Carolina Gold

by Dorothy Love

  With instructions to the driver to wait, Nicholas helped Charlotte from the carriage. The girl jumped out and ran for the door.

  “Liesl,” Nicholas said, his voice low and commanding. “Please wait.”

  The girl’s eyes darted toward the waiting hearse. “But, Doctor, someone has died. I haf to know.”

  “We’ll know soon enough. Would you fetch my bag?”

  The girl disappeared into the makeshift office in the side yard. Nicholas and Charlotte went inside.

  Sister Beatrice glided toward them, a basin of pink-tinged water in one hand, a flickering lamp in the other, and indicated the far side of the room. “She’s over there, Doctor.”

  Nicholas nodded. “Who have we lost tonight, Sister?”

  “Mr. Becker, just after you left this afternoon, and poor Mrs. Hiller just moments ago. I’m afraid dear Liesl will be heartbroken.”

  When the girl came inside with Nicholas’s bag, the nun gathered her into her arms and murmured the news. Liesl gave one loud sob and ran from the room, deliberately kicking over a washstand on her way out. Charlotte understood. When her mother died, she had rampaged through the house in a fury of grief, raking books from their shelves, throwing a crystal vase of wilted roses against the wall, slamming doors so hard they rattled in their wooden frames. As if such destruction could somehow numb her pain and bring her mother back.

  “Mrs. Hiller was her teacher from their days in Germany,” Nicholas said, setting the washstand to rights. “They were inseparable.”

  “What about Liesl’s parents?”

  “Her mother succumbed two weeks ago. Her father is still alive as far as I know. Come. Let’s check on Josie.”

  They made their way among the sick and dying to Josie’s side. Nicholas took his stethoscope from his bag and knelt beside her cot. He looked up at Charlotte. “Could you ask Sister Beatrice for a basin and some towels? And a lamp, please.”

  Charlotte hurried to comply and returned to his side. He propped Josie’s shoulders onto a stained pillow and covered her with a thin blue quilt. “How long have you been sick?”

  Josie gave a slight shrug and licked her lips. “Two weeks. I felt awfully sick for a few days, but then I got better.”

  “And were you jaundiced?”

  “I don’t know. A little, I suppose. But you were helping at Dr. Werner’s house, and we were all so busy you didn’t notice.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I . . . wanted to be . . . with you. You would have sent me away.”

  “Foolish girl.” Nicholas motioned for Charlotte to kneel beside him. “Roll her sleeves up, please.”

  “You aren’t going to bleed her, are you?” In the yellow lamplight, the room spun before Charlotte’s eyes. Bloodletting was an old-fashioned treatment for everything. Years ago her father’s doctors had tried it as a way to restore his failing lungs, but she had never seen the procedure done. Now she regretted her decision to accompany Nicholas here, but it was too late to turn back. She inhaled a deep breath of fetid air, unbuttoned Josie’s cuffs, and rolled up the girl’s sleeves.

  “Dr. Werner still believes in phlebotomy,” Nicholas said. “But I’ve no reason to suppose it’s worth the risk.” He took a small tin container from his bag. He washed his hands, scooped a yellow salve with his fingers, and began massaging it firmly into Josie’s fevered skin.

  The girl moaned and her head rolled to one side.

  “Wring out those towels and bathe her face,” Nicholas instructed. “When one towel gets too warm, change to another. Keep her as cool as possible.”

  Charlotte focused on his hands as he bent to his task. She remembered that magical afternoon on the river last spring when he had played the violin for her, his long fingers grasping the bow. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  Josie gasped as Charlotte applied the cool compresses that quickly warmed against the girl’s fevered brow. Again and again Charlotte applied the compresses as Nicholas massaged the salve into Josie’s skin. Despite the open windows, the air in the room was warm and still. Charlotte wiped her brow with her sleeve and tried to keep pace with Nicholas’s sure movements.

  “Miss?” Sister Beatrice stood behind Charlotte. “I’ve no right to ask, but I wonder whether you would help me with Mrs. Chamblin. She’s wanting to turn onto her side, and I can’t lift her.”

  “Of course.” Leaving Nicholas to tend to Josie, Charlotte followed the nun to the woman’s mattress. Together they managed to get Mrs. Chamblin onto her side. Then a young boy called for water. Wordlessly Sister Beatrice pressed a pitcher and a glass into Charlotte’s hands before hurrying away to check on an old man who was calling for her. A younger nun, her face pale and round as a balloon, scurried along behind them, picking up soiled linens and depositing them into a wicker hamper.

  As the putrid smells of disease and death wafted through the stuffy room, Charlotte was thankful she hadn’t eaten much dinner. She was perilously close to losing the few bites she’d consumed before Nicholas’s news stole her appetite. She poured water from the pitcher and held the boy’s shoulders while he drank, then fluffed the sweaty pillow of the woman lying next to him.

  Another hour passed. The front door opened and a black-clad undertaker came in, accompanied by two men carrying a stretcher. Sister Beatrice led them to the two bodies, which were quickly loaded onto the stretcher. Charlotte stood at the window, gulping the tar-scented air, wishing she hadn’t been so quick to offer her help. How on earth could anyone bear such misery day after day?

  “Charlotte?” Nicholas stood behind her, drying his hands on a white towel. “There’s nothing more to be done for Josie tonight. Give me a moment to speak to Sister, and I’ll see you home.”

  “I can go alone. It isn’t that far, and it’s obvious you’re needed here.”

  He looked into her face, and she saw how utterly exhausted he was. “Dr. Werner will be here in a little while so that Sister can get some sleep. I’d really like to talk to you if you’re up to it.”

  Despite the distressing news he’d delivered earlier in the evening, her heart turned over. “All right.”

  While Nicholas checked on the other patients, the younger nun appeared with a basin of clean water, soap, and towels. “I thought you might be wanting to freshen yourself, miss.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Charlotte dipped the towel into the cool water and washed the sweat from her brow and the back of her neck. The elaborate hairstyle upon which Fabienne had lavished so much care was now matted, the pins falling onto her wrinkled skirt.

  She looked down at the sleeping Josie, her resentment all but forgotten. The girl had helped others, even if her motivation for doing so had been less than altruistic. That counted for something.

  “Ready?” Nicholas appeared at her side, and they left the infirmary.

  Nicholas called up to the carriage driver, “Orleans Palace, please. Prytania Street.”

  As he handed her into the waiting carriage, a wagon clattered along the street and came to a stop at the infirmary door.

  “More patients,” Nicholas said, his voice tinged with fatigue. “Some days it seems this scourge will never end.”

  Charlotte tucked her skirts about her. “Will Josie be all right?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes after an initial bout of the fever, patients recover. But based on what she told me, this is her second battle with it, and the second round is often fatal.”

  “Should we attempt to contact her family?”

  He passed a hand over his tired eyes. “I suppose so.”

  “I haven’t posted my letter to Augusta yet. I’ll ask her to make some inquiries. I know Josie has relatives in North Carolina, but I don’t know their names.”

  He nodded and stared out the open carriage window. Charlotte followed his gaze. Distant music and the smells of burning tar, stagnant water, and honeysuckle rode the hot breeze wafting through the carriage. “Do you ever worry that you might contract the fever?”

&n
bsp; He shook his head. “I had it as a boy. I’m immune. Which obligates me to do all I can for others.”

  “You’re wearing yourself out, Nicholas. I understand your desire to help. But you must think of your daughters. They need you too.”

  “I realize that. I’ve already spoken to Dr. Werner about finding a replacement for me. But doctors who are willing to step into the middle of an epidemic are scarce.”

  “Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise will be ecstatic to see you. How soon might you come home?”

  “Perhaps in a week or two, if we don’t have many more cases coming in.” He sent her a tired smile. “Now, of course, I must wait to see how Josie fares.”

  The carriage drew up at the hotel, the horse snorting and jingling his harness. Neither Charlotte nor Nicholas moved. Insects sang in the garden. At last she said, “What did you want to talk about?”

  In the moonlight coming through the window, his profile was endearing. Familiar. He leaned over, and his hands—strong, warm, healing—enveloped hers. “So many things, but suddenly I am too tired to think.”

  The carriage driver jumped down and opened the door. “Here we are, sir. The Orleans Palace.”

  “Just a moment.” Nicholas turned to her. “When you were here before with your father, did you go to Milneburg? On Lake Pontchartrain? It’s a beautiful place, and there are all kinds of entertainments.”

  She shook her head. “We were here only a short time, and my father was always in meetings. There wasn’t much time for sightseeing.”

  “Then come with me tomorrow. It’s Dr. Werner’s turn to take charge, and I promised to deliver some quinine to one of his patients in Milneburg. I’ll check on my patients here first thing, then we can take the train to the lake. We’ll spend the day and be back before dark.”

  “I don’t know, Nicholas. I—”

  He took her hand. “Please say yes. I cannot tell you how much I need a respite from the clinic, and I would love to spend the day with you.”

  Fatigue, worry, and the unrelenting humid heat gnawed at her. And in the wake of his news about the barony, she had much to sort out. But the prospect of an entire day of leisure beside a cooling lake was too tempting to refuse. “All right. I’d like that.”

  He helped her from the carriage and walked her to the door. “Thank you for your help tonight. You performed admirably.”

  “I’m only glad I don’t have to do it every day. I can’t imagine how any of you bear it.”

  “It does take its toll.” He opened the door with a weary smile. “I’ll call for you at ten tomorrow, if that isn’t too early.”

  “Ten will be fine. Good night, Nicholas.”

  She watched through the doorway as the carriage rolled through the porte cochere and onto the street, headed for St. Charles Avenue. She went inside and up the stairs, bone tired but too enervated to sleep.

  Twenty-Five

  Filled to capacity with Sunday revelers, the train slid into Milneburg station and shuddered to a stop. Charlotte gathered her parasol and reticule and followed Nicholas off the train. The five-mile ride from Faubourg Marigny on the Ponchartrain Railroad had been too short and too noisy for much conversation. But now, as they joined a group of travelers headed toward the Washington Hotel, they finally had a chance to talk.

  Nicholas had visited the infirmary early before calling for Charlotte at the hotel. On the carriage ride to the train station, he reported that no patients had died in the night. Josie appeared to be improving and was sleeping peacefully. He had left instructions with Sister Beatrice to give her another dose of laudanum if she needed it. And Dr. Werner had reported that new cases at Father Alphonse’s convent clinic seemed to be slowing.

  “Does that mean the worst of the epidemic is over?”

  “Perhaps. I pray so. Though of course we won’t be completely out of danger until the black frost.” Nicholas offered her his arm. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not very. The hotel cook returned from the hinterlands last night, and this morning Mr. Dubois fed me as if I’m royalty. I think he’s happy to have someone to look after.”

  “Then let’s walk for a while. We’ll deliver this quinine to Mr. Morgan’s tobacco shop and take in the sights.”

  They reached a set of stairs attached to a network of wooden boardwalks that led past hotels, noisy saloons, bathhouses, and shops. All were built on wooden piers in the shallows of Lake Ponchartrain, giving pedestrians the illusion of walking on water. Charlotte waited in the shade of the building while Nicholas went inside the tobacco shop. Moments later he returned, and they continued down the long boardwalk.

  “Is Dr. Werner’s patient all right?” Charlotte asked.

  “I believe so. He says he feels better today.” Nicholas indicated the shimmering lake. “It’s quite something, isn’t it? I came here for the first time with my grandfather when I was a boy. Of course, there weren’t nearly so many buildings here then. The lighthouse was just a rickety old wooden one.”

  He watched two young boys playing tag, a wistful look in his eyes. “Look at them. So full of possibility. When I was their age, I’d lie in my room for hours listening to the steamboats passing on the river. Dreaming of what would happen when I became a man.”

  She imagined Nicholas as he must have been as a boy—long-legged, green-eyed, full of hope and imagination, and she felt a sense of loss at not having known him when they were young and unburdened by grief and responsibility.

  “It’s like another world here, Nicholas. Hard to believe it’s only five miles from the infirmary.”

  He nodded. “Gabrielle—my wife—and I came here often when we were first married. After a while it became routine for me, but she never tired of it. She always loved New Orleans more than I did.”

  They strolled past a shady park across from the train station where a courting couple sat on a bench, their heads bent to a conversation meant only for them. “You must miss her terribly,” Charlotte said.

  “Yes. Her death was quite a blow. I don’t think anyone ever fully recovers from such a loss.” He smiled into her eyes. “But I’ve made my peace with it. My children are a great comfort.”

  They continued to the end of the boardwalk, where an old Creole man in a faded red suit had set up a souvenir stand. Nicholas stopped to consider the man’s wares: delicately carved miniature carousels, shiny wooden sailboats sporting tiny linen sails, porcelain dolls with painted faces.

  “What shall I buy you for a souvenir?” Nicholas asked.

  “That’s kind of you, but not necessary.”

  “I know. But I want to.” He selected a black lacquered box painted with pink and white camellias and opened the lid, releasing the tinkling notes of Brahms’s lullaby. “What do you think of this?”

  “It’s lovely, but—”

  “How much?” he asked the old man.

  The vendor held up three fingers, and Nicholas handed over the money. “I want to get something for the girls too.”

  She watched as he considered each object, turning it over in his hands, lips pursed in concentration. Finally he chose one of the little sailboats and a gold-clad jumping jack wearing a purple jester’s mask.

  “What do you think of these?”

  “They’re wonderful.”

  “But?” He regarded her, brows raised in question.

  “Anne-Louise fancies dolls these days. She asked Augusta to make one for her. And Marie-Claire considers herself much too grown-up for toys. She’s become friends with one of the children I teach, an older girl. She won’t admit it, but she idolizes Bess.”

  “I see.” He set the toys aside, his smile replaced by a look of sadness. “It’s one sorry day when a father has no inkling of such things.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself. You came here to secure their right to your property, and you’ve accomplished that.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And Josie stole the letter that would have given you news of their interests.”

  “
Still, I never intended to stay away so long. Perhaps I’ve become too involved in caring for the fever victims.”

  “Father was fond of saying it’s a sin to waste one’s talents, but you have done your part.” She handed him the music box. “This will be the perfect gift for Marie-Claire. Her first grown-up present. And she will never forget that it came from her father.” She smiled. “I still have a gold locket my father gave me for my tenth birthday.”

  “But I wanted you to have it.”

  She ran her finger along the satiny wood of the little boat. “This suits me just as well. I’ll treasure it as a reminder of today, and of all my journeys.”

  He paid for the boat and the doll and tucked the package under his arm. “Let’s go. I want to show you the lighthouse.”

  She slipped the little boat into her reticule, and they joined others on a leisurely stroll along the long pier, past an oceangoing ship riding anchor and then to the brick lighthouse at the end of the pier. From beneath the shade of her parasol, Charlotte looked out over the glittering waters of the lake. Across from the network of boardwalks, a steady stream of men and women in their Sunday best came and went from the bathhouse and the Washington Hotel. In the park several black-clad musicians hurried about setting up a bandstand, and a pair of redheaded boys in short pants and straw boaters struggled to launch a kite. Couples in rowboats drifted on the water, their voices snatched and released by the steady breeze.

  Nicholas grinned down at her. “Are you hungry yet?”

  She wasn’t really all that ravenous, but Nicholas obviously was, and so she nodded. “Something cool to drink would be most welcome.”

  Half an hour later they were seated at a table in the hotel dining room enjoying a luncheon of chilled potato soup and grilled trout. Afterward they listened to the concert in the park and bought lemon tarts from the bakery just down the boardwalk from a crowded saloon.