visible from here. I was hoping that my grandfather might have said something to you about it. He never spoke to me about Eden.”
Mary shook her head. “Nor to me. All I knew about it was common knowledge: that it had been his wife’s, and that ever since she died, he found it too painful to return. I asked him once why he didn’t sell the plantation, your grandmother’s family all being gone.”
“Did he answer?”
“Not directly. It made me wonder, since your grandfather had the most direct manner of anyone I’ve ever known.” Her forehead creased. “He was so enamored with science and agnosticism, he was the last person I would have imagined would believe a wives’ tale. But he said something then that I could never quite reconcile. Something about the past being buried here, and how he didn’t want to wake any ghosts.”
“Here, meaning this house?”
She shrugged. “He never made any mention of there being another. For that matter, we don’t know that the one on the hill has anything to do with Eden at all. Maybe it belongs to one of those other plantations.”
“No. I know that our land extends at least that far.”
“Unless it was sold and the records were confused or lost.”
/> I conceded this. “What else did he tell you?”
“Nothing. He launched into a monologue about water hyacinths and how someday they would purify all the world’s drinking water. Which of course led to a discussion of Shakespeare.” We laughed again. “At any rate,” she concluded, “I never got anything else out of him about this place.”
“And not for lack of trying, I’m sure.”
She laughed again, gently. “No. Not for lack of trying.”
I looked away from the bright window, down into my coffee cup, where my eyes rested for a time. Part of me felt a childlike impulse to confide in Mary, to tell her about the fear I felt and ask her what it meant. Another part wanted to march up to the house and dispel the fear once and for all. Yet even as the thoughts formed, I knew that they were idle; I had plenty of ghosts to battle without searching out new ones.
“All this talk of empty houses has reminded me of a thought I’ve been having,” Mary said, breaking my reverie. “What would you think of taking on a boarder? In one of the cottages, maybe that little Tudor one in the woods?” Before I could protest, she continued, “Oh, I know how it sounds, and I never would have thought of it myself. But Mrs. Kelly—you’ll remember her—”
“We heard a string quartet at her house last year. She wouldn’t stop talking about an airplane her husband had just bought.”
“Yes, well, I suppose she’s one of the idle rich, but with good intentions, at least. Anyhow, one of her favorite pastimes is promoting young performers, and she’s become very attached to her latest find. I don’t know much about him except that he’s a composer from New York supporting a sickly young niece. He’s looking for an inexpensive place to live in a warm climate, with lots of quiet for him to work and space for the child to play.”
I smiled. “And you thought that maybe he would do me some good, too?”
Mary raised her eyebrows. “You are young, Eleanor, and young people ought to have the company of other young people.”
My smile turned to a scoff. “You’re not trying to marry me off, are you? Because I’ll warn you right now: I’ve taken an oath never to marry.”
“Why would you do such a preposterous thing?”
I shrugged. “I don’t want to be dependent on a man.”
“Honestly, Eleanor, do you ever listen? You’ll never be financially dependent on anybody again.”
“That’s not what I meant!” I was indignant to find myself coloring under her knowing, amused eyes. “Oh, never mind, it’s a silly thing to talk about, anyway. I’ve never even met him. Or decided to take on a boarder at all, for that matter.” I raised an eyebrow of my own—reproachfully, I hoped.
“You can agree to see him, at least. I promised Mrs. Kelly that much.”
“All right, I’ll see him. But warn me before you bring him here!”
“Of course,” Mary replied as I left her for the music room.
THREE
CHOPIN wrote his two sets of études for the reason their name implies: they are studies, exercises meant to hone the skills of a virtuoso pianist. He wrote them if not purely, then at least predominantly for a practical purpose. At the time, the best collection of piano exercises was Czerny’s. Those who have suffered through Czerny need look no further for Chopin’s motives in revision.
However, as sometimes happens when the genius of the artist is great enough, Chopin’s practical idea took on a life of its own and exceeded his intentions. The études are built on a mercilessly precise foundation of classical composition, covered by a fragile exterior that moves as smoothly as water, unmistakably a product of Chopin’s era of early Romanticism. The results are so beautiful, and so difficult, that the public of the era viewed the pieces less as studies for improvement than as formidable tests of skill. Virtuoso pianists earned their reputations not so much for the conditioning the études provided as for the regard afforded by being able to play them.
I was wrestling with the études that summer at Eden’s Meadow. I had lost ground in the past year with the unexpected shock of my grandfather’s death. I planned to begin auditioning for concert appearances the next autumn, and I knew that I needed a better repertoire than I currently possessed.
I was thinking of the études as I leaned over the peeling white railing that ran along the rim of the lake beneath the topiary garden. Tossing marble chips from the path into the water, I watched the ripples circle outward, and paused every once in a while to steal a look at the house on the hill. More than a week had passed since I had first seen it, but if anything, its mystery plagued me more consistently than before. I knew that, given enough time, curiosity would get the better of me and I would have to see it. I sighed, dumping the rest of my handful of stones into the water, watching them glint for a moment before they disappeared into the tea-colored depths.
I had been working in the rose garden and was still wearing a pair of old, patched trousers, a straw hat, and sandals. Mary had told me to dress for lunch that day, and as the morning was waning, I began to climb back up through the garden toward the house with the intention of changing. I was looking down at my feet, thinking so intently about houses and ghosts and music that I never saw the man step into my path. As it was, I barely noticed his shadow in time to avoid bumping into him. I looked up, ready to protest, but when I saw who stood in front of me, I took a startled step backward instead and nearly tumbled.
He caught and steadied me, then stood looking at me, and I had the uncomfortable sensation that I was being appraised. To cover my embarrassment, I stared back. He was older than I would have guessed that night at the symphony, probably in his mid-forties, although the pensive wisdom in his expression was that of a much older man. His hair showed a few threads of grey, and care had etched lines into his forehead and the corners of his eyes.
The thought that kept running through my mind was that I was dreaming, that he could not possibly be here in the secluded world I had made for myself, so far from the place of our first meeting—or, rather, missed meeting. I had dreamed too many idle dreams of him for this one to be true. Yet there he was, apparently waiting for me to say something.
Finally, lamely, I asked him, “Can I help you?”
He studied me for another moment, then said, “Perhaps you can. You’re Miss Rose?” His accent was well controlled but unmistakably Russian.
More than slightly bewildered, and beginning to be irritated by his aloofness as well, I answered, “That’s right. You must be Mary’s lunch guest.”
“I came to see you.”
“You’re the one who wants the house!” I cried, forgetting myself in my surprise at the coincidence.
“I am,” he answered, half smiling.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling all at once like an impetuous child. “I didn’t expect you. I was gardening . . . I was just going to change when . . . well . . .”
The explanation died in light of his obvious dry amusement. He studied me for what seemed many long minutes, while I tried not to fidget.
Finally he replied, “I think it’s rather becoming. You look a bit like a drawing—a Renoir. If Renoir’s models had worn trousers.”
I couldn’t help smiling, and hesitantly his own smile bloomed, leaving me far less intimidated than I had been. He had the face of a great actor: malleable enough that whatever emotion it registered appeared essential. I reminded myself to be careful. Such a face could command trust where it was not justified.
“It seems that I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said, the grave look returning as his smile faded.
“Quite likely. I know that I’ve seen you. And heard you. At Symphony Hall in Boston, last December. You played Chopin. It was the most striking piano performance I’ve ever heard.”
“You were at that concert.” It wasn’t a question, yet there was something speculative in his tone that gave me the feeling he was thinking much more than he was saying. Rather than comment further on that concert, he said, “I hear that you are no small talent
yourself.”
“I’ll never play as well as you.”
“Never say that, Miss Rose,” he returned. “Such thoughts will destroy your gift. Always compare, always ask yourself how you could improve, but never let anyone undermine your talent in your own eyes.”
I was surprised by the passion of this outburst, but, seeing that he was deeply sincere, I held out my hand. “Please call me Eleanor.”
He took my hand and pressed it slightly but did not shake it. “I’m Alexander Trevozhov. Call me Alexander.” He paused, then abruptly he said, “You’ve been watching that house.” He pointed in the direction of the house on the hill, whose highest rooftops were just visible from where we stood.
“How did you know?” I was too startled to wonder why the fact should interest him.
“Mrs. Bishop told me I would find you here. When I came to the top of the garden, I saw that something was occupying your thoughts. You were looking up, in that same direction. I wanted to see what held your interest.”
“And what did you think when you found out?”
His eyes strayed up to the hillside. His look when he turned back to me was troubled in a way that it had not been a moment before. “I didn’t know what to think,” he answered slowly.
The sunlight caught for a moment in his eyes, sending bright slivers into their depths. It was clear that he did not like what he was going to tell me. He sighed.
“Truthfully, I wanted to walk away before I saw your face, before whatever fascinated you could snare me as well. I know nothing of this place, but it seems to me that it courts misfortune. Am I wrong to think so?”
I shrugged, hoping that my hidden fear wouldn’t betray itself. “It has its skeletons, like any old house.” I willed my eyes to keep steady on his.
