An Acquaintance with Darkness - Ann Rinaldi [27]
"You visited my school?"
"I wanted Mrs. McQuade to know you are not without family. She asked when you are coming back."
I was dumbstruck. In all the time we'd lived in Washington, Mama had never set foot in my school.
"All the girls there have family paying close mind to their progress," he said.
I thought of Myra Mott, Stephanie Wilson, Melanie Hawkes. Family? They had more than family. They had kinfolk that went back to the original settlers of Maryland and Virginia. The girls lived in houses that would make this look like a shack on Murder Bay. Before the war they had summered in Saratoga and their mothers had taken shopping trips to New York. Their fathers had business dealings in Lexington, New Orleans, connections in Boston. They banked in London, were on familiar terms with Du Ponts in Delaware.
"Mrs. McQuade knows your mother did not have time to attend theatricals you were in. Or your piano recitals. Because she had to work for a living. I would be most happy to attend. If my presence does not offend you."
He was being so kind. It made me ashamed for giving him an uneven time of it.
"There are no strings attached. I assure you. By the way, did you know that Mrs. McQuade's maiden name is Desrayaux? That her parents were guillotined in the French Revolution?"
"No."
"Yes. She was brought to this country as an infant in 1794. To French Azilum, in the Pennsylvania farmland. It was a log-cabin community built for emigres fleeing the terror of the Revolution. They built a great-house for Marie-Antoinette. And settled in to await her arrival. And that of Louis-Charles, her son, the dauphin."
I was stunned. "She never told us."
He shrugged. "People confide in me. Did you meet Marietta?"
"Yes."
"A fine girl. A wonderful girl."
"She's got powers," I told him.
"We all have powers, if we choose to recognize them. Hers are exceptional. And that garden of hers is really beautiful, isn't it?"
"Did you save her life?"
"Others found her and brought me to her ... I was hoping you two could be friends."
He talked some more about Louis-Charles. "Over a dozen men came forth over the years claiming to be the dauphin, but their claims were never proven. Imagine that he may be in this country somewhere, perhaps living as a backwoodsman."
"The girls at school say he is the owner of Gautier's, the sweetshop."
He raised his wineglass to me. "Then the next time you go for ice cream, think of who made it. We never know who people really are, Emily. Remember that, always."
It seemed to be the point of the story, the whole point he was trying to make.
When the meal was over I made a pretty little speech. "I appreciate your having this luncheon for me, Uncle Valentine," I said. "I'm beholden to you for what you did at the cemetery and for posting a guard at Mama's grave. And for going to my school. And I'm sure we can be friends."
He walked me out to the hack in front. "You are welcome here, Emily," he said. "Anytime." He kissed me. "I hate to think of you going back to that empty house tonight."
"I'll be fine. It's only for one night."
"Lock your doors. And remember, I am here if you need me."
I thanked him again. He seemed distracted, as if his mind was somewhere else.
It was. He told me just before I left that he was going to Ford's Theater that night with a doctor friend. He was looking forward to seeing the Lincolns.
8. Home Alone
UNCLE VALENTINE had been right. Home was dreary and dismal. My footsteps echoed in the deserted rooms. The landlord had come in my absence and taken up the rugs for cleaning. All my things were in boxes. The dust made me sneeze. I went into the kitchen and put the night-blooming cereus in a vase of water. I would put it in my bedroom. On my way upstairs I avoided the parlor, where they had laid Mama out. I would have avoided her bedroom, too, but I was missing a good shawl. I stopped in the doorway, saw the bed where she'd lain for the last six weeks, the imprint of her head on the pillow—and fled. Forget the shawl. But there were still some boxes