Page 9 of Junie

Chapter Nine

Muh is sitting inside the cookhouse as expected, her back leaning against the brick wall as she repairs a loose seam on one of Mrs. McQueen’s many identical day dresses. After examining the valet’s arm, she squeezes past Auntie Marilla to collect an onion and salt, grinding the ingredients into a paste that she applies to his stings. Despite the frenetic movement of Auntie Marilla and Bess around the kitchen, preparing and plating trays of food for dinner, Muh glides through the cookhouse as though she repels fiery skillets and hot plates. It’s a quality that has always perplexed Junie; the way in which, despite the visible signs of her aging, her grandmother seems to be planted in one place and time, bending and moving with the breeze but ultimately rooted. Minnie seemed to have acquired this trait, while Junie assumes she caught her wild streak elsewhere, whether it was from her dead father, her lost mother, or even her aged Granddaddy.

Once Muh settles the coachman on the cookhouse bench with his medicine and some ice, she picks up her sewing.

“So I s’pose you’re gonna tell me how this happened now? Because I heard you were meant to be helping with the service. Come to find you walking around with this fellow, bitten and dirty like a wild dog. You got anything to say for yourself?”

“I messed up my maid’s dress.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I went to get the cat in the rainstorm.”

Muh looks up from her sewing, raising her eyes at Junie in confusion.

“Well…it was raining real bad; I didn’t want to leave him…”

“See, Junie, I told you—” Bess starts before being stopped by Muh’s hand.

“Bess, am I talking to you? Go help your momma and keep quiet.” Muh turns back to her sewing.

“Is he all right, then?”

“Who?” Junie says, a spark of fear running through her veins.

“The cat.”

“He’s fine. Just wet.”

“Mhmm. And how did you find yourself with this man here? Don’t seem proper to me, considering you’d promised me you weren’t gonna be in those woods anymore.”

“Ma’am, that was my fault,” Caleb jumps in. “You see, your granddaughter saw me right near a beehive. She came over quick as to help me, but I’d gone and leaned into the branch and broken the hive by the time she got here. If it weren’t for her and her bee charming, I ain’t sure where I’d be. Nothing improper about it.”

Muh purses her lips, looking at her finished stitches before breaking the thread between her teeth. Junie holds her breath and trains her eyes on the floor, unsure of how her grandmother will react.

“That’s the truth, Junie?” Muh says.

Junie lifts her head and nods.

“Yes, ma’am, like he said. I was walking from the cabin, and saw him lean on the beehive. That’s all.”

“Well,” Muh says with a sigh, leaning against the wall. “I can’t say I’m sure, but I don’t intend to worry myself anymore knowing you’re safe. Now you,” she says, turning toward the coachman. “It’s not Christian to treat guests like liars, so I’ll extend my hospitality to hold you to your word. But if I find you’re lying about the whereabouts of either you or my granddaughter, don’t think I’ll hesitate to speak. Your time at Bellereine can be a whole lot more uncomfortable than a few bee stings.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a nod. “I don’t intend to cause any trouble.”

“Mhm. Well, I’m certain y’all both have business to attend to in the house. It’s about dinnertime, and since it’s a fancy affair I assume the white folks will be needing you to help them dress. Junie, go on and lead Mr…. Mr…. What’s your name, boy?”

“Caleb.”

“Yes, show Mr. Caleb where he’ll need to go. And, boy, make sure you keep that arm covered under your sleeves tonight. Don’t want to put anybody off the food Marilla’s worked on since before day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Junie and Caleb say in unison.

—

First her run-in with Caleb in the woods.

Then a tense healing session with Muh.

And now, pulling the fan rope through the whole white folks’ dinner.

Junie prays that company never comes to Bellereine again.

She presses her back into the parlor’s blue wall, hoping that somehow it will pull her inside like a pond.

The parlor is Bellereine’s crown jewel. The room is outfitted with false Ionic columns and a frieze of white roses along the molding. On the ceiling dangles a long chandelier, each of its six candles covered with a glass bulb. The concert grand piano, a massive mahogany instrument bought by the former master on his first trip to Europe after striking it rich in the cotton business, sits in the center of the room, its legs carved into rose vines and its foot pedals made of gold. Muh once told Junie the piano was worth more than the house itself. As a girl, she used to peer inside to see if piles of money lay underneath the wires.

The McQueens and Taylors settle themselves on pastel-blue sofas as Bess and Granddaddy serve them each coffee, tea, and shortbread biscuits to end the evening. Mr. McQueen pulls a flask from his jacket pocket, pouring a hefty swig of brown liquid into his coffee. Violet perches next to her mother on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap. She reaches for a coffee only to be reprimanded by her mother with a deft, searing glance. The Taylors take everything they are served; while Mr. Taylor laps the coffee and cookies like a starved dog, Miss Taylor eats with a subtle grimace, as though remembering all the times she’s had much better food and drink.

“So, tell us, Mr. Taylor, how long have you been in Alabama?” Mrs. McQueen asks.

“Since July, at our Uncle Henry Taylor’s invitation. He thought it fit to show me how to be a proper planter.”

“Planter lessons, huh?” Mr. McQueen laughs, jolted out of his drunken stupor. “My father started me on those when I was knee-high to a grasshopper.”

“I’m certain he did, Mr. McQueen, which is how you came by such an enviable estate. Bea and I come from humble merchants; our father buys up cotton here and sells it to France and England. It would have been something to grow up in a place like this.”

“So you enjoy Alabama, then?” Mrs. McQueen says.

“Oh yes. There’s something about the country that just gets right to your heart. I can’t persuade my sister here to see that, though; she thinks there ain’t much to do other than sew needlepoints and flounce around at barbecues.”

Miss Taylor rolls her lips and cracks her fan open.

“Well, I can’t say that I disagreed with Miss Taylor when I first arrived in Alabama from England. It can be quite a change of pace, but it grows on you,” Mrs. McQueen says. “By the way, Miss Taylor, that is a truly fine dress. Violet, don’t you agree Miss Taylor’s dress is lovely?”

Junie hates to agree with the mistress. Like the riding dress from her arrival, Miss Taylor’s dinner gown gleams in the light.

“Yes, it is quite fine, Miss Taylor,” Violet says.

“Thank you,” Miss Taylor replies, eyes cast beneath her fan.

“Violet’s dress is from a fine dressmaker in New Orleans, isn’t it, Mr. McQueen?” Mrs. McQueen says.

“Oh yes! Picked it up at Madame Dubois just off Bourbon Street. Cost me a mint, but I only like the best for my girl. Miss Taylor, I would assume you acquired that fine gown there, as well?”

“I’m afraid not,” Miss Taylor says. “This was made in Paris, and the silk came from the Far East. It’s the only place they make this shade of cobalt. I won’t do much shopping in New Orleans if I can help—”

“What a lovely piano you have, sir,” Mr. Taylor interrupts. “How’d you come by such a thing?”

“Oh um, yes,” Mr. McQueen exclaims. “To tell you the truth, I ain’t got a damn clue!” He finishes with a chuckle and a barely concealed belch. Miss Taylor hardly hides her disgust behind her fan.

“Oh, don’t mind him, he’s always telling these sorts of jokes,” Mrs. McQueen says with a choked laugh. “It belonged to his father, made and brought over as a wedding present from London. He was very fond of music.”

Junie’s skin crawls. She didn’t expect Mr. McQueen to behave so poorly in front of guests. Violet has balled a fist behind her back, her fingers digging into the skin. But Mr. Taylor is unmoved. He smiles back at Mrs. McQueen, his teeth straight and twinkling in the candlelight.

“Well, it is just lovely. We like our music, of course, although only Bea knows what’s what. I’m just tapping my foot along.”

The mistress kicks Violet’s ankle, nudging her to speak.

“Uh, Miss Taylor, what sort of music do you enjoy?”

Miss Taylor lowers her fan, a glint of mischief in her eye. “I like opera. The Salle Le Peletier in Paris is absolutely dipped in gold. Oh, and the music, the costumes, the singing! It makes me tear up to think about it. But, I’m sure you’ve never heard any opera around here.”

Violet meets Miss Taylor’s gaze, and Junie catches the familiar sparkle of vengeance in her eyes.

“No, Miss Taylor, I can’t say that I have,” she says and smiles.

Junie restrains a smirk. Violet has read every book on opera she can get her hands on. What is she planning?

“ Comme c’est triste. It’s not your fault, I’m sure it’s nearly impossible to come by any culture out here. Maybe one day you’ll be lucky enough to get a taste of a city, even if it is a shabby one like New Orleans.”

“If I could only be so lucky, Miss Taylor.”

“Miss McQueen is a rather accomplished player,” Mrs. McQueen explains. “Go on, Violet, play for our guests!”

“I wouldn’t know what to play…”

“Choose what you like,” Miss Taylor says, tilting her head and folding her arms over her waist.

“Yes, dear, anything you believe will please our guests,” Mrs. McQueen says.

Violet smooths her dress and saunters to the piano. Junie watches as the rosiness in her cheeks fades, giving way to a pallid expression.

“Junie?” Violet calls from across the room as she sits on the bench.

“Vi—Miss Violet?”

“Come turn my pages, will you?”

Junie treads across the room to stand by Violet’s side, helping her select and straighten the sheet music on the stand.

“I want to wipe that haughty grin right off her face,” Violet whispers.

Violet’s fingers tremble on the ivory keys as she begins. Her playing and singing are tentative at first, a finger slipping here and there in a way it wouldn’t without an audience. As she finishes the introduction, she sings German lyrics to match the movement of her fingers. Even though Junie has heard Violet play hundreds of times, the sound of her voice sends a chill down her spine.

Junie peers around the room. Bess and Granddaddy stand at attention on the opposite end. While Violet’s mother and father are distracted, if not visibly bored, Mr. Taylor sways along with her song like a child in church. His sister is frozen in place, her eyes fixed on Violet, her lips parted.

Violet finishes the song with a flourish, and Mr. Taylor leaps to applaud, as Mr. and Mrs. McQueen follow. Miss Taylor reaches for her fan.

“Transfixing, Miss McQueen, absolutely transfixing!” Mr. Taylor exclaims. “Can’t say I know the tune, but boy, you play it great!”

“?‘La Mort d’Ophélie,’?” Miss Taylor says.

“What’s that, Bea?”

“The song is called ‘La Mort d’Ophélie.’?”

“See, I told you my sister knows more about music than I do. Play something else, won’t you, Miss McQueen?”

“Something happier this time,” Mrs. McQueen says. “We don’t want to ruin the cheerful mood.”

Violet beams before retrieving another song, this time an upbeat tune.

“This one’s short; I can do the pages myself, Junie,” she says.

Junie nods, slipping back into her place at the rear of the room. Violet’s next song is as beautiful as the first. Mr. Taylor listens attentively, while Miss Taylor again stares incredulously. It fills Junie with pride.

And desperation.

“Your girl is quite the player, Delilah June.” Junie jumps and turns to see Caleb smiling, arms crossed over his livery. “Not as good as me, though.”

“Don’t you have someplace to be?” Junie says.

“I was helping your auntie and grandmother in the cookhouse. They are much friendlier than you are, I might add. They sent me here to check on things.”

“Stop talking so much. I’m trying to listen.”

Violet finishes her second song and immediately transitions to a third.

“He likes her, you know,” Caleb says.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve known Taylor long enough. He doesn’t look at every young lady like that. Certainly doesn’t hurt that she’s a planter’s daughter.”

“Planter?”

“Means a white man who got land, like your Mr. McQueen.”

“Don’t all white men got land?”

“Not in New Orleans. See, the Taylors are merchants; they got money, but they ain’t got proper land. Land’s everything to the white folks.”

“What’s Violet got to do with that?”

“Well, the way I see it, if Taylor marries Miss McQueen here, Taylor would secure this whole plantation when Mr. McQueen meets the Lord Almighty. Would make him not only a rich merchant, but a planter with two plantations in the best cotton-growing land in all the South. Gosh, you Alabamians really are some hayseeds.”

“I don’t see what Violet gets in that deal,” Junie says.

“Other than a husband, two plantations, and buckets of money until the day she dies?”

As Junie considers this, Violet plays the final crescendo, and the room applauds. When Mr. Taylor sits down from his standing ovation, Caleb walks over and whispers in his ear.

“My boy Caleb here has informed me that supper is ready in the cookhouse,” Mr. Taylor says. “Mrs. McQueen, I ain’t too sure how you like to run things around here, so I’ll defer to you on what you’d like the servants to do.”

“Well then,” Mrs. McQueen says. “Bess, Tom, Junie, you can take your leave. We all ought to retire for the evening shortly, anyway. I’m sure Mr. and Miss Taylor are in need of rest after their travels.”

“I’ll have my boy Caleb come on up with me,” Mr. Taylor says, “but it is my hope Miss McQueen will entertain us all with another song or two first.”

Violet smiles demurely. Caleb nods, his jaw stiff.

Junie curtsies and says good night, sharing a parting wink with Violet. As she steps out, she notices Miss Taylor fixed in place, eyes on Violet.