Midnight Bayou

alight like a palace. She’d sneaked into the garden, away from her duties, because she’d wanted to see it so much. The way the gleaming white hall with its balusters like black lace stood against the starry sky, the way the windows flamed. Music had spilled out of those windows, out of the gallery doors where guests had stepped out for air.
    She’d imagined herself inside the ballroom, whirling, whirling, to the music. And so had whirled in the shadows of the garden. And, whirling, had seen Lucian watching her on the path.
    Her own fairy tale, Abby thought. The prince taking Cinderella’s hand and drawing her into a dance moments before midnight struck. She’d had no glass slipper, no pumpkin coach, but the night had turned into magic.
    She could still hear the way the music had floated out through the balcony doors, over the air, into the garden.
    “After the ball is over, after the break of morn . . .”
    She sang the refrain quietly, shifting the baby to her other breast.
    “After the dancers leaving, after the stars are gone . . .”
    They had danced to that lovely, sad song in the moonlit garden with the house a regal white and gold shadow behind them. Her in her simple cotton dress, and Lucian in his handsome evening clothes. And as such things were possible in fairy tales, they fell in love during that lovely, sad song.
    Oh, she knew it had started before that night. For her it had begun with her first glimpse of him, astride the chestnut mare he’d ridden from New Orleans to the plantation. The way the sun had beamed through the leaves and the moss on the live oaks along the allée , surrounding him like angel wings. His twin had ridden beside him—Julian—but she’d seen only Lucian.
    She’d been in the house only a few weeks then, taken on as an undermaid and doing her best to please Monsieur and Madame Manet so she might keep her position and the wages earned.
    He’d spoken to her—kindly, correctly—if they passed each other in the house. But she’d sensed him watching her. Not the way Julian watched, not with hot eyes and a smirk twisting his lips. But, she liked to think now, with a kind of longing.
    In the weeks that went by she would come upon him often. He’d sought her out. She knew that now, prized that now, as he’d confessed it to her on their wedding night.
    But it had really begun the evening of the ball. After the song had ended, he’d held her, just a moment longer. Then he bowed, as a gentleman bows to a lady. He kissed her hand.
    Then, just as she thought it was over, that the magic would dim, he tucked the hand he’d kissed into the crook of his arm. Began to walk with her, to talk with her. The weather, the flowers, the gossip of the household.
    As if they were friends, Abby thought now with a smile. As if it were the most natural thing in the world for Lucian Manet to take a turn in the garden with Abigail Rouse.
    They’d walked in the garden many nights after that. Inside the house, where others could see, they remained master and servant. But all through that heady spring they walked the garden paths as young lovers, telling each other of hopes, of dreams, of sorrows and joys.
    On her seventeenth birthday he brought her a gift, wrapped in silver paper with a bright blue bow. The enameled watch was a pretty circle dangling from the golden wings of a brooch. Time flew, he told her as he pinned the watch to the faded cotton of her dress, when they were together. And he would rather have his life wing by than spend it apart from her.
    He’d gotten down on one knee and asked her to be his wife.
    It could never be. Oh, she’d tried to tell him through the tears. He was beyond her reach, and he could have anyone.
    She remembered now how he’d laughed, how the joy had burst over his beautiful face. How could he be beyond her reach when she had his hand in hers even now? And if he could have anyone, then he would have her.
    “So now we have each other, and you,” Abby whispered and shifted the drowsing baby to her shoulder. “And if his family hates me for it, what does it matter? I make him happy.”
    She turned her face into the soft curve of the baby’s neck. “I’m learning to speak as they speak, to dress asthey dress. I will never think as they think, but for Lucian, I behave as they behave, at least when it shows.”
    Content, she rubbed the baby’s back and continued to rock. But when she heard the heavy footsteps on the stairs, the stumbling