Love Finds You in New Orleans, LA

by Christa Allan

  She didn’t object and might have offered her other hand to have the experience again except that, with his kiss still lingering on her hand, Gabriel tugged her toward him. “I hardly need to tell you how I feel about you. It’s in my eyes from the moment I see your face. Your beautiful face,” he whispered.

  His hands held her waist, and she saw such longing in his eyes that she closed her own, for fear that he would see the same in hers. If he did not kiss her, she would never know what she missed. And if he did, she would always know.

  He didn’t give her time to think about the slow heat that rose from where his fingertips pressed into her, that made her heart race as if it could outrun the very warmth it craved, or the fire he created when he kissed first one eye, then the other. His lips…his lips gently kissed their way down the curve of her cheek, and when she felt them on her mouth, everything in her begged to melt into this one moment.

  But where could they go from here?

  She had barely time to feel his mouth on hers when she leaned away. “I can’t, Gabriel. I can’t.”

  * * * * **

  The Sunday service ended and, as usual, Grand-mère hurried from the pew to reach the church doors ahead of Père François. He stationed himself there to greet his congregation as they went forth to their houses, their placées, the gambling hall, the racetrack, or one of the guzzle shops along the river. And, as usual, the reverend appeared as if he had bloomed from between a crowd of his parishioners to smile at Lottie’s grandmother as she left.

  Lottie saw the shine in his eyes and wondered if this had become a game for him, this making sure she didn’t escape without seeing him. Grand-mère wore her disdain like expensive perfume, and he diluted it every time they made eye contact.

  “Lottie, Lottie.” Justine bounced at the bottom of the stairs, waving her hand.

  Lottie tapped her grandfather on the shoulder and pointed in her friend’s direction. “I’m going to talk to Justine. I won’t be long.”

  He reached back to pat her hand. “Take your time.”

  Lottie squeezed between the Bourgeois twins, who, at fifteen, still dressed identically, except that Eulalie’s curls were on the left side of her face and Eleanor’s were on the right side. Passage through was complicated by their matching blue, green, and white plaid skirts creating a twelve-foot-wide swath of fabric blocking her path. Lottie had almost cleared their blockage when one of them stopped her. “Charlotte LeClerc, we heard that a suitor came calling.” It sounded like Eulalie sang instead of spoke.

  “Yes, but just once. Last week. Thank you for inquiring. I am meeting a friend.” She waved to Justine, who offered proof by waving back.

  Eleanor leaned close to Lottie. “Mama says he’s rich enough to have two women.” The two girls smiled as if they’d dispensed communication from a heavenly body.

  “Then I must make certain to ask Madame Bourgeois to explain what she means.” Lottie waited for the girls to react to what she said, which they did with their O-shaped mouths, and then she smiled until her cheeks pinched the corners of her eyes and made it down the steps to hug her friend.

  “I haven’t seen you in weeks!” declared Justine, who didn’t move her hands from Lottie’s shoulders after their hug. “My mother said you can join us for dinner. We’re eating early because Isabelle and the brats are there. Please join us. Please.”

  “You’re starting to sound like one of Isabelle’s brats,” Lottie teased. “Of course I want to come.” She looked over the thinning crowd of churchgoers. Her grandmother was one of three women today who, in the gray morning of winter, opened her parasol. “There they are,” Lottie said to Justine as she motioned for her to follow. She made her way through the crowd, smiling sweetly at Madame Bourgeois for the benefit of her daughters, until she reached the tasseled gold silk parasol with her grandmother underneath.

  Lottie waited for her to finish her conversation with Madame Adolphe. “Grandmother, I wanted you to know that I will be having an early lunch with Justine and her family. I’ll be home before leaving for the orphanage this afternoon.” She kissed her grandmother and grandfather, Justine rattled a hello and good-bye in the same sentence, and they trailed after the assortment of Dumases heading home.

  “We look like our own Carnival organization, don’t we?” Justine and Lottie walked side by side, arms locked together. “And you no longer need to request permission?”

  “No. Apparently permission is not required now that I’ve conceded to their selecting the man with whom I will spend the rest of my life.”

  * * * * *

  The Dumas men plus Isabelle’s husband François retired to the library after dinner with their cigars, espressos, and opinions. Justine’s mother, Isabelle, Justine, and Lottie moved into the parlor, where Ruth, the Dumases’ maid, carried in a coffee service. Ruth’s parents had been given as a wedding gift to Justine’s father from his parents. Neither Monsieur Dumas or Ruth’s parents realized how the newest Madame Dumas quietly abhorred slavery. She and Ruth’s parents became friends, and they raised their families right alongside one another.

  Ruth’s husband, Laurent, was a slave from a nearby plantation who helped his owner sell vegetables in the French Market. The two of them met there, and when they decided they were in love, Madame Dumas sent her husband with enough cash to buy Laurent from the Greywoods. Isabelle inherited her mother’s color-blind compassion. Justine and her father, who thought anyone born with black skin was supposed to be a slave, kept their opinions to themselves while they were home. They just asked Isabelle and her mother to do the same in public, as Monsieur Dumas said, “I sure don’t want the good people of this city to think I’m living with abolitionists.”

  Lottie had learned years ago not to be surprised where she might find the servants—Madame refused to call them house slaves—in the Dumas house.

  “Ruthie, here, let me help you with that.” Isabelle relieved her of the broad silver tray and set it on the piano bench. Lottie knew Ruthie was with child, but without the tray in front of her, she was able to realize how close the woman was to actually having the child.

  “Mother,” Isabelle said, “Ruthie should not be carrying so much weight when she is this close to being delivered.”

  “Perhaps she will listen to you, because I’ve said the same to her and she insists she is capable.”

  “Let me see your ankles, Ruthie.”

  “Miz Isabelle, you wants me to lift up my skirt?”

  “Gracious, Ruthie, do you see any men in this room? We all have ankles.” Isabelle turned to her mother. “This is exactly the reason more women need to be doctors.”

  Madame Dumas eyed her. “Isabelle, I never forbid you to attend medical school.”

  “Do we have to start this discussion of women’s rights, or their lack of?” Justine handed Lottie a cup of coffee. “Ruthie, please show Isabelle your ankles, or she’ll be the one lifting your skirt.”

  Ruthie stared at the ceiling, as if to shield herself from the embarrassment of knowing all those eyes were examining her bare skin, and gingerly picked up the folds of fabric covering her feet.

  “Oh dear.” Justine’s mother covered her mouth with her hand.

  Someone not knowing Ruthie was with child would have thought her deprived of ankles at birth, they were so swollen.

  “You need to rest. Stay off your feet for the rest of the day. Wait.” Isabelle turned to her mother. “Why is she here? This is Sunday. She’s not supposed to be working.”

  Madame Dumas’s spoon lazily made its way around her coffee cup. “Tell her, Ruthie.” Her voice had as much energy as her spoon.

  “Where I’m going to go like this? Jus’ soon work and pass the time. Dis child already ain’t stayin’ still. Least if I’m doing, it’s quiet in there.” She pointed to her round belly. “And sometimes a break from everybody is a welcome thing.”

  “That, I understand.” Isabelle smiled and clasped Ruthie’s hand. “Now, go lay down.”

  �
��Oh, and Ruthie, make yourself a plate. We have plenty left. And tell your mother to see me when she returns, and I’ll give her the rest,” said Madame Dumas.

  Justine rolled her eyes as Ruthie left. “My stars. One day I am going to return home to find that Ruth’s entire family has moved into our home.”

  “Mother will be sure to marry you off before then. Right, Mother?”

  Madame Dumas gave Justine a wide-eyed nod. “Absolutely.”

  “Well, good, then. Best for all of us,” Justine answered, sounding offended. She looked at her mother’s and sister’s grins. “You are not at all amusing.”

  Isabelle poured herself coffee and refilled her mother’s cup. “Speaking of marriage, Charlotte, how are things since your debut?”

  Lottie opened her mouth to reply, but Justine’s voice erupted. “Haven’t you heard? Paul Bastion is visiting.”

  “He’s only been once, Justine.” Lottie wished she had missed the flicker of communication when Isabelle and her mother made eye contact. That silent exchange became a loud warning. She looked back and forth between the two. “What? What do you know?”

  “What did I miss?” Justine eyed all three of them.

  “Nothing yet,” said Lottie. “I want to know.”

  Isabelle stared at her mother, who seemed to blink more than nod her agreement, then turned to Lottie. “Keep in mind that men gossip, probably more than women. They call it an exchange of ideas—”

  “Get to the point, Isabelle. Lottie doesn’t want to hear your diatribe about men,” Justine’s mother said in that soft but firm Dumas way.

  “François was told that Paul keeps a placée. A young placée. Sixteen, maybe seventeen years old.”

  Lottie felt her lungs unwind. “That’s the news? It’s no secret that Creole men are protectors for women.”

  She had the briefest moment of time to appreciate the irony of being relieved that her intended had a mistress before Isabelle said, “That’s not all the news. She is with child.”

  The coffee cup shivered in Lottie’s hand. “Does he know?”

  “Yes. Yes, he does. And it is said that he is proud and happy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ...........................

  Lottie considered the noxious gutters in summer, swollen with rotting animal carcasses, the slop of chamber pots, and the dirt and trash of every passerby the most repugnant aspect of living in the city…until Isabelle revealed what she had heard about Paul Bastion. By comparison, the gutters were troughs of intensely sweet-smelling gardenias and exotic violets.

  The plaçage relationship did not shock her, but she had nurtured a degree of hope that he would, like many protectors after marriage, gift his placée pour prendre congé—he would leave the woman and it would be over. How vexing to be told that she would marry a man who had another woman carrying his child. Surely this information had not been shared with her grandparents? Yet another one of those questions to which she really did not want to know the answer. She had expected more from them in selecting a man who would be her husband. That young Creole men had placées who would have children was a given, but to have to compete with a baby as a new bride was humiliating.

  Had someone else told her about Paul’s placée and his child, she hoped she could have forced herself to faint at that moment; then words would not be necessary. She appreciated that people who cared about her were the ones who told her what almost everyone in New Orleans must have already known about Paul. Otherwise, why would the Bourgeois twins have passed that remark about him and two women? Of all the gossips! A pair of girls who together didn’t have enough sense to pick out different gowns.

  She was relieved to have the orphanage as a reason to leave the Dumas house early. The parlor fireplace did little to appease the cold ripples that danced up and down her back. The women tried to comfort her, but some hurts just had to work themselves out, like knots. Agnes had told her, “You try make ’em go away, pullin’ and tuggin’. Ain’t gonna do you no good. Just make it worst. Just works on ’em little bit at a time.” Madame Dumas hugged Lottie before she left, a hug that pressed her so close, she felt as if she’d grown another body. She rubbed Lottie’s back in circles when they hugged, just like she did with her own daughters. Lottie closed her eyes and drifted for a small moment. This is how my mother would have hugged me.

  After they released one another, Madame Dumas still clutched her shoulders. “Lottie, have you asked your grandparents why Paul Bastion?”

  Lottie shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

  “You need to ask them. Don’t be the last person to know.”

  * * * * *

  She found her grandparents in the library. Grand-mère and a hill of mending competed for space on the small settee, which had been moved from its usual place and was now closer to the tall windows. At first glance, Lottie thought her grandfather was reading a book, until she stepped into the room and saw the cover. It was a book, but it was one of his ledger books where he kept records of his business and his clients’ accounts.

  They both looked up when she entered the room. Her grandfather smiled and closed his ledger. “Did you enjoy yourself, p’tit?”

  Lottie hesitated. Should she broach the question about Paul now? Soon Gabriel would be here, and she did not want the lingering feelings of that conversation to follow her the remainder of the day. Knowing the reason for their decision would not change the making of it, so waiting for the answer would not change the substance of it. Were she to plan the possibility of misery, she did not want it to be today.

  “Yes, Grand-père, very much so. Being at the Dumas house is always enlightening.”

  “Are you still intending to visit that orphanage with Gabriel Girod?” Grand-mère picked up a ruffled petticoat and examined it.

  Lottie could have substituted “to pick a field of cotton” as her intention and the sound of her grandmother’s voice would not have changed. “Of course. As the future wife of a wealthy man, would I not want to appear concerned about the less fortunate?”

  Her grandmother managed a “Hmpf,” and continued stitching.

  Grand-père quickly reopened his ledger, and he briefly cut his eyes in his wife’s direction. His pursed lips were a sure sign of his attempt to stifle the smile that threatened his lips.

  “I’m going upstairs to refresh myself and rest a bit,” Lottie said and left the study.

  * * * * *

  Partly to cheer herself, Lottie selected a bright turquoise-blue gown belted at the waist with a gold buckle and bands of white-lace ruffles and tucked fabric that ran from the waist to the hemline. A pair of soft blue gloves and a black cape with blue bows to match her bonnet finished her outfit. She pulled her curls to the back, and after seeing her pale cheeks in the mirror, she pinched them to draw some color into her face. If only pinching her eyes would brighten them.

  Lottie gathered the gloves, bonnets, and underpinnings she planned to carry with her today. She didn’t find her grandparents in the library or anywhere else downstairs, so she assumed they were napping. She located the basket of food she was to take with them—Agnes had filled it before leaving this morning—and waited for Gabriel in the rocker on the gallery. Since their encounter the day before, Lottie had wished she could have forbidden herself to think of him. It might have been easier to forbid herself to breathe. She couldn’t control the way she felt when Gabriel neared her any more than the earth could control the moon’s tug on its waters. And when his lips touched her fingertips, Romeo’s words to Juliet, “let lips do what hands do,” never became more alive than they did at that moment.

  But what did Gabriel know that she did? Or, worse, that she didn’t? Paul would be visiting again tomorrow, and just the thought of sitting in the same room with him repulsed her. If they could spend their married lives in different rooms, which might be likely considering the situation with his placée, then Lottie could tolerate him. Unlike the man who walked through the courtyard so tall that, shoul
d they be close enough, she could hear his heartbeat. He sidestepped where Abram had been in the process of placing new bricks along the flower ledge, and when his face lifted, Lottie’s skin warmed with the sight of his dark eyes focused on her and his lips slowly responding with a smile.

  She met him before he reached the gallery, thankful for the cold wind that would account for the blush on her face. “Agnes prepared this. She must have intended for you to carry it, because it’s quite heavy.”

  He relieved her of the basket of breads, rice, and yams. “Good to see you,” Gabriel said.

  “And you.” How was it that his reply could leave her both sad and happy?

  They walked in silence for some time.

  “At least you don’t need to be concerned that I will hold your hand on the way,” Gabriel said.

  Lottie stared straight ahead, else her disappointment be obvious. “No, I’m not concerned,” she responded, employing her best matter-offact voice.

  “That is not at all what I meant. I’m holding Agnes’s basket in one hand and books in the other. I don’t have a hand to spare.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Probably because you haven’t looked at me since you turned this over to me”—he held up the food—“when we met. Does that mean you woke up a different person today than the one I was with yesterday?”

  Like horses terrified by an unexpected noise, thoughts of yesterday, this morning, tomorrow, the rest of her life trampled over her. A different person? How would she know? She heard the thundering hooves, but she couldn’t stop them. She blurted, “Am I different? That would suggest I knew myself as the same person. It doesn’t matter, because everything I might have thought I was is crushed under the weight of what everyone else wants me to be.”

  “Stop. Come here.” Gabriel stepped into an alcove between two houses and set the basket and books on the ground.