​Fontaine, Louisiana

1891

Something huge will happen on this day. I feel it deep, but languid in my heart. I do not know what it is gnawing at me as I sit here at this table with my inkwell and the last of my staff paper. Every note that I write is precious, with each blot. A c-sharp here. A chord here. I am in heaven as the notes exist in my mind, and I can write them out just like that. It is times like these, when I am holed up in my room all alone, that I am grateful for my Mozartian gift.

Sextuplets over sextuplets. Rolling arpeggios that continue on and on for what feels like miles, just like the Tchefuncte River.

​My heart is full as I go over the piece of music, my heart raging on as I clap in excitement. I have successfully written the first page of music while my mother is out on the town, eating cookies and sipping on ice tea. I am here alone, save for my companion Charlotte, who is resting in the room Mother has allowed her to stay in while she is under her employ.

I told her to nap before the dinner party at Euturpe Leblanc's house anyway, so I could find a way to compose my music in complete darkness with just my gas lamp here to give me some light, even if it makes me feel ghastly after time at my desk. I feel the gas headache coming on as my temples tighten and my abdomen begins to swell with that general malaise that I can only attribute to extended time at the desk.

If only I could compose at the piano, but alas, I cannot on account of my mother. She always knows when I have been at the piano, and even hiding it is futile now.

I am about to put my music away to find a good hiding spot in my home when I hear knocking at the door.

​ "Come in," I say.

​ But it is not Charlotte's usual rhythmic knocking of Frederic Chopin's Marche Funebre. My insides swell. I did not even have time to hide it all. The door flings open as my mother's ice-cold blue eyes stare upon my person.

​ "Mother." I swallow hard against my constricting throat. "You look b-beautiful today."

​ She frowns, eyeing me up and down as she clicks her tongue, shaking her head in the process. Mother walks up toward me, extending a long, slender finger.

​ "Show it to me, Marie." She extends her palm. "Now."

​ "You are home early," I say, chuckling as the heat rises up to my neck. "I wasn't expecting you home for another hour, Mother."

​ "The Pepper Society adjourned sooner than I thought in lieu of the party tonight. And what have we discussed, Marie? Show it to me now." She claps her hands, the sound like a white beam.

​ "I do not care about what we have discussed, Mother. This music is my soul!"

​ "Not anymore, it is not. This must stop. If you are going to be the next Mrs. Leblanc, because trust me, no daughter of mine is going to wither away and compose music."

​ "Clara Schumann did it," I say, frowning as I look up at her. "And she had Robert —"

​ "Schumann?" She scoffs. "And you think you're cut from the same cloth as her, Marie? She had luck on her side. You? You are nothing. Your music is useless. Nothing but dense chords and disgusting motifs. Give it to me now."

​ "I refuse." I pick it up from the desk; the ink is still wet on the page, yet I still hold onto it for dear life. I can hear the music also crying in protest. I can almost imagine the music lifting up its arms to cling to my bosom. It does not want to part from me as much as I do not wish to give it up.

​ "I will not give you my music, Mother."

​ "You are to get yourself well prepared for the party," she says, sticking her finger into my shoulder. "Euterpe Leblanc would be so disappointed in you, Marie. The state of you in a gown stained with ink."

​ I hear the dark-brown molasses in my mother's tone of voice as it spreads, thick and viscous all around me. I do not know why my mind does this sort of trick on me so that I can see the color of her voice and taste it, even.

​ "I know you want that nephew of hers, whoever he is to Miss Leblanc, to latch onto me."

​ Nicholas Leblanc. The only nephew of Euterpe who owns the seafood empire and intends to move from Grand Isle to Fontaine. His new home will be one of the largest in town. I am sure that he is as large as his fancy home, and his breath reeks of fish and shrimp. I can only imagine his rotten teeth as he smiles at me.

Such a disgusting sight. I have written to him before because Mother made me. Insipid words in reply. Nothing inspiring.

​ He is nothing like my best friend James Moreau, who is the only man who awakens me whenever he walks in the room, and I only hope that he feels the same for me. Now that he is out of mourning, I will tell him tonight that I love him.

​ "I have hope that James Moreau will accept my love confession tonight, Mother. I do not want Leblanc. I want James."

​ She lets out a sigh that is like dark silver that's been freshly polished. "And be a full-time mother to a brood of six daughters? You cannot even dress yourself. Stains and all. Give me the music."

​ "No!" I cry out, taking a step back. "Please not again, Mother. I promise I will not write anything else again. Just let me have this one. I feel as if the Muses themselves whispered to me. I can publish it and send it off to those people in Europe. People will be playing it one day and all of our —"

She rips the music out of my hand, and already she is in the drawing room as I run out into the hallway, feeling my stomach turn to nothing but jam preserves and biscuits from this morning's breakfast. I have worked too hard for this and saved up money for the sheet music.

​ "Mother, no!" I see her standing in front of the fireplace.

​ That thing has become my worst enemy. It has been the one thing here that has both heard and digested my music time after time. The wood in the fireplace crackles as the notes scream, consuming my music whole. The sextuplets fall into the fire that mocks, laughs at me as the flames burgeon brighter.

​ "My music," I scream and let out a sob as I bring myself to my knees and reach out for the one thing I can no longer hold in my hands.

​ "It is only paper," my mother says, stoking the fire. "Nothing else. If you stuck to knitting or sewing as I do, perhaps you would have married by now. Look at you, Marie. No man wants to be with a woman who stains her dresses with ink every day. You look like a child learning how to write. Get out of here and change." She huffs. "Wear your best for Euterpe Leblanc's nephew. Do not even think of charming Moreau."

​ "I will wear what I want. And there is nothing you can do to stop me. I will wake up Charlotte now. I am shocked that she slept through the entire ordeal."

​

My mother's lips curl as her nostrils flare. "Knowing you, who could blame her?"

​ I open my mouth to say something, but I stop myself because Mother would turn from Jekyll to Hyde if I so much as utter the phrase I wish to. If I am to go to this party, I will do it on my own terms. Mother thinks that Euterpe will be disappointed in me? I reckon that she will be. I can already see the devastation oozing out of her pores when she sees me there, and I will stand there helpless.

​ I stand in front of Charlotte's room after knocking the rhythm that has become our secret language. For me, it's Chopin's Winter Wind. But she does not answer. Is she still sleeping?

​ "Charlotte," I call out from the other side. "Have you awakened yet?"

​ When there is no answer, I open the door and peer in, seeing the bare room with just a bed and a nightstand — just the way my mother dictates how Charlotte's room should be, as she really is nothing more than someone in her employ. But there is no sign of her anywhere. Her bed, perfectly made with the dark-red quilt her mother fashioned for her, has a lone dark-brown teddy bear resting against a solitary pillow.

​ Where is she? A note rests atop her nightstand as I reach for it. Sure enough, she would write a note such as this. Was Mother that horrible that Charlotte had to sneak out to Lake Pontchartrain without me?

​ Gone for a walk out to the lake. How on God's green earth do you survive the woman you call Mother? I will be back. - C

​ "What are you doing here, Marie?" My mother's voice resonates as I crumple up the note and hide it behind my back.

​ Mother will certainly dismiss Charlotte if she sees the note. Such an affront will not be tolerated. I can already hear her saying that to me as I envision Charlotte walking down my front yard with all of her effects. I cannot let that happen.

​ "I was trying to wake up Charlotte. But I suppose she left to go out, Mother. She should return."

​ "Do not worry yourself about her. Get yourself dressed. And do not wear anything, and I mean anything, out of place. Last time you were the talk of the Pepper Society for days, and their gossip flies all the way to Mandeville."

​ "You could have defended my choice." I walk out of the room and look at her. "You are in that horrible society." I stiffen as she looks at me with flat lips and eyes that seem almost dead to me. She turns her back to face the window.

​ "One day you will understand, Marie," she says, spreading her arms against the windowsill as she leans forward. "The world does not bend for you. You must assimilate."

​ And assimilation? That is the word that I have heard ever since my father died seven years ago in 1884, the best and worst year of my life. When we had moved here to Fontaine on account of my father's health, he faded day by day until he was gone. And I met James Moreau for the first time right underneath the oak tree by our homes on the day we moved here from New Orleans. James is now all I have in this world. My very best friend and my other half. With my music gone, I have nothing left to live for. I was sure that would be the one to send to European publishers and see if they would accept or reject my music. But now I cannot. How can I devote five weeks' worth of writing again? I have nothing else to do but go to the armoire and choose the best thing for today's party. My black funeral gown. I look out the window and see Charlotte walking up the path.