Free Postmark Bayou Chene by Gwen Roland Page A

it has weathered the years.”
    â€œWho’s Mame?” she asked, breathing close behind his back as if afraid of going astray in the jumble.
    â€œMy mother-in-law. Loyce and Fate’s grandma. She went daft after her children, Josie and Lauf, drowned.”
    He told her more about it while picking their way around the packages on the stairs. She followed, holding up her skirt to keep from tripping. The room looked just the same as it had for years. A little bed with a moss mattress set headfirst against the outside wall. A cedar robe and a sewing rocker from the Landry side of the family were on the near side of the bed. On the far side a crockery basin and pitcher waited on a small table. The emptiness of the room made it look larger than its counterpart downstairs.
    Adam watched her eyes toting up the lack of carpet, curtains, upholstered chairs, gas lamps, or other nice things she was used to back home in New Orleans or Natchez or wherever she was really from.
    â€œI believe at one time Elder Landry stored extra goods up here, but since the plantations never came back after the war, there’s no cause to keep that much stuff on hand,” Adam offered, by way of explaining the bareness. “But we should be able to keep you comfortable until your husband sends for you.”
    Suddenly he stopped trying to raise the window and looked hard at her face from the side. She was peering into the armoire, sniffing as if a score of rats had died inside.
    â€œHe won’t be coming, will he, Mrs. Barclay?”
    Without looking up from the empty armoire, she said, “I don’t know, Mr. Snellgrove, I just don’t know.”

6
    Roseanne woke the next morning to the screech of nails being pried from a shipping crate in the store below. The sun was high. Several conversations floated up through the plank floor. She could make out the voice of that gray-haired gentleman, Mr. Snellgrove. Despite his backwoods appearance, there was something courtly about him. The way he tilted his head and looked directly at her brought to mind a good priest holding an audience.
    Of course, he looked just as attentive when the young ones were playing and singing. The young man with the curls had as pure an Irish tenor as she had ever heard. The dark one—Fate—had stage presence, if nothing else. Whether he was playing, singing, or just standing there, he drew all the eyes in the room. And Loyce, where did she learn to play violin like that when she couldn’t even see to read music? How many more surprises did this Bayou Chene hide from the world?
    She stretched one more time. The sheets were rough—muslin maybe? And the mattress made crunching sounds whenever she moved or even blinked. It smelled good, though. How had she slept so soundly, when sleep was usually elusive? It must have been the long walk, she concluded. Roseanne Barclay wasn’t accustomed to physical exertion and certainly not while carrying her own valises! Someone had always been around to take care of her needs.
    Just before collapsing in front of Mr. Snellgrove, she felt perspiration beading on her face, pooling in the crook of her elbows, which were locked against the weight of the valises. How humiliating, even if he was old enough to be her father! It was unseemly for a lady to perspire, and she knew from a lifetime of living in New Orleans that any exertion between April and October would have sweat running down her corset seams and between her thighs, which were encased in long drawers tied over the corset and beneath the corset cover. Stockings, two petticoats, the ankle-length skirt, and long-sleeved blouse completed her informal everyday costume. If she went out, a jacket covered the blouse, no matter the temperature. Even in bed she wore a sleeping corset beneath a high-necked nightgown.
    She wondered what Loyce’s nightclothes were like. Probably another version of the ugly sack thing she was wearing yesterday—a