by Dorothy Love
Perhaps Nicholas was safe. But then why had there been no word, especially to his children?
“Is someone meeting you here?” Caroline scrubbed at her face with a lavender-scented handkerchief.
Charlotte shook her head, arranged her hat, and drew on her blackened cotton gloves.
“Then you must allow me to take you to your hotel. My carriage and driver are waiting.”
“I’m not sure where to stay. I haven’t a reservation.”
“I recommend the Orleans Palace on Prytania Street. The food is good, and the hotel is quite safe for a lady traveling alone.”
Charlotte swallowed. The hotel sounded quite grand and no doubt it had prices to match. But she was too exhausted and too anxious for news of Nicholas to count the cost. “That sounds fine. Thank you.”
Caroline gathered her voluminous skirt and hooked her bag over her arm. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
They joined a group of other passengers carrying satchels and cases and emerged onto the busy platform. A short time later they collected their luggage and settled into Caroline’s waiting carriage. The Creole driver clicked his tongue to the horse and they pulled onto the busy street.
Through the open windows came the babble of voices speaking half a dozen languages, snatches of accordion music from shadowed doorways, and the calls of Italian street vendors hawking tomatoes and melons. In a shady courtyard, two Federal soldiers leaned against a wall, talking. A burly black man scrubbed a shop window with a red rag, one arm hanging useless at his side. As the carriage made the turn onto St. Charles Street, Charlotte caught a glimpse of a funeral cortege just ahead. A feeling of dread unfurled in her chest.
“Here we are,” Caroline said moments later. “Gustav Dubois is the hotel manager. Tell him I sent you. He’ll look after you.”
“I cannot thank you enough.”
“My pleasure, Miss Fraser.” Caroline squeezed Charlotte’s arm. “I do wish you well in your search.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell me where I might find General Longstreet.”
Caroline shook her head, a small frown creasing her smooth forehead. “I’m afraid not. I’ve been away all summer. But you don’t want to associate with him anyway. From what I read in the papers, he hasn’t exactly been a popular figure around here since he wrote those newspaper articles encouraging us to accept Yankee occupation.” She lowered her voice. “Some have gone so far as to call him a traitor to the South.”
The carriage driver opened her door and offered his hand as she stepped out. “Go on inside, miss. I’ll bring your baggage.”
Charlotte looked up at the hotel, taking in the pair of monolithic columns framing the elaborate wrought-iron balcony and windows tall enough to walk through. To one side was a brick and slate courtyard filled with clematis and trumpet vine, a pair of stone benches, and a burbling fountain.
She entered through a great, light-filled hall flanked by double parlors furnished with velvet settees and mahogany tables. In front of her rose a wide circular staircase.
A short, bald-pated gentleman wearing a black suit crossed the foyer and bowed. “I’m Mr. Dubois. May I help you?”
Before she could speak, Caroline Mayhew’s driver entered, carrying Charlotte’s bags.
“Andre!” The hotelier’s face split into a wide grin. “I hope the sight of you means that Miss Mayhew has returned to our city.”
“Yessir, she sho’ has. I just now fetched her from the train station.” Andre plunked down Charlotte’s bags.
“Well, tell her I hope to see her soon. I’m eager for news of her adventures abroad.”
Andre nodded and hurried out.
Charlotte explained her circumstances. “Miss Mayhew recommended your establishment.”
“And how long will you be staying with us?”
“I’m not certain.”
“That poses no difficulty whatsoever.” Mr. Dubois led her to a desk tucked discreetly beneath the massive staircase. “We have plenty of space. Not too many visitors in July to begin with; a goodly number of the locals go to their fish camps for the summer months. Now, with this outbreak, more people than usual have left the city. Including, I’m sorry to say, several of my staff.”
He ran his finger down a printed list. “I think the Blue Room would do nicely. It has a private bath and a lovely sitting room overlooking the rear courtyard but, sadly, no lady’s maid to attend to your needs.”
“I’m accustomed to taking care of myself.” She opened her reticule. “How much?”
“I wouldn’t feel right charging you full price since I cannot provide you with full service. Would seven dollars be all right?”
It was a king’s ransom, but she handed him a few bills, which he slid back across the desk. “You’re a friend of Miss Mayhew’s, and your plans are indefinite at present. Let’s settle the bill upon your departure.”
He tapped a small bell on his desk and a uniformed bellman appeared. “Please show our guest to the Blue Room.”
An hour later Charlotte had bathed, washed her hair, and changed into a fresh dress. She unpacked her bags, settled into her chair at the small escritoire overlooking the courtyard, and opened her notebook. Where to begin looking for Nicholas? The first thing to do was find General Longstreet, despite Miss Mayhew’s warnings. Unpopular though he might be, he was a friend of Nicholas and the only man of influence she knew of in the entire city. If Nicholas had already come and gone from the general’s house, perhaps the general could tell her whom to contact, where to begin her search.
If he was still alive.
A knock sounded at the door and she rose to answer it.
A young Negro woman in a starched white apron over a blue dress came in bearing a silver tray. “Mr. Dubois sent you some supper, miss.”
“Thank you. I am hungry.”
“Yes’m. Folks from the Atlanta train always is, time they get here. Normally the dining room would be open, but with this sickness ever’where . . .” Her voice trailed away as she crossed the room and set down the tray.
“I understand.” Charlotte closed her notebook. “Tell me, are most of the afflicted in a hospital somewhere?”
“Them without no fambly done been taken to the convent. Usin’ it as a hospital, they say. Lots of folks are dyin’ at home, I reckon. My man has been tendin’ a lot of burials up at Lafayette Cemetery.” She waved one hand. “Enjoy your supper, miss. You can jus’ leave your tray outside the door. I’ll be back for it directly.”
In the morning, Charlotte woke to a discreet tap on the door. The serving woman had returned with a plate of fresh melon, a cinnamon-and-sugar-infused beignet, a pot of chicory-laced coffee, and a pitcher of cream.
“Mr. Dubois said to tell you he’s sorry we don’ have no eggs.” She set the tray down. “They’s a café just a block over on St. Charles if you need somethin’ more substantial.”
“This will be plenty. Please be sure to give Mr. Dubois my thanks.”
When the woman withdrew, Charlotte devoured the meal and set the empty tray in the hallway. She pinned her hair, pinched some color into her cheeks, and descended the staircase just as a distant church bell tolled the hour.
Mr. Dubois stood in the entry hall, deep in conversation with a wiry, dark-skinned man. But he quickly concluded his conversation when he saw her. “Miss Fraser. I trust you slept well.”
“I did, and I thank you for two delicious meals.”
“I could do much more if my regular chef were here, but alas, he’s decamped to Terrebonne Parish.” He shrugged. “We do the best we can. How may I help you this morning?”
“I’m looking for General Longstreet. I believe he might have news of my employer, who has gone missing.”
The hotelier’s brows went up. “Indeed? The last I heard, the general was gravely ill and housebound. In any case I doubt much news of anything has come his way. Most people here have taken a dim view of his call to accept Northern rule.”
Charlotte
nodded. “So says Miss Mayhew, but I still must find him. He has not responded to my letters.”
“And I doubt he will. He—” Mr. Dubois paused as a quartet of hotel guests came downstairs. “Please excuse me a moment.”
He hurried over to the two ladies and planted kisses on their proffered hands. He spoke to their escorts, shook their hands, and summoned the bellman. “John, please find a carriage for these fine folks and see to their bags.”
The taller man in the party smiled and pumped the hotelier’s hand as the bellman hurried up the stairs. “That’s what we love about staying here, Gustav,” he said. “No detail escapes your notice.”
“Ah. I’m glad you are pleased. How much more I could do for you if only I had the entire staff at my disposal.”
While he attended to the other guests, Charlotte wandered to the window and looked out. Carriages and rigs rattled along the busy street. Women pushing carts and perambulators dodged knots of Federal soldiers and noisy children kicking a ball along the banquette. Down on the corner, a vegetable seller was opening up his cart as if this were a normal day and the city was not caught in the grip of a deadly epidemic. But perhaps this part of the city was unaffected. She recalled more than one such outbreak in Charleston when she was young when certain parts of town were decimated while others went unscathed.
The bellman came down laden with bags, hatboxes, and a trunk. The guests followed him onto the street and a carriage drew up at the door.
“Miss Fraser.” Mr. Dubois joined her at the window. “Please forgive the interruption. The Morellis are regular guests when they are in town. Lovely people, but they do require special tending. Theater people are so temperamental, I find, and so easily offended.” He motioned toward the parlor. “Would you care for more coffee?”
“No thank you. I’m anxious to get started—if only I knew where to start.”
“Yes, well, as I was about to say, I heard that the general has left New Orleans. However, he isn’t the only Confederate general in town.”
“Oh?”
“This city has drawn them like bees to honey. General Hood is here. He had an insurance business for a while, but I’m not certain what he’s doing now. General Early comes and goes. General Beauregard may be the one to see, though I hear he doesn’t much care for strangers.”
“General Beauregard?” Charlotte felt a flicker of hope.
“You know him?”
“Not really. I met him once, years ago.”
“He isn’t quite the same now.” Mr. Dubois shook his head. “It’s a shame, what the war did to so many fine men. Ruined them for anything but fighting and killing.”
Charlotte thought then of Lettice Hadley’s husband. Another walking casualty of the late Confederacy. But she couldn’t dwell on that, not when Nicholas might be sick or dead. She opened her reticule and took out her notebook and pencil. “Where might I find General Beauregard?”
“Ah, ma petite, that’s hard to say. He keeps an office at the railway company, and he owns a few properties here in town. But from what I hear, he’s mostly in residence at his place on Chartres. I forget the address, but the carriage driver will know. If not, tell him to look for a house with big pillars and a curving double stair out front.”
Mr. Dubois held out both arms, elbows bent, his hands curving inward in imitation of a staircase. Charlotte wrote it all down, but from what she had seen on the drive from the train station yesterday, the description fit half of the houses in New Orleans.
“Come,” Mr. Dubois said. “I’ll summon a carriage.”
Twenty-One
The carriage rocked to a stop. The driver jumped down and opened the door. “This is it.”
Charlotte left the carriage and studied the house. There were the pillars and the curving double staircase Mr. Dubois had described. Through the wrought-iron side gate, a colorful garden beckoned, in sharp contrast to the shuttered windows that offered no hint of welcome. Across the street, a pair of nuns and a gray-haired priest hurried toward the door of a neighborhood church.
“Shall I wait for you, miss?”
“Oh. No, I haven’t any idea how long this might take.” She handed him a couple of bills. “Could you call for me here in, say, an hour?”
“Mebbe. Depends on whether I’m busy.” He pocketed his money, climbed up, and drove away.
Charlotte looked around, then ascended the staircase and rang the bell. A small dark-skinned man dressed entirely in white answered it. “Yes?”
“My name is Charlotte Fraser. I must speak to General Beauregard.”
“You and half of the free world.”
“Is he home?”
“He’s here. But he’s having his breakfast and not expecting any visitors.”
“I apologize for arriving unannounced. But I’ve come all the way from Charleston to find someone who has gone missing. I’m hoping the general can help.”
He drew himself up, blocking the doorway. “Somebody goes missing, you call the police.”
She sighed. “Would you mind asking General Beauregard if he will spare ten minutes in the service of a Confederate lady?”
“War’s over. Confederacy’s dead.” He made a move to close the door.
“Wait. Please.” She fumbled with the clasp of her reticule. “If he won’t see me, would you at least deliver a note to him?”
She scribbled on a wrinkled calling card and pressed it into his hands. The door slammed shut.
When the butler did not reappear, she descended the stairs and stood on the banquette, eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight. What should she do now? Wait to see whether the general would see her, whether the carriage driver would return? Walk back to the Orleans Palace? Or cross the street to the church and hope that someone there would help her?
“Miss. Over here.”
Charlotte whirled around.
A thin girl in a ragged calico dress stood in the narrow alley next to the general’s house, a small white dog tucked beneath one arm. She strolled over to Charlotte. “They wouldn’t let you in, eh?” She grinned, revealing several missing teeth.
“I’m afraid not.” Charlotte held her breath against the stench coming off the girl.
“He leaves home at ten sharp ever’ morning.”
“The servant?”
“No, you ninny. The general.”
“I see.” Charlotte sighed and consulted the small watch she wore on a chain around her neck. Not much past eight. She didn’t relish a two-hour wait in the rising heat, but it might be her only chance to seek the general’s help.
“Gon’ get awful hot just standin’ here till ten,” the girl said. “Another hour and it’ll be hot enough to stop a hummingbird’s wings.”
“Yes.” Already beads of sweat were forming on her brow, and the bodice of her dress clung like a second skin.
“I can take you to my place. Ain’t far.”
“That’s very kind, but I couldn’t impose.”
The girl frowned. “Ma’am?”
“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”
The dog began to whine, and the girl jostled him to quiet him. “If you ain’t the most impossible person I’ve ever met. Would you mind speaking in plain old English? I don’t know any of them fancy words.”
Despite the odor and the girl’s unkempt appearance, Charlotte found it hard not to like her. “When someone offers to open her house to a lady, the polite thing to do is to ref—to say no thank you. It’s what we call the rules of etiq—of proper behavior.”
The girl threw back her head and laughed. The dog wiggled and did his best to lick her face. “Oh mercy me, fancy lady. Me and Cosette here don’t have a house worth the name. When I said I’d take you to my place, I meant my cool spot down on the river. It’s just a fallin’-down warehouse shack, but I got it fixed up real nice, and it keeps the sun and the rain off. We can sit a spell till it’s time for you to come back here and waylay the general.” She stared into Charlotte’s face, her dark eye
s lively with curiosity. “What you want with that Creole anyway?”
Charlotte shook her head. She was tired of explaining.
“Reckon it ain’t none of my business,” the girl said. “Forget I asked. Me and Cosette’s goin’ home. You coming or ain’t you?”
The morning was heating rapidly, the humidity a tangible presence. The carriage driver was unlikely to return for her, and she didn’t relish the prospect of a long, hot walk back to the hotel. Maybe it was foolish to follow the girl when an epidemic was raging, but if this urchin was telling the truth and she could actually speak to the general, perhaps it was a chance worth taking. “I’m coming. Thank you.”
The girl laughed again. “Don’t thank me till you seen the place. Ain’t nothing to brag on, that’s for sure. Come on.”
Charlotte followed her through a maze of streets and alleyways, past Saturday crowds in the outdoor markets and a blur of faces in shades of white, brown, and black. All along the banquette, women in bright tignons tended their children, street vendors plied their wares, and pairs of nuns glided past, hands tucked inside their habits.
At last Charlotte and the girl emerged on the waterfront. “Jackson Square’s up that way, past Chartres Street.” She jerked a thumb. “Me and Cosette don’t go up there too much. We like it down here.”
She led the way along a creaking wharf that smelled of fish and horse droppings. Dead fish, rotten apples, and watermelon rinds floated in the placid, rust-colored water. They came to a row of shacks, the wood weathered to a silvery gray. The girl pushed open a door and waved her hand. “After you.”
Charlotte crouched and entered a cramped space containing a thin, narrow mattress, a cast-iron skillet, a chamber pot, and a stack of old newspapers. In the corner stood a bamboo fishing pole and a metal bucket. A rusty stewpot gave off the odor of fish, potatoes, and onions. The only light came from cracks between the boards and the open doorway, which overlooked the river.
The girl plopped down on the mattress. “You don’t like it. I can tell. I told you wasn’t nothing.”