by Dorothy Love
“I’m not sick. I’m only looking for someone. May I come in?”
The girl shrugged and stepped aside.
Charlotte went in and blanched at the horrific scene before her. Every inch of the floor was covered with mattresses and piles of blankets, upon which rested a dozen victims of the fever. Despite the open windows, the room reeked of human waste, vomit, and decaying flesh. In one corner lay a fly-covered pile of linens stained with blood and urine. In another, a small wooden stand held pitchers of water, a stack of towels, and a few white enameled basins. Beneath the front window sat a low carved wooden table and two chairs. An endless cacophony of moans, curses, and screams filled the air as patients clawed at their skin or shivered with convulsions.
Charlotte’s stomach rolled. She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and averted her gaze, concentrating on the small landscape painting hanging crookedly on the wall and then on the brown curve of river visible through the window. Anything to keep from looking at the misery surrounding her.
Two nuns moved serenely among the afflicted, pausing to wipe drool and vomit from slack mouths, speaking a word here and there, touching fevered foreheads, and doling out medicine. As the young German girl passed among them with her pitcher and compresses, the patients begged for water, for laudanum, for death.
Charlotte felt lightheaded. So this was how her own mother had died—writhing in agony, begging for death’s sweet release. All her life her father had refused to supply even the barest details of her mother’s last days. She had resented his sending her away from her mother’s sickbed, resented the stubborn silence that had seemed his way of keeping her mother all for himself. Now she realized not knowing had been a blessing. She silently thanked her father for his wisdom and prayed that the general was right and there was little risk to her own health.
She breathed through her mouth and prayed not to lose consciousness—or the remnants of her long-ago breakfast. She moved through the cramped room and forced herself to look into each tortured face, going weak-kneed with relief when she realized none of them was Nicholas.
“Miss?” Charlotte put out a hand to stay the German girl on her rounds. “Who is in charge here?”
“Nurse?” The woman on the mattress nearest Charlotte lifted her arm and caught Charlotte’s hand in a weak grip. “Help me.”
Before Charlotte could move or summon one of the nuns, the woman vomited a thick mass, black and grainy as coffee grounds. The overpowering stench of it wafted through the room.
“Frau Hiller.” The girl knelt beside the woman to bathe her face. “You lie still now—I clean you up.” She tossed Charlotte a towel. “Doctor says vee must clean up ze vaste at once.”
Charlotte blotted the spittle from her skirts and then mopped up the foul-smelling vomit from the floor. She tossed the soiled towel onto the growing pile in the corner and rinsed her hands in a basin of brown-tinged water. “Is the doctor here?”
Just then a young woman entered from the side yard, her arms laden with stacks of towels. A battered leather medical bag hung from her shoulder. She set down the towels, opened the leather bag, and turned around, both hands full of brown medicine bottles.
Charlotte stilled. The chaos around her receded. She blinked. “Josie Clifton?”
Josie blanched as white as the starched apron pinned to the front of her dress. For a moment the two of them stared at each other, speechless. “My stars,” Josie blurted at last. “Charlotte Fraser. What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing. The last time we spoke, you were headed west with your family.”
Josie shook her head and handed the medicines to one of the nuns. “I said my father was going west. That was never my plan.”
Nicholas. Nicholas had always been her plan. And the letter Josie had stolen from the postal office in Georgetown had told her just where to find him. “Where is—”
The taller of the two nuns stepped between them, a deep frown creasing her face. “Ladies,” she said in a fierce whisper, “if you have nothing better to do than to stand here gossiping while people are dying at your feet, then you can both get out.”
“But—” Josie began.
“Out!” the nun shouted just as the door flew open.
A man stepped inside, his sweat-stained shirt hanging loose over blood-spattered trousers that seemed too big for his thin frame. Thick, dark hair fell nearly to his shoulders and he desperately needed a shave. He was frowning too, no doubt displeased at the disturbance. “Sister Beatrice? What’s the trouble?”
Twenty-Three
Nicholas.”
Until he turned to look at her, Charlotte could not be certain she had spoken his name aloud. Her throat tightened at the sight of him. She moved toward him as if in a dream.
“Charlotte?” Stepping carefully around his patients, he crossed the room in three long strides and without a moment’s hesitation embraced her. “Dear God in heaven.”
For a moment they clung together, an island of calm amid the death and chaos surrounding them. She leaned into the circle of his arms, trying desperately not to cry. At last he drew back to look at her. “How are you? And my children? Did you receive my letters? And the money I sent?”
“No.” She looked up at him in complete surprise. “I’ve heard nothing since you left in May. Your daughters are well, but we were worried even before we learned of the epidemic.”
“The fever has been fierce this year.”
“We had to know whether you were all right. It seemed the only way to find out was to come here. I arrived yesterday and have spent this entire day seeking word of you.” Tears clogged her throat. “I feared you were dead. You should have written, Nicholas.”
“I just told you. I did write. More than once. I sent money to pay for your tutoring and for Tamar and the girls. I was in over my head here, and Miss Clifton offered to post the letters for me. I was wondering—”
Josie’s smile faded like a satin ribbon left in the rain. “Well, I’m tired. I must be going.”
“Just a minute.” Nicholas stopped her with a look and motioned her toward the door. “Outside.”
The three of them went into the yard. Charlotte glanced toward Washington Square, deserted now in the brutal heat. Pierre had parked the rig under a tree and had fallen asleep, one hand still grasping the reins, oblivious to the rattle and shriek of the train just pulling into the station.
Nicholas rounded on Josie, his eyes blazing. “You told me Miss Fraser begged you to come here and assist me with the fever patients while she took the girls to Pawley’s Island for the summer. Is that true?”
Josie paled. “Well, maybe not exactly. She did take them to Pawley’s. But there she was tied down to that dreadful little school of hers, just beside herself with worry and responsibility, and there I was with loads of time on my hands. So I just decided to come and look after you.”
“And how on earth did you know I was in New Orleans?”
“Yes, Josie.” Charlotte fought the anger burning through her veins. “Why don’t you tell Mr. Betancourt how you learned of his whereabouts?”
A group of young girls in straw hats and frilly dresses ran pell-mell through the silent square. Nicholas pulled Josie and Charlotte into the shade of the building. “What’s this all about, Miss Clifton?”
“Oh, so now that Charlotte is here, it’s ‘Miss Clifton,’ is it?”
“Please answer my question.”
Josie dropped her gaze. “I . . . I took the letter she’d written you from the postal office in Georgetown. And I . . . I didn’t post the letters you wrote to her.”
“I was working day and night to save lives, and I trusted you with a simple errand.” Nicholas folded his arms across his chest. “What happened to the checks?”
Josie shrugged. “For goodness’ sake, it wasn’t all that much—but enough to buy food and rent a cheap room.” Her eyes filled. “It’s awful living there, but anything is better than being forced to go out west
and marry some smelly old cowboy.”
“One dollar or a million, stealing is stealing.” Nicholas shook his head. “It takes quite a lot of nerve to purloin other people’s mail and forge a signature on a check. I don’t know whether to admire your audacity or have you arrested. Though the more I think about it, the more I’m inclined toward the latter.”
Josie’s lips trembled. “Don’t do that, Nicholas. I’ll pay you back.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Somehow.” She took a pair of ruby earbobs from her pocket and held them out to him in her open palm. “I take these with me everywhere I go. I don’t dare leave them in my room. They’d be stolen in an instant. They’re bound to be worth something.”
“I don’t want them,” Nicholas said. “All I want is for you to stay away from me and from my patients.”
“But, Nicholas, you care for me, deep down. I know you do. Last week when we went walking you said—”
Charlotte felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. Seeing Nicholas today had made her realize just how much she cared for him. Were he and Josie courting?
“I know what I said.” Nicholas took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “I am grateful for your help with the fever patients. And I care for you as any person ought to care for the well-being of another. But that’s all there is to it, Josie. I’m sorry if you thought otherwise.”
She burst into tears. “Oh, you are hateful—both of you. I never want to see either of you again. I . . . oh!” Josie went pale and swayed on her feet.
Nicholas steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“What do you care?” She shook him off. “I’m sick of all this filth and death. I’m going home. My head hurts.”
She hurried across the square and disappeared down a side street.
Nicholas watched her retreat, a frown creasing his brow. “I hope she’s all right.”
“You’re practicing medicine again.”
“Unintentionally. I came here to find my land grant and got caught up in this epidemic.”
At his mention of the disputed barony, Charlotte felt a jolt of fear. For weeks she’d been too busy with her school and too concerned about Nicholas to think much about her ownership of the plantation. Now apprehension lodged in her midsection, sharp as a thorn. When Nicholas returned to the Waccamaw and reclaimed his children, growing rice would be her only source of income. If she lost Fairhaven, what would become of her?
“Did you find your land grant?”
“Yes.”
Her heart thudded. Heat pressed onto her head until she too felt faint.
“And?”
A wagon carrying two bodies wrapped in sheets turned the corner and rattled across the railroad tracks.
“We’ll discuss it later. You look pale, Charlotte. Are you all right?”
Whatever the news, she wanted it now. But he was right. This was not the time or place to discuss such a weighty matter. She indicated her soiled skirts. “I’m fine. I need to get cleaned up.”
“Me too. Where are you staying?”
“The Orleans Palace.”
He whistled. “Pretty fancy.”
“I suppose. I haven’t seen much of it. I arrived only yesterday and left soon after breakfast this morning in search of you.” Briefly, she described her efforts to locate him and nodded toward the still-sleeping Pierre. “General Beauregard was kind enough to lend me his driver. It’s high time I returned him.”
“May we have dinner this evening? I want to hear about my daughters and about everything going on at home.”
“All right.”
“I’ll check on my patients, clean up, and come to your hotel. Will six o’clock be too early?”
“Six is fine.”
He walked her to the rig. She woke the driver and introduced Nicholas.
“So you found him.” Pierre grinned at her. “Then it was worth riding around all day in this heat.”
“I’m sorry it was so much trouble. Please let the general know Dr. Betancourt has been found and thank him for me.” Charlotte clasped Nicholas’s hand as he handed her into the rig.
“Thank him for me too.” Nicholas leaned into the buggy, his eyes warm with affection. “I’ll see you at six.”
Pierre clicked his tongue to the horse and turned the buggy. Charlotte released a pent-up sigh and watched Nicholas striding back into the makeshift infirmary. This trip had been a costly one in more than one sense, but finding Nicholas was worth it all.
The young driver seemed disinclined to talk on the way back to her hotel. Perhaps he was as spent as she. Lulled by the motion of the rig and the press of the afternoon heat, Charlotte struggled to keep her eyes open as the horse clopped toward Prytania Street.
“Here we are, miss.” Pierre halted the rig at the banquette and jumped out to assist her.
“Thank you.” Charlotte stepped out of the rig. “I’m grateful for your help.”
“Glad it turned out so well,” he said. “These days we’re getting more than our share of unhappy endings.” He fished a watch from his pocket and snapped it open. “The general will be home from the railway office soon. I should be getting on back before he sends out someone to look for me.”
He refused the tip she offered and climbed into the rig and drove away. Charlotte hurried into the hotel. Mr. Dubois was absent from his small desk in the reception area, but the parlors were filled with ladies taking tea, reading the newspapers, and chatting quietly. Caroline Mayhew looked up from her teacup, stood, and crossed the parlor to the foyer, her russet silk skirts swishing on the carpets. “Hello. I wondered whether I’d see you today.” She gestured toward the group seated in the parlor. “My book discussion group—what’s left of it—meets here every Saturday afternoon.”
“You’ve lost members to this epidemic?”
“Indirectly. Several of our number went north as soon as word of the fever got out. They are all well as far as I know.” She fanned her face. “We had quite a lively conversation this afternoon about Mr. Alger’s book on the friendships of women. But it isn’t the same when so many are absent.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Caroline eyed Charlotte’s stained skirts, and Charlotte blushed. “I’m afraid I look a fright, and smell even worse.” She indicated her soiled clothing. “But at least I found my employer.”
“And he’s well?”
“Yes. Taking care of the sick in the Faubourg Marigny—one of whom cast up her accounts on my skirt.”
“You poor dear. What you need is a nice warm bath and—” Caroline looked around the room. “Wait here.”
She hurried away and soon returned with a female version of Pierre—a slight, olive-skinned girl with lively dark eyes and a mop of black curls pinned into a falling-down coil at the nape of her neck. “This is my lady’s maid, Fabienne. She’ll help you bathe and change. I must be away, but there’s no hurry. Mr. Dubois will see that she gets home safely.”
“Thank you, but I can manage.”
Caroline shook her head. “You’re dead on your feet. And besides, Fabienne is a genius at dressing hair.”
“Come, Ma’m’selle,” Fabienne said softly. “You will soon feel much better. I am sure of it.”
With both hands, Caroline made a shooing motion. “Go along now. I’ll find Mr. Dubois and have him send you up something to eat.”
Too spent to protest any further, Charlotte took out her key and led the maid up the winding staircase to her room. Fabienne prepared a fragrant, steamy bath and then withdrew. Charlotte undressed, piled her soiled clothing in the corner, and sank gratefully into the warm soapy water, where she remained until the water cooled and her fingers began to wrinkle. When she had dried off, Fabienne came in, eyes averted, and handed her a stack of clean undergarments.
Minutes later Charlotte sat at the small white dressing table, watching Fabienne’s nimble fingers as she brushed, twisted, and pinned her damp hair into a cascade of shining curls
. At last the maid gave Charlotte’s hair a final pat and smiled into the mirror. “Well, Ma’m’selle? Are you pleased?”
“I like it very much, though I’m afraid I could never duplicate such an elaborate style on my own.”
The young woman smiled. “It is not so difficult. It only takes practice.” She paused. “I hope you won’t mind that I took a look in your wardrobe. Which dress will you wear this evening? The pink one with the ruffles or the blue silk?”
“The blue, please.” Nicholas had already seen her in the pink gown at Lettice Hadley’s birthday party at Alder Hill. Before her trip to New Orleans, she had sponged and aired the blue dress and repaired the torn sleeve and the ripped hem. Though the pagoda sleeves were out of style, the fitted bodice and scooped neckline showed off her shoulders and her small waist. She stopped herself. Nicholas Betancourt’s opinion of her appearance had become much more important than was prudent. But she couldn’t help hoping he would approve.
Fabienne helped her into the dress, her slim brown fingers expertly working at the row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. She pinched the fabric. “This dress is loose on your bones. Shall I take it in for you?”
“Thank you, but there isn’t time. My employer will—”
A knock at the door stopped her words. “Come in.”
The young Negro woman who had delivered her dinner last evening came in with a tray of sherry and biscuits. “Mr. Dubois sent you some refreshment.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Fabienne set the tray on the table by the window and waited until the serving woman withdrew. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Ma’m’selle?”
“No thank you.” Charlotte took a bill from her bag and handed it to the girl. “I appreciate your help, Fabienne. Please thank Miss Mayhew again for me.”
Fabienne left, closing the door softly behind her. Charlotte took a seat at the table and nibbled on a biscuit. She was ravenous, but too overwhelmed by the city’s strange contradictions and too disturbed by the day’s tumultuous events to eat very much. She couldn’t stop thinking about Solange, so young and alone, scrounging for food and shelter on the waterfront. What would become of her and of the hundreds of children sure to be orphaned before this epidemic was past? Without someone to guide them, how would they get on in a world so different from the one they once knew?
