Love Finds You in New Orleans, LA

by Christa Allan

  Lottie walked toward the gate but stopped when Gabriel said, “Don’t forget your bonnet.” He laughed as she scampered past him into the house.

  * * * * *

  Finally on the other side of the gate, Lottie handed Gabriel a box. “Hold this, please, while I tie this ridiculous ribbon.” She looked up and down the street as she fashioned what seemed like miles of fabric into a bow that flopped underneath her chin and ear on one side of her face. “Where is the carriage?”

  “No carriage today. We’re walking.” Gabriel handed the box back to her and picked up the two large baskets he’d set outside the gate before he walked into the courtyard earlier.

  “Walking? To Poydras Street? Walking?” With each question, her volume had increased so that by the last one, Lottie had attracted the attention of a passing marchande selling tiny nosegays of Spanish jessamine and carnations tied together with lace. She held out a bouquet to Lottie. “Un picayune?”

  Gabriel could not even see Lottie’s face. Just a field of lilacs on cream-shaded linen swaying side-to-side. “No, no. I do not have any coins,” said the bonnet. The merchant shrugged, returned the flowers to her tray, and continued down the street. She probably had regular customers who lived on the street, especially in this section of the city. The flowers did not simply serve as an adornment for a lady’s dress. Their fragrance provided a bit of perfume to the air for both the wearer and those around her to compensate, in a small way, for the offensive city smells. Sooner or later Lottie would be purchasing nosegays herself. When she lived in her own home. With a husband. Which is exactly what Gabriel did not want to be thinking about.

  “We are going to the boys’ home on Chartres Street, a few blocks away. Last time we visited the girls. I thought today, the boys.” He had to lean over just to be able to see her face under the wide brim. “May we start walking, or else the men will be lighting the lanterns on the street when we return.”

  Lottie shifted the distance of a whisper when she saw his face. “Of—of course,” she said. He didn’t know if she appeared to be uncomfortable because he had startled her or because she didn’t appreciate his being so close to her. This awkwardness between them was unfamiliar, and even though Gabriel didn’t like it, he sensed that it moved into their relationship like an uninvited relative with no money. And he would have to boot it out or learn to live with it.

  “I brought a few bananas and oranges I’d asked Agnes to save for me.” Lottie opened the lid of the box she held and showed Gabriel the fruit inside. “She didn’t ask why I wanted them. I suspect she knew they were not for Henri, after our last visit to the girls’ home.” She closed the box, and when she spoke, her voice sounded as delicate as her features looked tucked inside her bonnet. “Grand-mère didn’t even know these had not been eaten.”

  Gabriel wanted to tell her that her grandparents probably did not concern themselves with what happened to food left over, either. Agnes, he was certain, managed it wisely. “How fortunate for the boys we’ll see today that the fruit wasn’t eaten and that you thought of them.”

  He suspected that Lottie’s compassion for the orphans grew from her own parents having died before her second birthday. She spoke little of them and had shared with Gabriel that her grandparents did not encourage questions, saying that to talk about their son and his wife caused too much pain. Not one portrait of her mother or her parents had even been shown to her. Too afraid to ask her grandparents why none existed, Lottie had asked Agnes, who told her there had not been time for portraits.

  But if not for her grandparents, Lottie might have been one of those downcast, heart-starved young girls they visited weeks ago. And because of his parents, Gabriel did not have to fear being one of the boys they would soon see.

  Between what they carried and Lottie’s skirt requiring most of the space on the narrow banquette, the two of them didn’t converse much on the way to the orphanage. A few times, Gabriel had to set down his baskets to pull a board over the foul ditches along the street so Lottie could cross. Even maneuvering the banquettes necessitated her lifting layers of the skirt and petticoats she wore to avoid dragging her hem along the refuse, much of it questionable. And when they passed the rotting carcass of a dog or a slave emptying chamber pots, Lottie’s gloved hand would fly to her face to pinch her nose and cover her mouth. Gabriel, had his hands not been holding baskets, would have done the same. He held his breath until he saw evidence of a reprieve or was about to collapse.

  “I am sorry we won’t be able to stay long today,” Lottie told Gabriel as he lifted the iron door knocker at the Asylum for Boys.

  “You don’t need to apologize. It is generous of you to come here at all,” he answered.

  The door opened and one of the Sisters Marianites of the Holy Cross who ran the home greeted them.

  “May I help you?” She appraised them with the experience of one accustomed to having people on the doorstep, her eyes quickly moving from their faces to their feet. A collar of stiff white fabric encircled her head and a band of it covered her forehead, so that it appeared as if she peeked through a flowing curtain of black. “Oh,” she said and smiled broadly, “you are here to help us. Come.” She opened the door wider. “Come in, please.”

  “My name is Sister Mary Catherine. I am responsible for this home.” She folded her arms, her hands disappearing into the opposite sleeves of her habit. “And you are?”

  Gabriel placed the two baskets on the worn wooden floor that faded into a dull white in places. He introduced Charlotte, who handed the Sister the box she held, and then introduced himself.

  “We have food to donate and”—he reached into the pocket of his trousers—“and this.” His handful of coins moved Sister Mary Catherine’s arms rapidly from their hiding place. Gabriel placed the money into her outstretched hands. “It is a small amount, but—”

  “Monsieur Gabriel, we appreciate whatever God provides us.” Sister reached for the baskets. “I will take these to Sister Josephine to empty into the pantry.” She smiled. “Then I will return your baskets for you to fill again. Do you have time for me to show you around?”

  Gabriel turned to Lottie. “Yes. A quick tour would be fine,” she said.

  “Wait here while I find Sister, and then I will come back so we can begin.” Sister Mary Catherine walked down the long hall underneath a gallery of religious pictures. The home smelled of bread and cinnamon with a touch of little boy.

  “You did not tell me about the lagniappe.” Free of her box, Lottie slipped her bonnet under her arm and pulled off her gloves. Their color was a deeper version of the violet flowers in her dress. “If I had known you were bringing something extra, especially money, I would have contributed.”

  Her tone confused him. Was she annoyed? “I didn’t know I needed to tell you.”

  Lottie brought the gloves to her forehead, about to blot the perspiration that glittered there. Then, as if she’d heard an inner voice of reprimand, she frowned and, with one bare hand, wiped her forehead and then patted her dark hair. She sighed, bit her bottom lip, and looked down. “You did not have to tell me. How would you have, anyway?”

  Sister Mary Catherine called out from beyond the foyer, “I am almost there.”

  Lottie barely lifted her head and said, “I forget that everyone does not hold me to Grand-mère’s standard.”

  * * * * *

  “Bless you for coming here today,” said Sister Mary Catherine as she walked them out. “I am certain the boys were surely pleased to have someone who did not tire so easily. Not to mention making any attempts to do much more than walk in this.” She held out her black habit.

  “I do understand that,” said Lottie as she looked down at her own gown. “Were women not meant to run?”

  “Clothes came with the fall, but their design with man. So it seems like we could but cannot. That did not answer your question, but you entertained them by reading fables. Your audience was enthralled.”

  Lottie laughed. “It is
kind of you to say so. The boys might have been enthralled and sleepy after Gabriel ran their legs off.”

  “Some of these children have not had the experience of an adult reading to them. Sadly, for a few of them, their parents were forbidden to learn, because an educated slave is a dangerous slave. If uneducated people are necessary to carry out slave owners’ plans, the problem is with the plans, not with the people.” Sister’s voice was low, but her passion was high. She held Lottie’s arm. “We were so close to changing that. Maybe only a few people at a time. But Sister Anna has been ill, and we could no longer continue.”

  “Are you talking about teaching slaves to read and write?” Lottie said in a lowered voice. “Sister, what a courageous act.”

  Sister turned the thumb-worn beads of her rosary. “It’s been a terrible disappointment to us all to stop.”

  Gabriel saw the answer rise like the sun in Lottie’s eyes, and he knew she had just adopted a mission. “Lottie, I’m not sure that is a risk you need to be taking.”

  “You’re not sure of my risk? You do not need to be.” She shifted her attention to Sister. “I could do this for you.”

  “The question is not that you could. The question is whether you should. Jail, Lottie. You might be prepared to spend a year in jail, but are your grandparents ready for you to?” Gabriel hoped he could convince her, but he prepared himself for the inevitable—teaching at the orphanage.

  “Please, I did not mean for you to take up the cause. It is not something you should decide so suddenly. You could be placing your grandparents at risk. Pray about this,” Sister urged.

  “Sister, I understand that you want to be cautious. But this is something I want to do. I can teach on Sundays after our regular visits.”

  “Then you will have two teachers. I will be here with her,” Gabriel said as he opened the door for them to leave.

  Chapter Six

  ...........................

  “You don’t have to protect me,” Lottie told Gabriel.

  “Who else would be aware of where you spend your time? If something happened to you, I would not forgive myself. As long as you refuse to be honest with your grandparents about where you are, someone needs to watch you.”

  “There isn’t much I do that Grand-mère approves of. I stopped trying to make her happy on my own. It is easier for me not to think and to just do what she tells me when she tells me to do it, no matter how I feel about it.”

  “Well, you are visiting the poor. Would that not make a difference?”

  “To my grandmother, who cares what everyone thinks of her? Maybe if these visits had been her idea first.”

  “What about your grandfather? He has always impressed me as a man who is reasonable. Surely he would not disapprove of your helping out.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes he is so strong, but other times, he seems afraid to disagree with my grandmother. I’ve overheard them a few times, talking about decisions he had made and the consequences of them. And I do feel so much closer to him. But, because of that, I do not want to do anything that would hurt him. Or have it be the reason for a fight between him and Grand-mère.” Then Lottie countered, “But what about you? Why haven’t you been honest with your mother?”

  “Of course Rosette knows about these visits. I am not pilfering food and clothes from the house to supply the orphanages.” He scratched his head. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Because these visits are not what I am referring to. You have helped Rosette in the café for years, and yet you don’t discuss with her that you still want to study abroad.”

  “Rosette needed my help, and she still does. And my not talking to her about school is not the same as your hiding what you are doing.”

  “Is it not? You are hiding. You are not sharing what you really want.”

  “I don’t discuss it with her because she would ship me off on the next boat. She would never want to stand between me and my dream. And that is precisely why I do not tell her. When the café is more profitable, then I can leave her on her own. Until then, I choose to stay.”

  Ahead of them, a maid washed the banquette in front of a house, splashing water on the brick dust she used to clean the steps. When Gabriel gently held Lottie’s elbow and steered her away from the murky brown puddles, Lottie wished for a succession of puddles just to feel the warmth of him. The woman stepped aside as they passed. When Gabriel dropped his hand from her arm, Lottie saw the eye contact between Gabriel and the dark-skinned woman wiping her hands on the stained skirt of her faded calico dress.

  “Does she know?” Lottie asked him. They stopped at the corner as a carriage made the turn from one street to another, the uneven cobblestone paths causing it to teeter in a way that reminded Lottie of inebriated men making their way home from Carnival.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Which one of us isn’t white.” Lottie covered her nose with a gloved hand as they crossed the street to ward off the foul smell emanating from the gutter.

  “I don’t…why are…?”

  Lottie explained, “Because if we were a white couple or gens de couleur libres, we would not be seen so suspiciously or with such judgment. But how could someone looking at us know the difference? And could they know which one of us was which?”

  “Is that what you thought? That the servant knew the difference?” Gabriel sounded surprised.

  “Yes, and I just don’t understand why it matters.” She meant to sound observant, not frustrated.

  “This is unlike you to be so, well, angry.”

  “I know. I know. So much is changing in my life, and I have so little control over it. And…” Lottie turned her face away and pressed her gloved hands to her eyes to blot them before Gabriel could see her tears.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My grandparents. They are planning my coming-out party as my birthday party.”

  * * * * *

  Gabriel watched as Charlotte walked through the courtyard and into her house. Each step took her farther from him, until she disappeared through the doorway into a world he would never be able to join. Loss was not unfamiliar to him. But this…this was more than loss.

  A coming-out party meant a prelude to finding a husband. Well, at least to her grandparents, who were finding a husband for her. Marriages in Lottie’s world were business transactions completed for the mutual benefit of both parties. For some, the match kept land in the family. For others, it might bring money. The result was the same. Women often found themselves in arrangements where husbands provided a home, children, financial security. In exchange, wives pretended not to notice that their men spent nights away with their placées, dining in their homes in the Tremé, sleeping in their beds. Creole women, raised to exhibit all means of propriety at all times, could hardly compete with those often exotic, alluring women raised to entice men. Women like his mother used to be.

  Gabriel recalled the conversation he had with his cousin. How André warned him about the futility of this attraction to Lottie. But to know in his head, logically, that whatever he felt for Lottie would be considered impossible in their society, was one thing. To feel that knowing in his heart was something else entirely. Just that morning he had walked the same streets to the LeClerc house. But now those streets spanned a distance that would forever be more than physical.

  * * * * *

  “My grandparents have decided it is time for me to marry.” Lottie stabbed the back of the sampler with her needle, pushed the needle through the fabric, and missed the edge of the border. She tried and missed again and felt a hot sting, which was followed by a crimson blot on the fabric.

  Justine froze, her sampler in one hand and her needle in the other, as if she sat for a portrait. “What wonderful news. How exciting!”

  “Please, stop being so excited,” said Lottie, her voice as sharp as the needle that had drawn blood from her finger. She released the unfinished sampler from its hoop and rolled it closed. “I can’t do t
his now.” She shivered in the glinting morning sunlight that poured over their shoulders as they sat in the gallery.

  Her friend set her sewing on the nearby table, moved her chair closer to Lottie’s, and, pushing the jumble of pin-striped muslin skirts aside, reached out and held Lottie’s hands in her own. “Why are you so distraught?”

  Lottie lifted her head to meet Justine’s gaze. “It’s…it’s so sudden. I hoped…” She hesitated. “I prayed, even, that they would wait until I was ready.”

  Justine cocked her head. “Sudden? We have been raised to be wives and mothers. Our families have never kept that a secret.”

  Lottie looked away for a moment and wondered if Justine were capable of understanding the confusion, the frustration, and the fear that shadowed her, kept her awake at night, met her in the morning when she awoke. And could she confess that the one man she felt she could entrust her life to was the one man who would be forbidden to her? “Yes. But why does no one ask if we want to be or if we are ready to be wives?” Lottie slipped her hand out of Justine’s and slid her damp palms down the garnet-and-cream-striped skirt of her gown.

  Justine leaned against the back of the wicker chair. “They don’t ask us because—”

  “Because our answer doesn’t matter,” Lottie retorted, standing and pushing the chair aside as she started to pace the length of the room. “What makes women different from slaves? Agnes, you, me—we may look different, but we really are not that different at all.”

  “My word, Lottie,” Justine gasped, “how can you say such a thing?”

  “I can say it because it is true. Are we allowed to pursue the same jobs as men? Do men take classes in music or how to keep one’s eyes downcast or what to discuss while they are dancing? Are they trained to be husbands and fathers? We are all kept from being something or someone we want by people, by a world we have no control over. For Agnes, it is because she is a slave. I am white, but I am a woman. In my world, it seems women have a color all their own.”