wildly one night for no reason the family could discern, and from then on, she spoke no more. It was spring, the eve before Easter Sunday. Marcelle returned to the cookhouse to prepare the lamb. She sat alone before the lamb, stared off, and died, having no one to tell. No one to understand. It wasn’t Madame Sylvie who condescended to accept Marcelle’s friendship, but Marcelle who reached down to bring society to the poor isolated woman. Marcelle, an enslaved woman. Daughter of a French diplomat.
Lily’s boys were growing fast. Soon, her days as wet nurse to the Master’s son would end and she would return to the cane field, her son at her ankles. She sat out on the back porch nursing the boy, Byron, on a warm spring morning. Lily wasn’t the type to enjoy the natural things around her: the chirping of birds, the determination of crocuses to push up out of the earth. But that morning, something she had taken for granted made her take notice and listen. The sudden absence of familiar sounds alerted the young mother that something wasn’t right in the cookhouse. Lily had been accustomed to a clattering of busy that seeped out onto the back porch daily in sounds and smells, through the one small window of the cookhouse. Dishes. Hacking. Chopping. Crackling. Even the shuffle of age as the fancy French cook went from counter to pot racks to hearth.
Lily pulled the white child off one nipple, and instead of picking up her crying child to take his turn, she set both toddling boys in the basket, then went to see about the absence of smell and sound. It was just as her mind had supposed. Only death would keep the fancy French cook from trying to win back the favor of her maîtresse. Sure enough, Gabriel had sounded his trumpet and summoned her up before she could spear the leg of lamb to roast on the spit.
Lily moved the body out of her way. It didn’t take much. The woman had withered to bones. Later, it was believed that the fancy French cook had stopped eating. She had starved herself to death. Lily didn’t take part in the speculation. That wasn’t her way or her concern. She simply stepped in and became the cook and continued to nurse both boys. She withstood the oppression of the small area. Flames jumping from pots. The oven. She made the bread, butchered the pig roughly until she could butcher it lean, always throwing the pigs’ ears to her son and the Master’s son, Byron, to chew and grind the incoming teeth that she would reckon with when both boys cried for her milk, although at two years old, both boys were to be weaned.
Lily took no particular love in what she did in the cookhouse. This became clear to Madame, who was not up to missing her friend, but was vocal about missing her fine French cuisine—her few comforts of being held captive in the wilderness. With this new cook, there would be no French pastries, rich sauces craftily made from wines, butters, capers, and herbs. There would be no childhood memories pricking her senses when Madame placed her fork or spoon in her mouth. No. This new cook applied little if any seasonings or gravies to indicate an appreciation for taste. When Madame complained and demanded a French cook, her son said he could purchase one at auction at the St. Louis Hotel, if she told him where the gold was buried. As always, Madame didn’t blink. She turned on her heel and entered the cookhouse and told the girl to season the meat with these seasonings. To make a sauce with this wine—and how much to pour. To make a sponge cake, a pudding with brandied peaches. She said, “Most important: make the food with love.” Lily didn’t understand her and asked, “Where’s dat kep, ma’am?” Two things about the girl’s inquiry astounded Madame. Taking care of the most pressing matter first, she corrected Lily by saying, “Madame.” Madame Sylvie didn’t cotton to “ma’am.” The big girl, the one who nursed her grandchild, said, “Yes, mah damn.”
Lucien had been told by the physician to refrain from relations with his wife for yet another month after the birth of his son. That her constitution was in a delicate state after she had lost a significant amount of blood, and that she should refrain from her wifely duties until the coloring fully