Here are a couple of sketches written about Lucy Audubon. I was reading biographies when I wrote this post, by way of background.
Rebecca — a sketch
She is the daughter of a plantation owner in Louisiana. Her mother has hired Lucy as a tutor.
Rebecca’s even temper had a notable exception. She hated her younger sister — all that flashing warmth and dimples and approval. How without even trying she drew people to her, and not just any people, but young men, men with properties and approving parents. Sarah’s problem would not be attracting a husband, but rather trying to decide between the possibilities. The blonde tresses didn’t help either. Rebecca’s thick auburn hair by comparison seemed if not a liability, at least dull. Sarah had delicate wrists and a tiny waist and pinched her lips into a heart when trying to remember something — as if the cuteness of her pucker could compensate for the flimsiness of her mind. Rebecca stood a head taller than Sarah and tended toward sturdiness and rarely made a joke.
Of course, Rebecca capitalized on being the serious, thoughtful daughter, the one on whom her father could rely. Some comfort. Her mother kept a running inventory of fault and seemed to count “not being Sarah” as a fault. “Maybe you should ride that roan a little less often,” she’d admonish, as if avoiding horses would make her more willowy and compliant. It didn’t seem to register that Sarah also happened to be an accomplished equestrian. What girl of means in Beech Bayou was not? Her mother’s superficiality made her blind to Rebecca’s strengths, blind to matters beyond appearances and wealth and land. Eldest sons in the area, she kept apprised of. What interested Rebecca did not register at all.
And so, when Lucy was hired as a tutor in the fall of 18xx, it was with more than a little relief that Rebecca found herself a star. The makeshift classroom housed Sarah and her and a half dozen of their neighbors’ daughters. Even before the tutor took up residence in the little cabin past the alfalfa fields, Rebecca had found refuge in literature and history. The great British poets, biographies penned by Plutarch. But with Lucy’s attentive tutelage, she found her horizons widened, her intellect sharpened, and more importantly, she found herself recognized. She was a person of worth!
Lucy was too professional to let any preferences show, just as Rebecca well-hid her weary contempt for her younger sister. But they both found small and subtle ways to convey a warm mutual regard. Rebecca knew she was the favorite.
In the Early Dark
In the early dark, Lucy reached for him and found only the cool of the sheets and then remembered. A sick feeling. How Mrs. Rankin barged in late last night and caught them in passionate embrace! Apparently, a slave had seen James crossing the lawn towards the cottage sometime after midnight and awakened his mistress. They did not knock. The two of them stood in the doorway, illuminated by lantern light looking like ghouls from the Underworld. Mrs. Rankin shrieked – my Lord! You’d think she’d been struck or stung by venom.
Alone hours later, Lucy ran a finger across her collar bones remembering the ugly intrusion. How she’d sat up in horrified dismay holding the covers up to her neck as if there had been any dignity left to protect.
Much as Lucy would prefer never to see her employer again, she had no choice. But now Mrs. Rankin’s entitlement rankled more than ever. Acting as if Lucy living in her schoolhouse cottage and tutoring her daughters gave her broad and sweeping access to Lucy’s private life was almost too much to bear. And the judgment! Back in her day, did she not clutch at Master Rankin in the dark? Find herself surprised by pleasure? Perhaps not, come to think on it.
Tying the strings of her petticoat, buttoning her frock, brushing her hair, Lucy tried to restore herself — returning what was private to their hidden places beneath cloth. And James? In his rush to leave, he’d said only that he would head south, “into the bayou.” He’d dwell, Lucy presumed, somewhere else until such time as the stink and shame of Mrs. Rankin’s intrusion passed. Would it pass? Apart from the distasteful encounter, there was this: Lucy had once again lost her husband to the wilds. It hardly mattered that this time he ran away from something rather than towards something. He was, once again, absent. Lucy had no doubt his beloved birds would come to his rescue — distractions and passions not afforded her.
After a quick succession of taps, Nelly entered.
“Laundry day, Missus.” She nodded toward the bed. The slave’s quick look down told Lucy that she knew. Either Mrs. Rankin had told her or more likely, the man with the lantern had passed along the gossip. Then again, maybe she’d been roused by the shrieks and seen James slinking off, his crown of thick curls catching the moonlight. If so, she must have wondered at his haste, how he trotted along on his horse with only one arm in his jacket, head turning back in a gesture of fear and regret.
Regarding the linens? She could have at it! Let them be boiled in lye, rinsed, and freshened by sunlight! A literal washing away of the shameful taint.
Life went on.
That morning after lessons – today the Anglo Saxon and Norman invasions of Great Britain — the girls and Lucy headed to their favorite picnic spot. East of the classroom cottage and up on a slight knoll, grew one of the oldest live oaks on the plantation. A landmark. Lucy snapped open a damask cloth under its broad branches and behind the veils of Spanish moss. On occasion, they liked to sit there, have a few savories, and take in the view, enjoying whatever coolness the shade had to offer. The bugs pestered them but they made do, waving fans and hankies, laughter in between. The older girls were restless that day and for a change, Lucy knew why. The upcoming year-end celebration. Festivities being planned. But more, the engagement parties that would follow in quick succession.
Rebecca stood tall and sturdy and looked at the world like a puzzle to be solved. Calm. Deliberate. Perhaps her point of view was unusual for a plantation owner’s daughter, most of whom seemed to consider life a banquet being served them, the sole weight of decision being what to consume first. Quick at sums as well as Latin, there was no doubt that Rebecca would run a household with graceful efficiency, unlike the stiff and artless matron, her mother. That woman’s cold dictatorial brittleness endeared her to none.
Above photo attribution
