During the Civil War period, when the house was young, there'd have been fewer neighbors – from here you'd have a longer view, across gardens and a small field that still remained from the original plantation. Immediately behind the kitchen, there'd be the vegetable gardens and cistern. The day the Union Army first occupied this house: the men gathered around the cistern, seeking the relief of a cool drink with jackets off, blue caps tipped back, shirtsleeves rolled and circles of sweat under their arms – not used to the heat here. Their manner was half the swagger of conquerors and half the uncertainty of strangers in a foreign clime, hostiles deep within the enemy's domain. And the Beauforte slaves, too, walked uncertainly, ambivalent: inspired by the prospect of the freedom the Yankees claimed to grant them but frightened at having nowhere to go, no confidence their liberty would endure. Not sure how to act around the family – to obey, still, or to disdain their former masters? Because everyone knew the war was far from decided, these soldiers could be gone in a day or a month, and what would become of the slaves then? Everything was coming apart and uncertain. No one really knew where to go, where they would end up – not the slaves, not the family, not the neighbors.
Beyond the cistern, on the far side of the kitchen garden, the officers'horses stirred in their makeshift paddock, and farther still, wavery in the rising heat, another unit of blue soldiers stood in loose formation at the side of the next house. Their rifles rested long on their shoulders as they watched the wife and the two children mount their carriage – evicted, their house seized, just like this one. It was too far to see their faces, but they would be crying or sad and defiant beyond crying. And soon it would be time for the Beaufortes to leave, too, and it might be the last time any of them would ever see the house again in this life, and it was too poignant and sad to bear.
Cree startled as she heard a door slam in the central block of the house. Reflexively, she leapt up and started to bolt for the door, then caught herself. Her legs were bare, no petticoats, and the skirt she wore rode above her knees, little more than a chemise – she couldn't go out of the room like this, virtually undressed! And then she was shocked to see that there was no cistern, no vegetable garden, no paddock or horses. The yard was thick with green, enclosed, with neighboring houses right on its borders.
The present broke suddenly over her with the colors and shapes of the early twenty-first century. Right, 2002. Cree Black, right.
She'd been daydreaming, indulging the kind of drowsing fantasy of the past she'd been having so often since arriving in New Orleans – so vivid, so real. She took a deep breath and shook her head to dispel it.
Faint sounds of movement came from the main house.
She walked stealthily along the gallery, opened the door, and paused to listen. Above the thud of her pulse, she heard voices – several people.
A man. And a woman, maybe two women. In a moment, with a mix of relief and distaste, she recognized the male voice: Ronald Beauforte.
Cree went inside and made her way to the top of the stairs.
"Hello? Mr. Beauforte?"
Ronald Beauforte appeared at the bottom of the stairwell, looking up, startled. But he recovered quickly. "I'll be damned. I was wondering who opened up the drapes. Well, Ms. Black, I'm giving a little house tour. You're welcome to join us." His welcome sounded strained.
Cree went downstairs, where Ronald introduced her to three elderly ladies who he said were representatives of the New Orleans Historical Preservation Society. "And this is Lucretia Black, who's doin' us the honor of visiting from Seattle," he told them. He shot a dark glance at Cree. "Ms. Black's visit is an unexpected pleasure today."
The three women looked at her with poorly concealed expressions of distrust.
"I take it you are also interested in the house?" one of them asked.
"Very much so," Cree admitted.
The old women shared covert looks of dismay. For an instant Ron looked uncomfortable, but another expression quickly replaced the concern – an opportunistic glint followed by renewed confidence.
"Well. I was just talking about some of the portraits," Ron said, "but I know Mrs. Mitchell and Mrs. Crawford are particularly interested in the restorations my father did. Please follow me, ladies. Ms. Black, do join us, won't you?"
Cree did. Ron led them through the house, pausing to describe features of interest. He discussed several innovations the original architect had incorporated and then explained how careful his father had been to install central forced-air heating and air-conditioning so as to have minimal impact on the historical appearance of the house. When he unlocked the doors along the east wing hallway, Cree saw the interiors of the rooms for the first time. Ron explained that one had been the original kitchen and the other the larder; though now they were mostly empty, the Beaufortes had stored their most valuable antiques in them during the Chases' occupancy.
They finished with the former slave quarters. In the room where she'd drowsed, the sun squares were gone now, the three old women crowded the room and filled it with chatter. To Cree's dismay the sense of the past faded. She clung to the images and scents, missing it, longing for that shimmering summer air. But it sifted away and left her feeling oddly empty.
When they were done there, the three ladies conferred as Ronald took a moment to shut the doors along the balcony. Then, as he led the way to the narrow stairway, one of them turned back to Cree. It was Mrs. Crawford, a thin woman with a mesh of blue veins visible through the nearly transparent pale skin of her face, white hair spun fine as cotton candy, an expensive-looking, perfectly tailored suit. A woman of porcelain delicacy with a brittle, disapproving expression.
"I take it your interest is private, Ms. Black?" she asked. She looked Cree up and down and apparently found her unsatisfactory.
"Well, yes – "
"We are somewhat disappointed. We weren't aware Mr. Beauforte was entertaining other interest at this point. I do hope this doesn't mean we'll be competitors in a bidding war. That would be so unfortunate for both parties, don't you think?"
"Wait a minute – " Cree began, getting the drift now.
But before she could continue, Ronald Beauforte appeared again, looking up at them from the bend in the stairs. "Oh, there you are. We missed you. If you have any questions, I'm happy to try to be of assistance -?" He smiled insincerely as he continued up, and Cree got the sense he was deliberately interrupting them.
Mrs. Crawford didn't take her eyes off Cree. "We were just discussing how important it is to keep houses of great historical significance accessible to the public. To preserve our cultural heritage for posterity."
"So very true," Ronald agreed. He took Mrs. Crawford's arm and steered her toward the stairs. "But I did so want to show you the carriage house – again my father was well ahead of his time and took pains with the restoration, bless his soul – " And he shepherded her into the stairwell before Cree could say anything.
"I supposed you're wondering what that was all about," Ronald said. He shut the front door and dusted his hands together. Outside, the three ladies of the Historical Preservation Society were making their way down the front walk.
"Yeah – I'm wondering why you're showing the house to prospective buyers even though your sister still hopes to live here."
Ronald crossed his arms and stood flat-footed, looking down at her and smiling. "What the hell were you doin' up there when we came in? Not to beat a cliche to death, but you looked like you'd seen a – "
"And why you intentionally let them think of me as another possible buyer. I assume having another buyer in the picture would help drive up the price?"