Page 20 of One Last Regret

I smile at her. “I amfamousfor my ice cream sundaes.”

She grins, and I feel a touch less guilty about leaving them to go snooping. Josephine gives me a smile of her own and says, "I'm so sorry, Mary. It must be awkward for you to be here just when we happen to suffer such a tragedy."

“I’m well experienced with tragedy, I’m afraid,” I reply. “My only concern is that you all remember that you love each other and you’ll get through this tragedy no matter how terrible it seems now.”

“We’ll certainly remember that,” she says. “It’s hard to face one’s grief in the moment, but the sun rises nonetheless, doesn’t it?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

I take the children upstairs to get ready. Amelia is excited about her day, and while subtle differences in her tone of voice and posture tell me she hasn’t fully processed her grief just yet, I can tell that she’s ready to move on.

Gabriel is harder to read. He doesn’t seem as excited for this outing as Amelia, but he’s a far more reserved person than she is, and it’s difficult to know how much of his shyness is due to grief and how much is his ordinary personality. Hedoesmention that he’d like a particular brand of caramel sauce for his Sundae, and the fact that he can think about that is an encouraging sign. I promise him I’ll buy that sauce on my way home from my errands, then send him on his way.

Once the family leaves, I return to the parlor. The composition Gabriel plays—the one supposedly cursed by Jacques Poitier—remains on the piano. The family hasn’t touched it since the night Claude died. In fact, the entire parlor is as it was when he died. I’m sure they’ll clean it soon now that the funeral is over, but perhaps their superstition will prevent them a while longer.

I realize I’m stalling when the grandfather clock chimes the hour, and I still stand in front of the piano staring at the sheetmusic. I reach for it with trembling hands, terrified for reasons I hesitate to express. Foolish as it sounds, a part of me fears that when I touch the music, my sister’s vengeful spirit will attack me.

There’s really no reason for me to feel this way. Annie and I didn’t part on good terms, but I’ve not felt so frightened of her in months, not since my first governess position when I have another nightmare of Annie. Interestingly enough, this one also involves her eyes, though in this case, they are empty black sockets rather than orbs of hate.

Finally, I grab the sheet music almost aggressively. When nothing happens, I sigh, partly in exasperation and partly in embarrassment. I look wryly at the yellowed paper and say aloud. “You’ve caused quite a bit more trouble than you’re worth.”

The sheet music has no response to that.

I dress and leave for Loyola. Henri has taken the car, but it’s only an hour’s walk to the University, and I enjoy the chance to stretch my legs every now and then.

The city is alive with anticipation. Mardi Gras is to New Orleans what… actually, I don’t know of any local celebration in the United States as important as Mardi Gras is to New Orleans. I am aware of the salacious rumors and stories that surround Mardi Gras, but to the people here, the holiday is not a lewd celebration of drink and debauchery but a chance to exhibit their culture and their uniqueness. New Orleans truly is a city unlike any other in the United States. It is a culture that grew apart from the Spanish and English influences that shaped most of the nation, and its distance from France means that it differs even from the culture of its founders.

As I observe the wreaths, banners, flowers and even costumes adorning the places and people of the city, I am struck by this uniqueness, this otherness. In a way, it feels as thoughI’ve traveled to a foreign nation, one that is neighbor to the nation I call home but not an identical twin. Much like Amelia and Gabriel, New Orleans is sister to the rest of the United States, but still separate. They cling fiercely to their traditions, and that pride is evident on every face.

I reach the University to find a much more sanitized version of Mardi Gras preparations. The banners are more generic, the costumes softer—at least among the staff—and signs everywhere warn students that drinking and drug use on campus will not be tolerated and campus police will patrol the university grounds.

I chuckle in amusement at that. I doubt anyone seriously worries about the state of the school, but I am certain the janitorial staff is not looking forward to the cleanup.

Professor Thibodeaux’s office is on the third floor of the College of Music and Media. He is in a meeting with a student when I arrive, but a friendly receptionist in the lobby of the college informs me that he will make time to see me when he’s finished.

As I wait, I glance at the sheet music again. I’m not sure what I expect when I look at it. It’s not as though the notes are going to move to reveal a hidden message or the song is going to play itself like…

Like it did the other night.

Now I’m being foolish. That was clearly a nightmare. I very rarely sleepwalk, but it’s happened before.

I just feel silly about this whole thing. Maybe I should put the sheet music away and just ask about the rivalry.

“Miss Wilcox?”

I lift my head, and the receptionist says, “He’ll see you now.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I take the elevator to the third floor and soon find myself in a cozy but comfortable office. Like the offices of many professors and academics I’ve known, the walls of Professor Thibodeaux’soffice is lined with bookshelves, and each bookshelf is crammed with books: textbooks, notebooks, composition books, and even large, leatherbound manuscripts that are properly described as tomes.

Louis smiles at me when I enter. “Miss Wilcox. You’re the governess for the Lacroixs, right?”

And now I realize that everything I talk to him about will get back to Josephine. I should have known better. I’ve mingled with high society before. They talk to each other.

But I’m here now. I can’t just leave. So I have to make up an innocent reason to talk to him. That means I can’t show him the sheet music.

“Yes. You saw me at the funeral for Mr. Durand.”

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