With a start I realized we were nearing the turn from the highway onto the Ducote estate. The driveway wound through an acre of trees vivid with autumn hues of red, yellow, and orange. After a sharp bend in the road the house came into sight, the last hundred yards or so of the drive was bordered by huge, ancient oak trees. When we cleared the trees, I could see the house more clearly.

The builder of River Hill, Beauregard Ducote, chose the Greek Revival style, much in vogue in the 1830s when the house was erected. Tall columns stretched across the front of the three-story house. Larger than many of its contemporaries, River Hill featured galleries around both upper floors. The view from there would be stunning, I was sure. The white paint of the house glistened in the late-afternoon sunlight, but shadows from the tall oaks crept ever closer.

Diesel followed closely by my side as I strode up the walk and onto the verandah. In answer to my knock, the door opened almost immediately. Miss Dickce smiled and bade us enter.

The interior of River Hill appeared as elegant as the exterior. A grand staircase led to the upper stories, and the marble floor, where it was bare of antique rugs, gleamed in the light.

“Welcome to River Hill, Charlie, Diesel.”

Miss An’gel approached us through a door to my right and extended her hand. I shook it gently, then released it as she switched her attention to my cat.

The preliminaries of petting Diesel out of the way, we followed the elder Ducote sister into the front parlor. The room reminded me somewhat of the parlor at the Delacorte mansion, simply but beautifully furnished with period pieces. Several portraits and small paintings graced the walls. Miss An’gel invited me to sit in an armchair that proved sturdy despite its delicate appearance. The slender, highly polished arms felt smooth and cool to my touch, and the cushioned seat was surprisingly comfortable.

The Ducotes occupied a nearby sofa close to the fireplace, leaving room for Diesel to spread himself between them. He placed his head in Miss An’gel’s lap, while his tail flopped across Miss Dickce’s legs. The sisters appeared happy with this arrangement, though I winced to think how much cat hair they would have to remove later on from their black dresses.

Miss An’gel pointed to the portrait over the fireplace. “Our ancestor, Beauregard Ducote, who built River Hill.”

I gazed with interest at the gentleman. I had heard his name often enough but had never seen an image of him. From what I could discern from the artist’s vision, Beauregard Ducote was a man of intelligence. Handsome, with a strong nose and an easy smile. Both the sisters favored their ancestor. “Who was the artist?”

“C. R. Parker,” Miss Dickce replied. “He was quite well-known in the antebellum South. He had a studio in New Orleans.”

“As I recall he received a commission for some portraits in the Louisiana Capitol in the 1820s.” I saw some of Parker’s works in an exhibition a few years ago.