Love Finds You in New Orleans, LA

by Christa Allan

  He slowly lifted her chin until he saw her face. Instead of being startled by his touch, it was as if she yielded herself to it, not moving his hand even as they looked at each other. “Lottie, not knowing the outcome means there’s always hope. Always.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded. But when she looked at him again, it was sadness he saw there, and it tugged at the corners of her lips.

  Gabriel hesitated. Sadness? He hadn’t expected sadness. But it didn’t change what he needed to say. “I love—”

  At the sound of the creaking and clattering of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves, they both flinched. Lottie, instead of walking with him, stared at the ground and made a few backward and forward steps, all the while acting as if she had dropped something.

  “What are you doing?”

  But she didn’t answer him, and he found himself echoing her movements, without any idea of what he was doing.

  When the carriage passed them and was a distance off, Lottie straightened, and that’s when Gabriel understood. If the curtains were open, the occupants would have seen only a girl wearing a bonnet and holding a parasol.

  He reached out his hand, but she ignored him.

  “It’s late. I don’t want my grandparents to worry. I need to be home. We cannot do this, Gabriel, remember?”

  “Of course,” he said, as if the past few minutes had not happened.

  They walked to Lottie’s house, jostling the awkward silence between them.

  Hope, Gabriel reminded himself. You said it. Can you live it?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ...........................

  “You will be going again next week?”

  Lottie recognized Gabriel’s café voice, the one he used when he asked customers what they wanted to order. She knew she was responsible for the shift in him, but she was glad. No, relieved. They could not allow themselves to plunge into that river of emotions. Too deep. Currents. Waves. Creatures. She wouldn’t let it happen.

  “Certainly.” She closed the gate after she walked through. She needed him to leave soon, because she didn’t know how much longer she could remain on shore when the river appeared so tempting. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, and they both turned home. In different directions.

  Agnes was already lighting candles when Lottie found her in the dining room.

  “I’d say look what the cat dragged in, but he at least show up during daylight.” Agnes shaved wax from around the wick of one of the tapers in the silver candelabra on the sideboard.

  “Are my grandparents home?” Lottie peeked under the napkin draped over the plate set alone on the table. Slices of chicken, wedges of tomatoes, and green beans. She pulled out one of the green beans and ate it before Agnes could shoo her away.

  “No need to whisper. They went to the opera.” Agnes stood the candelabra on the table near the place setting. “Jus’ sit down and eat. Don’t know why you stealing food off your own plate.”

  Until she started eating, Lottie hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Between mouthfuls, she asked Agnes what had happened after she left.

  “All I know is when me and Abram get back, you gone and your grandmother playing some kind of somethin’ on that piano. She coulda woke the dead. But she jus’ woke your grandfather, and he none too happy about that.” She moved the platter of tomatoes and green beans within Lottie’s reach on the table and went back to the sideboard.

  “Do we have any bread? Lemonade?”

  Agnes turned around, and the items Lottie had asked for were already in her hands. “Many years as I been feeding you, I knows what you gonna ask for.”

  Lottie pulled out a chair. “Please don’t stand over there while I eat. Come sit down.”

  Agnes looked around as she slid into the chair. “Now you know I not suppost to be doing this.”

  “It’s just the two of us. Besides, why can’t I have dinner with someone who’s known me almost my entire life?” She tore a piece of bread off the half loaf Agnes had set down. “Who made up these ridiculous rules?” She thought of Jacob and Tom, and heart pangs replaced her hunger pains.

  “Miss Lottie, don’t be saying them kind of things. White people can get in trouble for sounding like one them abullishonists.”

  She started to ask Agnes where she’d learned that word but then decided—like earlier today—there were some things she just didn’t want answers to. “My grandparents haven’t been to the opera in weeks. I’m glad they decided to attend, but it’s still surprising.”

  “Your grandfather didn’t want to go, but your grand-mère said they needed to go because somebody in this family had to be seen in the society, ’specially sence you out gallivanting with Gabriel. And just the day after your party. She worried what people think. Your grandfather weren’t too happy.”

  “About my being with Gabriel or going to the opera?” Lottie left the uneaten bread on her plate and covered it with her napkin. As she did, she noticed the embroidered LC in the corner. The shaky, uneven first stitchings of a much younger Lottie. The one who wanted to surprise Grand-mère by embroidering her new linen napkins with the initials of their last name. She had sewn only two, one for each of her grandparents, and had tiptoed into the dining room to place one on each of their plates. She waited in her bedroom where she ate, sometimes with Agnes, with the squirming anticipation of a child eager to see her grandmother’s face when she thanked her for the surprise.

  Lottie now traced the bumpy, zigzagged ebony stitches and heard in her memory the echo of Grand-mère’s steps as they neared her room. Agnes had left for water, so Lottie sat alone at her small table. When she walked through the door, Grand-mère filled the room with her presence.

  “Charlotte, did you sew these?” She held the napkins out to Lottie.

  Excited that her grandmother came to thank her, Lottie nodded energetically. “Yes, Grand-mère. I did.”

  “Who gave you permission to do such a thing?”

  Even now, Lottie remembered that imperious voice. The one that quieted her own. She had shrugged her shoulders, stared at the shamrocks that edged her plate, and twisted the folds of her gingham dress with her hands.

  “Look at me when I speak to you.”

  She had raised her eyes and wished Agnes would hurry.

  “Ne–ver, ne–ver,” Grand-mère said, “presume to take anything that does not belong to you. These damask napkins are quite expensive. Now the set is useless unless I replace these.”

  Agnes then stood at the doorway, holding a pitcher of water, and looked from Lottie to her grandmother and back again. “Excuse me, Miz LeClerc,” said Agnes as she stepped behind her into the room.

  Lottie remembered Grand-mère’s parting words of, “Do you understand?” and her handing the napkins to Agnes. “Perhaps you can find a use for these.”

  Agnes had saved her napkins all these years. How would she have known, today of all days, that this gesture would mean so much?

  Lottie took the napkin from her plate and blotted her wet cheeks—tears cried for the little girl who failed to please who was important to her then, and for the young woman who failed to please the person most important to her now.

  * * * * *

  February 1841

  Dear Mama and Papa,

  Finally, I no longer live with the dread of the party. It is over. I know I resolved not to act selfishly or unkindly, and I promise I behaved properly.

  The night of the party, Justine slept here, so that’s why I didn’t write. But even when I’m not writing on paper, I’m composing a letter in my head to you. I hope not to forget all that I wanted to share.

  A week before the date, Grand-mère sent the notes for the party with Abram’s brother, Elijah. The invitations were written on gilt-bordered papers, inserted in the same bordered envelopes, and closed with a small wax seal. He dressed quite nicely and completed the deliveries in two days’ time.

  I confess, Grand-mère fluttered around so that I did my best not t
o be in her way. She gathered mirrors and pins, combs, brushes, and hairpins for the ladies’ dressing room, which was the spare bedroom upstairs. Then Justine’s mother reminded her to include sewing supplies, perfume, and smelling salts. Grandpère suggested she might be in need of the salts herself before the night began. I don’t believe she appreciates his humor as I do. Agnes coughs often when he jokes so as not to incite Grand-mère.

  Agnes, Abram, Elijah, and Elijah’s son Samuel spent the better part of the day carrying food from the kitchen into the house. Agnes created a magnificent centerpiece of pineapples, grapes, and trailing vines with soft, lavender-blue flowers. Gumbo, platters of fish, fruit dishes with pears and cherries and plums. Carafes of water and wine. Molded water ices for desserts—that’s all I can remember. I don’t think I ate more than a grape that night, for fear of ruining my white gown or being ill.

  I did not expect to feel like a live statue for suitors’ considerations. Much worse, though, I felt more like bait—the small fish Abram uses to catch the larger ones. Thrown into a river of hungry fish. Maybe sharks. Justine says I am too intractable. I think she learned that word at the deportment class she attended without me and she thought that word was more sophisticated than stubborn.

  Of all the men who asked to dance with me that night, it seems Paul Bastion might be the man Grand-père and Grandmère have decided upon. He was not as tall or as conversational as any of the other men. But having read The Ladies’ Guide to True Politeness and Perfect Manners by Miss Eliza Leslie (if he could, our deportment teacher would make Justine and I add it to our gumbo and consume it), I was relieved not to converse and risk my head being a “lumber-room.”

  Later, I wondered if perhaps his demeanor might suggest he feels the same as I about this arrangement. If I knew that he did, I might—might—find a small bit of comfort in that.

  I have heard that his family built an impressive home closer, actually, to the American section. They are quite wealthy, Justine tells me. I am not sure what constitutes “quite wealthy” as opposed to “wealthy,” but by the way she emphasizes “quite,” it must be significant.

  There is so much more I want to write, but the events of today have exhausted me. I arrived home late this afternoon; maybe it was closer to early evening. Grand-mère and Grandpère are at the opera, and Agnes knows that when my candles burn this late, I must be writing my letters.

  Until the next letter.

  All my love,

  Your Genevieve Charlotte

  * * * * *

  “Miz Lottie, wake up. You needs to wake up fast.” Agnes alternately patted her face and shook her arm. “Your time be running out. Your grandmother on her way.”

  Lottie’s eyes popped open at “grandmother.” Between yawns, she asked Agnes where her grandmother was on her way to and why Agnes whispered instead of using her usual loud voice.

  “You got two man problems, and I knows your grandmother ’bout to march up here and talk about one of them.”

  Gabriel? What could her grandmother have heard so soon? “Agnes, who are you talking about and why do you keep looking under my bed?”

  “One of them problems ran in this house and is in yo room someplace.” She peered under the bed again. “That cat gonna be the death of me yet.”

  Lottie put on the green robe Agnes must have placed on her bed and joined Agnes in the search for Henri. She heard pitiful mewing sounds coming from the shutters. She tried to draw the curtains open, but when the right side wouldn’t move, she bent down and pushed the lumpy bulge.

  “How did you get in there?” She reached underneath the yards of fabric puddling on the floor, and whatever part of Henri’s body she latched onto, he did not appreciate it. With one angry yowl, he attempted to bolt, except that his back claws caught in the lining. “Agnes, hold the curtains.” Lottie grabbed Henri while Agnes hurried over and extricated his claws from the fabric. Before Lottie could walk to the balcony with him, he bolted out the one open French door and followed his usual escape route off the balcony, the roof overhang, the lemon tree, and out the back.

  “Are all men this much trouble?” Lottie mused as she examined the four fresh claw tracks Henri had left on the inside of her forearm. They had already started to welt, a thread of blood running down the middle of each.

  Agnes dipped a hand towel in the water in Lottie’s bowl and dabbed her arm. “Afraid you gonna find out soon, cuz your grandmother coming up here to tell you that man is coming for a visit.”

  Suddenly the burning sensation Lottie felt as the water met the open wound was far less painful than the one in her stomach.

  * * * * *

  Miss Leslie’s Behavior Book did not address how a lady was supposed to hide the claw marks left by a cat in flight while in the presence of her possible future intended and grandparents.

  Lottie wore a long-sleeved floral wool dress so the red welts branding her forearm could not be seen, but the fabric’s fibers irritated them even more. She smiled what she hoped was demurely then practiced her downcast eyes and waited for some relief from this enforced torture. The few times she did glance at Paul Bastion, being careful not to lapse into impropriety, he appeared to be as uncomfortable as she felt. His expression, though, seemed to lend itself to furrows on his forehead and even along the top of his cheeks. He looked as if he might have been born squinting at the doctor who delivered him. He had arrived for what Grand-mère had said would be a brief visit before dinner. With barely enough time to ready herself for this visit, Lottie had neglected eating breakfast. Her empty stomach had not read Miss Leslie’s guidebook. She hoped it would not announce itself during Monsieur Bastion’s visit.

  They sat in the parlor as if marking the ends of a square, the two women sitting diagonally across, as did the men. After their initial introductions, conversations floated and popped like bubbles in the silence. Lottie mentally reviewed the pitfalls to avoid as related during her deportment lessons: monomania, perpetual contradictions, arguing about politics or religion or finances, tattling, reminding others they were once poor or that you were not, asking gentlemen about their professions, and criticizing others. Whatever did a woman do without another woman friend, with whom she could ignore all these rules and speak freely? Yet even with Gabriel she did not censor herself with society’s conventions. So were women not supposed to hold honest and comfortable talks with their husbands?

  Lottie learned that Paul’s parents and sisters were well, the weather was sometimes chill and sometimes warm, and the city seemed to be expanding. Other than expressing that she was pleased to meet Paul, which she surely was not, Lottie had not accomplished much more than discovering that each flower on her skirt had an uneven number of petals. Clearly not a topic Miss Leslie would find appropriate. But without being considered “vulgar,” women were permitted to discuss music, books, or art as long as they did not assert themselves.

  The conversation had fortunately progressed to the safe topic of William Shakespeare. Lottie remembered Grand-père laughing goodnaturedly after she commented on a play they had finished reading. Surely her intended would have the same response. What harm could there be in providing a moment of levity?

  Being careful to not let her eyes linger on their guest, Lottie said, “It appears to me that The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet is one of William Shakespeare’s gravest plays.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ...........................

  Gabriel held Alcee’s hand to steady her as she walked across the board placed over a particularly putrid drainage ditch clogged with the muck of dead mice and sewage. She pinched her nose with her other hand until they turned the corner, where even the soot-choked wind from the smokestacks of the riverboats provided relief.

  Alcee covered her mouth with her handkerchief. “Yu mud do somedin.”

  “Please forgive me,” he said with a small bow from the waist in his sister’s direction. “I am not familiar with that language.”

  She removed the handk
erchief to reveal a smirk. “You must do something about all this.” Alcee waved her hand in the direction of the street. “Isn’t this what engineers do? Solve these sorts of problems?”

  “For now, it is your time to attend school, which is still a few blocks away, so you need to move those little feet of yours faster.”

  “Do not condescend,” she said, turning up her face and folding her arms. Seconds later, she laughed. “I learned that word yesterday. But…” She paused, her face more serious. “It is not my little feet that are at fault. Do you see how I am dressed?” She sighed. “I should sew twenty pounds of lead into your frock coat. Then we would see whose feet are little.”

  “So what are your thoughts about Monsieur Joubert?” Gabriel trusted his sister to be forthright.

  “Is that the reason you wanted to escort me to school? To find out more information about him?”

  He should never doubt Alcee’s ability to get to the point. That quality would serve her well as she grew older. “Not at first. But after Maman said she needed to leave early today to buy produce at the French Market, I thought it would be a good time for us to talk. Joseph seems to spend more and more time with our mother, so…”

  “Maybe not as much as you think. He still has jobs to finish from wherever he moved from, so he comes and goes. He leaves for a few days at a time. Maman says she understands. I think she is…content.” She nodded as if verifying the truth even to herself.

  Gabriel thought about what his sister said—and then he thought something he wished he had not. “You don’t think he might be married, do you?” He didn’t know Joubert well enough to believe he would be capable of such a deception, but then that was the problem, wasn’t it?