“Oh, it’s my treat. I like having people nearby, and frankly, I’m happy that Mr. Stuart has hired you. They needed to do something about that place. The Seven Sisters mansion is too beautiful to just rot into the landscape; we Mobilians need to have a bit more pride in our history here. We’ve got some real stories to tell. Did you know that the French settlers used to send little orphan girls over here to marry these backwoods French-Canadians? Poor little things. They called them the Pelican Girls because they landed on Dauphin Island in Pelican Bay. No, wait, maybe the ship was called The Pelican. Oh, I can’t remember, but there are plenty of sad stories to tell. Not the least of which are the ones from Seven Sisters, but I guess you know all about those.” Bette’s short white curls framed her round face perfectly and shook with her expressiveness.

“I don’t know a thing, really—only the facts from the brochures. I am intrigued, though.” Then I thought for a moment and asked, “Are the Stuarts an old family here in Mobile?”

Bette smiled, then launched into her story. “Well, Mrs. Stuart was actually a Hunter. They were the ones who purchased Seven Sisters sometime in the 1960s. According to my friend, Cynthia Dowd—she’s on the board of the Historical Society, and she has such lovely white hair—the families here were very excited when the Hunters purchased the property. There was a lot of work going on at Oakleigh, the antebellum over off Government Boulevard. People had hoped that the Hunters would do the same thing with Seven Sisters, but nothing happened. Emily Stuart died sometime around 1985, I think. After that, things just quieted down. That was such a sad affair. That little boy, Ashland, was so brave. He didn’t have a soul to depend on. Not counting all the family that came out of the woodwork. Imagine, so young and so much money, of course. Still he’s got a good head on his shoulders. Cynthia has bent over backwards to introduce him to her niece—poor cross-eyed girl. He’s come to a few of our luncheons and talked about the old house. What a stir he caused. I can’t understand why he’s not married yet.” Bette sipped her coffee from the chipped china cup and stood to look out the window.

Before I could ask anything else, the cuckoo clock on the wall signaled the half hour, kicking me into business mode. “I have to run. I can’t be late, not good for the first day on a new job. Is there anything I can do to help clean up?” I rose from the vinyl-padded chair and carried my dishes to the sink. I wasn’t used to anyone cooking for me, much less washing my dishes.

“Oh, no. I’ve got this little meal under control. I’ll make biscuits tomorrow. Maybe you’ll tell me what you find. I wish I could explore that old home. Such sadness, I bet.”