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I head downstairs for dinner with a somewhat better command of my thoughts. It’s hypocritical of me to travel to New Orleans on the strength of a vision connected to a concert flyer only to dismiss Josephine’s behavior around Marcel’s piano as unimportant, but I can rationalize my decision to come here based on the fact that my repressed memories have come to the forefront before in meaningful ways. Perhaps the same thing is occurring now. I can’t rationalize interpreting Jospehine’s offhanded comment in front of a stranger as meaning that she murdered her husband.

So I reach the dining room focused only on meeting Josephine’s son and two grandchildren, the latter of which I’ll be caring for in my capacity as governess. As I near the dining room, I hear what sounds like an argument between Josephine and an adult man I assume is Etienne.

“Of what importance is legacy when we face ruin?” Etienne asks.

Josephine scoffs. “Oh please, you always exaggerate. We are nowhere near ruin.”

“The club hasn’t made money in years, Mother. Not since—”

“Hush. I think I hear her.”

A moment later, the door opens, and Josephine smiles at me. “Mary! Come on in. You’re just in time. Philippa is just about to serve the hors d’oeuvres. Children? Stand, be polite.”

I step inside to see a tall, dark-haired man with aquiline features standing in between two twelve-year-old children. One of the children, the girl, is tall and dark-haired like her father with the same aquiline nose. The other, the boy is shorter with blonde hair and round features with an adorable, upturned nose and strikingly bright blue eyes. It is clear that they aren’t identical twins. I assume the boy takes after his mother.

The father smiles at me and extends his hand. “How do you do, Miss Mary? I’m Etienne Lacroix, Josephine’s son.”

“She knows all that, Etienne. Introduce her to the children.”

Etienne starts to roll his eyes but stops. “Of course, Mother.” He gestures to his daughter. “My daughter, Amelia.”

She steps forward, extending her hand and boldly saying, “How do you do, Miss Mary?”

I smile and bow slightly as I take her hand. “I am well, thank you, Amelia. And how are you?”

“I’m good.” She quickly corrects herself. “Well.”

Etienne smiles tenderly at her, then lays his hand on his son’s shoulder. “This is Gabriel, my son.”

Amelia rolls her eyes. “Well, obviously he’s your son.”

“Amelia, hush,” Josephine says without a trace of anger.

Gabriel says nothing, but he takes my hand when I offer it. “It’s lovely to meet you too, Gabriel.”

“He doesn’t talk much,” Amelia informs me. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you. He’s just a little shy.”

“That’s perfectly all right. I’m shy too.”

She cocks her head. “You don’t look shy.”

“I’ve had many years to practice looking that way,” I tell her with a wink.

The door to the kitchen opens and a pretty young woman in her late twenties walks into the room with a plate of breaded shrimp wrapped in puff pastry. There’s a name for this dish, I’m sure, but it eludes me at the moment.

We sit to eat, and I notice that the servant—Philippa, I assume—blushes deeply whenever she’s around Etienne. For his part, he seems not to notice her attraction. I can’t tell if that’s because he truly doesn’t see it, or if he ignores it out of politeness. Or perhaps he ignores it because he doesn’t want his mother to know he returns the feelings.

Amelia notices, however. As soon as Philippa leaves, she leans to me and whispers, “She likes Dad, but she’s afraid to tell him. She thinks he won’t like her because she’s a servant.”

I lift an eyebrow. “That is an interesting observation,” I reply, “However, it’s not polite to whisper about others behind their back.”

Amelia receives her correction with good grace. “Okay, Mary.”

“And in any case,” Etienne adds, “Philippa is an employee of your grandmother’s, a very valued one. We shouldn’t be spreading rumors about her.”

“Why don’t you like her back?” Amelia asks. “She’s pretty.”

“That is not a conversation for dinner, Amelia,” Josephine corrects, with slightly more irritation than her earlier reprimand.

Amelia once more lets the reproof roll off her back. “Yes, Grandma.”

“Have you told Mary the story about the piano?” Etienne asks.

Josephine tenses slightly. “I haven’t gotten around to it. I wanted to allow Mary to get settled before we bore her with tales of family history.”

“Oh please,” I say, “I’d love to hear it.”

I say that only to be polite to Etienne. Well, not only to be polite. I notice how Josephine tenses, and I’m curious to know why. But I don’t really need to hear the story. I know it already.

“Well, it was actually made for J.D. Rockefeller.”

He looks expectantly at me, and I feign surprise. “Really? The J.D. Rockefeller?”

Etienne grins, pleased at my shock. “Is there any other? Well, Mr. Rockefeller bought the piano for entertaining, of course, and would hire musicians to play for him at his parties. When he died, the estate donated it to the Musee Musique here in New Orleans. They owned it for many years, but when my father was twelve years old, he sneaked into the display and began to play. I believe the piece was a Nocturne by Chopin, but I could be wrong. Anyway, his playing was so soulful that the museum director allowed my grandfather to purchase the instrument at a steep discount.”

“I hardly think two hundred fifty thousand dollars is a steep discount,” Josephine says, “especially fifty-three years ago.”

“It is when the instrument is worth over ten million,” Etienne counters.

“Oh please, there’s no way it’s worth that much. Just because Rockefeller owned it?”

“Your grandfather clock has never been owned by anyone of note, but weren’t you offered eight million dollars for it by that collector in Boston? To the right people, that piano is just as much a work of art.”

Josephine purses her lips, frustrated at being beaten. There can be no mistake now at the animosity she feels when hearing of the piano. But it cannot be a simple instrument that causes her to feel such vitriol. I wonder what lies behind that feeling?

"My father would allow no one else to touch that piano," he says, "not that anyone else dared to try. I still remember growing up listening to him play. He became famous as a jazz pianist, of course, but that was by choice. He could have played anything he wanted and become world-renowned. Some people have a connection to music that goes beyond talent. It's a visceral thing, spiritual. It comes from their very soul."

The memory—if that’s what it is—of Annie with her saxophone comes back to mind. I can see as though she stands right in front of me, the furrow of her brow, the earnest pout of her lips, the tension in her shoulders—not stiffness, but a lithe energy, like a snake prepared to strike or a wave about to crash onto the shore. “I believe I understand.”

He smiles sadly. “No, you don’t. No one understands unless they feel it. Not even me.”

“That’s rude, isn’t it, Dad?” Amelia crows triumphantly. “Telling her she doesn’t understand like that.”

Etienne replies tolerantly. “Yes, it is. Forgive me, Mary.”

His eyes look past me as he says this, though. I see in his expression the deep love he has for his father and the deep sadness he still feels at his passing. I glance at Josephine to see her shoulders up by her ears, tension that is absolutely stiffness and nothing like lithe energy. Maybe she’s jealous of the love Etienne feels for his father. I imagine it must be difficult to live in the shadow of a great artist like Marcel Lacroix and even more difficult when one’s children worship that artist and not you.

Philippa returns, this time with oysters on the half-shell served in ice with lemons and chili powder in a dish on the side.

“You must forgive us,” Josephine says, “We are a New Orleans family to the core, and that includes our fascination with spice.”

“No need to be sorry,” I reply, “Although I hope you’ll forgive me if I partake only modestly.”

“Of course, of course. I asked Philippa to make the jambalaya mild with hot sauce on the side just in case.”

I feel an odd relief when I hear we’re having jambalaya for the main course. I am used to fancy dinners, but I am not so fancy an eater myself. The fanciest thing I make at my own home is freshly baked crumpets to enjoy with my tea.

The arrival of the appetizers breaks the spell Marcel’s ghost holds over the table, and the conversation turns to more mundane matters.

“The children have music lessons from seven to nine every morning prior to breakfast,” Etienne tells me. “They’re very good at waking up on time, so you shouldn’t have any trouble on that front.”

“I’m learning violin,” Amelia says proudly. “Gabriel’s learning piano. He’s really good, but he doesn’t like to show people, so it might be a while before he plays for you.”

Gabriel reddens at his sister’s praise, but I notice a small smile as well. It’s clear that Amelia truly loves her brother. That’s good. Often when one child is outgoing and the other is reserved, there is conflict between them. I am happy to see that isn’t the case here, although I will need to work with Amelia on not speaking for Gabriel and allowing him to work up the courage to speak for himself. All things in their time, though.

“The noise won’t bother you, will it, Mary?” Josephine asks.

“Of course not. I can’t wait to hear them both play.”

“Oh good. I completely forgot to mention the early lessons.”

“Early is good,” I tell her. “We retain what we learn in the morning more easily.”

“That is the opinion of Messrs. Franz and Gilroy,” Josephine says. “Oh, that’s their instructors.”

“Mr. Franz is very good at violin,” Amelia informs me. “Mr. Gilroy’s good at piano too.”

“I’m sure they would have to be for your father and grandmother to entrust your musical education to them.”

Amelia nods. “Oh, by the way, don’t freak out if you hear music at night.”

The mood at the table instantly changes. Josephine blanches, and Etienne frowns and snaps, “That’s enough of that, Amelia.”

“What? I wasn’t going to—”

“Then don’t,” he says. To me, he explains, in a voice no less stern, “The wind blows sometimes at night, and Amelia’s imagination runs wild. I see no need to indulge such fantasies.”

The instruction is clear. I am not to indulge such fantasies.

Amelia, sensing that this instruction is more serious than her previous reproofs, hangs her head. “Yes, Dad.”

Gabriel looks down at his food, his cherubic face twisted in a pout. I’m not sure how to respond, so I only say, “I see.”

The conversation turns to lighter subjects, but now that my curiosity is piqued, I can’t help but wonder what this nighttime melody might be and what secrets it might hold.