Love Finds You in New Orleans, LA
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Love Finds You in New Orleans, Louisiana
Love Finds You [49]
Christa Allan
BookMasters (2012)
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Tags: Love Finds You in New Orleans: Louisiana
1841. Ever since her parents died of yellow fever when she was a child, Charotte LeClerc has lived with her grandparents, who rarely speak of their son and his wife. They are on the verge of negotiating a marriage contract with a suitor, a man Charlotte loathes, when they discover that she enjoys the company of Gabriel Girod, a young Creole man. Charlotte's future hangs in the balance as her grandparents consider whether to stop keeping secrets and reveal the truth that they've known since before her birth -- a truth that will make the difference between a life of obligation and a life of choice for Charlotte.
CHRISTA ALLAN
Summerside Press™
Minneapolis 55438
www.summersidepress.com
Love Finds You in New Orleans, Louisiana
© 2012 by Christa Allan
ISBN 978-1-60936-591-2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture references are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV).
The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.
Cover design by Garborg Design Works | www.garborgdesign.com
Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net
Cover photo of woman by Mark Owen / Trevillion Images
Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Printed in USA.
Dedication
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In loving memory of my precious parents, without whom I would not have been born in New Orleans.
Acknowledgments
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Writing a novel about finding love in New Orleans meant finding helpful friends and family from sea to shining sea. My gratitude is extended…
To everyone at Summerside Press who contributed to the birth of this novel and to those who will deliver it to readers, I thank you for your attention.
To Rachel Meisel, editorial director of fiction, for offering me the opportunity to write about the city I love and steering me along the way. To editor Ellen Tarver, for her insights and fine-tooth combing.
To my savvy agent, Sandra Bishop of MacGregor Literary. She’s wise and funny and patient. I couldn’t place the future of my writing career in safer hands. Sandra never does what I expect her to do. She does more.
Thanks to Jenny B. Jones and Ginny Yttrup for reading, re-reading, re-re-reading, and continuing to answer e-mails and phone calls even after they knew they were from me.
To my brother, John Bassil, for accompanying me to museums and antique stores without complaint.
To Stacey Alexius for her fact-finding missions. To Michelle Mecom, for providing reference novels and sanity breaks between classes, and to Adam Rowe, for clearing out his Louisiana history collection.
To the monthly GNO group who, even when I couldn’t tear myself away from the nineteenth century to join them, checked on me to give me glimpses of the twenty-first century.
To Elizabeth Pearce, culinary historian at the Hermann-Grima Historic House in New Orleans, for answering my food questions. Along the way I discovered the Southern Folk Artist & Antiques blog written by Andrew Hopkins. His lovely photographs and detailed descriptions were invaluable.
To the Starbucks crew on Barataria Blvd., I appreciate your allowing me the corner chair to write away the day.
To Shea Embry and Cam and Will Mangham, thank you for welcoming us home to Camellia Manor and being a part of rewriting our history.
And last, but never least:
To my husband, Ken, for entertaining himself during my time travels and welcoming me back from the 1840s in the most unexpected and delightful way.
To my children for continuing to support and encourage me.
And to a most loving Father, who reminds me that I’m not the boss of Him and who has been generous beyond measure.
NEW ORLEANS IS A CITY MUCH LIKE THE GUMBO FOR WHICH IT IS famous. Populated by the Indians, founded by the French in 1718, and later inhabited by the Spanish, the Germans, and the British, various cultures have simmered for centuries, creating a stew of rich, hearty, and vibrant people.
Called “the Crescent City” because its communities expanded along the half-moon curve in the river, New Orleans is as genteel as it is raucous, as flamboyant as it is understated, and as historic as it is contemporary. In one day, visitors can admire the towering triple steeples of Saint Louis Cathedral, the oldest cathedral in North America; meander into the French Quarter for Sunday brunch and listen to jazz in the lush courtyard of the Court of Two Sisters; shop for antiques along Magazine Street; stop at Plum Street’s Snoball Stand, where the treats are served in Chinese takeout containers; dine on the two-hour Natchez steamboat cruise along the Mississippi; and end the night with coffee and beignets at Café du Monde, the original French Market coffee stand.
Soulful jazz spiraling from clubs on Frenchmen Street, lavender wild irises and pink azaleas splashed along Creole cottages, beads and doubloons tossed at Mardi Gras parades, streetcars clanging along St. Charles Avenue, and fleur-de-lis-flocked Saints fans chanting “who dats” all the way to the Superdome—New Orleans wraps her arms around you and hugs you so close, you can feel her heartbeat.
Christa Allan
Chapter One
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January 1841
Grand-mère and Abram were due home from the French Market at any moment, and Charlotte could not convince Henri to leave her bedroom.
“You know Abram will throw you out the door, and after Grandmère is finished with me, I may never leave this bedroom. Forever a prisoner of this house.” Well, forever until the day of her coming-out party. Lottie knew there would be no missing that event even if she wanted to. And most days, she wanted to forget the event entirely.
Henri yawned and stared back at her.
“If your belly wasn’t so full, you wouldn’t be so content.”
He stretched and blinked a few times as if to say, “Whose fault is that?”
Of course he was right. Lottie reached for her mattress and pulled herself up from crouching on the floor to have her one-way conversation with the calico cat that eluded capture under her four-poster bed. She’d started feeding Henri the day she spotted him wobbling after the milk lady’s cart. Madame Margaret delivered the milk to Grand-mère and went on her way, but the cat with the pleading gray eyes stayed behind. Her grandmother begrudgingly relented when Lottie begged to feed him, as long as she promised he would never, ever cross the threshold into their house.
Still wearing her nightgown, all Lottie could do was peek through the muslin curtains. “Only two houses away,” she whispered, as if the words might alarm Henri. She turned around just as the spotted cat started to make his escape, and in a movement so swift that she almost toppled into her armoire, she snatched him.
Even before Grand-mère made her entrance through the wroughtiron gate at the rear of the house, with her basket sprouting colorful vegetables, Lottie had deposited the cat on the front steps. She hurried through the library and the parlor and up to her bedroom—just in time to see Agnes pick up the china saucer left under the bed.
Agnes looked over Lottie’s shoulder and then
behind, toward the gallery, where Lottie’s grandmother, Marie LeClerc, could be heard already discussing dinner with the cook. “Now, Miss Genevieve Charlotte…” Agnes lowered her voice from its usual trumpet blast and set her chestnut eyes right on Lottie’s guilty face. “You forget your cup this morning when you fount the coffee?”
Without waiting for an answer, which they both knew would be one step away from the truth, Agnes slipped the saucer into the wide front pocket of her white apron. “I’m taking care of this”—she patted her pocket—“while you taking care of getting dressed for the day.”
Lottie wanted to hug her, but Agnes backed away and waved her arms in front of her to ensure her distance. “You best wash that cat off your hands before wrapping your arms round me. No telling where that mister been since you last saw him.” Agnes secured the mosquito netting to the four posters of Lottie’s bed, surveyed the room, and looked into the ceramic basin on the dresser. “Well, your water is fresh. Your grandmother gonna start calling your name if she don’t see you soon.” She walked out of the room.
After Lottie splashed water on her hands and face, she pulled the blue chintz day dress from her armoire and laid it across her bed. The skirt and bodice showed some wear, but for Lottie, that meant she could soon cut it down to sew dresses for the orphan home. Weeks ago, she had gone to the home for the first time with Gabriel when he delivered food there. She had taken a homespun summer dress covered with pink, blue, and yellow flowers that no longer covered her pantaloons. Grand-mère had been appalled the last time she’d worn it, so Lottie had decided her grandmother wouldn’t mind if she gave it away.
Not that Lottie had told her about giving it away yet. Even though her dress could clothe at least two of the girls, she feared her grandparents would not want her traipsing to an orphan home—with Gabriel, no less. How many times had Grand-mère droned, “Picking up strays again, dear?” Gabriel, the orphans, Henri—all defined as strays by her grandmother.
I’ll tell her after my twentieth birthday. It’s nearly two months away. Lottie laughed at the thought that she would be old enough to take a husband into the house and a dress out of the house on the same day. She might even write that in her letter to her parents, one she would compose later when she sat at her desk to share her day with them, as she had almost every day for the past ten years. Lottie told no one about her letters. They would have called her foolish to write to people who were never going to write her back.
* * * * *
Grand-mère informed Lottie over breakfast that she would be taking music instructions from Madame Fontenot because “playing the pianoforte reflects a lady’s culture and sophistication.”
“Why do I need to be cultured and sophisticated?” Lottie reached for a second croissant, but Grand-mère whisked away the basket and handed her a bowl of strawberries.
“Why, Charlotte, suitors appreciate ladies who can play music, especially something as entertaining as the pianoforte.” Grand-mère placed the basket of croissants next to her own plate, sighed, and mumbled as if speaking to the tablecloth.
As usual, when her grandmother spoke to the air, Charlotte pretended not to listen. She had spent years not hearing what she was certain Grand-mère expected her to hear.
“Entertaining? Will that require years of lessons?” Actually, Lottie hoped so. Anything to put distance between herself and the prospect of suitors.
Her grandmother settled her coffee cup in its saucer. “Certainly not. Unless, that is, you show promise. In that case, your lessons could continue even after you are married.”
Had she not just bitten into the sweet strawberry, Lottie might have tasted the sourness in her stomach as it rose to her throat. But, as always, she would defer to her grandmother’s plans. She brushed off the croissant crumbs sprinkled on the bodice of her gown and patted her mouth with her napkin. “May I be excused?”
“Of course,” Grand-mére said. “But before you leave, it might brighten your face to know that I’ve arranged for Justine to join you in your lessons.”
Lottie smiled. “Thank you. It does make me happy to know that she and I will be sharing the time.” And the suffering, she thought.
“What are your plans for the day?” Grand-mère folded her napkin over her breakfast plate and stood.
“Justine and I planned to work on our samplers this morning since we both need more practice with stitches. She should be here within the hour.” Lottie followed her grandmother into the butler’s pantry to rinse their dishes.
“If I finish planning the week’s meals with Cook, I may join you. If not, you can show me your progress later.”
Lottie nodded as she dried her plate and hoped for a difficult menu planning.
* * * * *
“I suppose suitors appreciate ladies who eat only one croissant at breakfast,” Lottie told her friend Justine Dumas as they worked on their samplers in the library. Looking behind her to make certain her grandmother hadn’t slipped in, Lottie lifted her sewing and snapped the end of her thread with her teeth before staring at the half-finished piece. “I wish the alphabet didn’t have so many letters.” She tugged a green thread from the bundle of string. “Look, Justine, it’s the color of your eyes. I’m going to sew the J with it.”
Justine leaned over the arm of her chair to get a closer look. “No, that is the color of celery.” She smoothed the almost-completed needlework on her lap and raised her head with an air of mock sophistication. “My eyes are like two glittering emeralds.”
Lottie smiled and pulled the threads into a knot. “Somewhere between there is the truth. Like the truth I learned this morning.”
“Maybe your grandmother doesn’t want you to outgrow your corset.” Justine giggled and coaxed her needle through the muslin. “But isn’t it exciting to think about being courted, then engaged and married?”
“No. All that excites me is that you will join me in those pianoforte punishments. I will have a partner in suffering.” Lottie placed the back of her hand to her forehead and swooned in imitation of Emmeline, Justine’s cousin, who joined them for Spanish lessons with Señor Marino. At least once a month, Emmy felt faint and always managed to fall into his arms. Perhaps there would be an engagement announced soon.
“My mother was delighted to have one fewer lesson to schedule,” said Justine. As the youngest of seven, Justine often orchestrated her own social life since her older siblings, and now their children, kept her mother in a perpetual state of obligation and confusion.
They slipped into comfortable silence. The afternoon sun bowed out of the sky as if its dance with the day had ended. Shadows lazily drifted through the tall windows while the girls collected their threads and samplers to continue another time.
Agnes’s orders to Abram vibrated through the rooms. “Why you not out there lookin’ for Mr. LeClerc? Go wait by that porte cochère where his carriage come in. Remember, the doctor said he got a weak heart.” Lottie imagined Abram’s usual response of shaking his head in what Agnes called his “what you gonna do with her” way. Agnes and Abram had been with Lottie’s grandparents longer than she had. Before Lottie had reached the age of ten, old enough to join her grandparents at dinner, she had felt like Agnes’s daughter. Often, she wished she was.
Justine adjusted the bow of her bonnet, even though Lottie had remarked earlier that the evening shade didn’t require a bonnet at all. She had just reached for the door latch when she suddenly grabbed Lottie’s arm as if she’d fallen into the swamp. “Charlotte, I have the most wonderful idea.” Her face certainly reflected the excitement in her voice.
“Is the idea that you will not squeeze my arm again?”
“You are so silly.” Justine let go, smoothed the sleeve she had mangled, and leaned toward Lottie. “We could have our coming-out parties together, even though you are older. Everyone understands the fright over contagion because of the fever in the city. Your coming-out party was not the only one delayed.”
Justine’s words ran out
of her mouth so fast, they bumped into one another. The speed of her words wasn’t a problem, but her ever-increasing volume was. Lottie pressed a finger against Justine’s lips. “Shush. No talking about this now. I am hoping my grandparents forget—”
“Forget?” Justine pulled back and looked at Lottie as though she’d just told her she’d met Andrew Jackson. “Do you really think your grandmother would forget such an important event?”
Important for her. A chance to market me to a rich man she can boast about. Lottie didn’t have to think of an answer, because they both knew what it would be—and because someone knocked on the door.
Benjamin, one of Justine’s older brothers, waited outside. He nodded in Lottie’s direction, looked at Justine as Lottie imagined only an annoyed older brother could, and said, “Mother sent me for you.”
Lottie laughed. “You live four houses away.”
Justine stepped out of the house. “Charlotte, that kind of thinking is your problem. It’s not the distance. A lady should not walk the streets in the evening without a chaperone.”
“That was one of the best ‘elegant lady’ statements I’ve ever heard from you. Our deportment teacher would be so proud.”
Justine giggled. “I will be back tomorrow for our first pianoforte lesson.”
Again, Benjamin nodded toward Lottie, and the two walked away. Lottie watched as they moved down the banquette and maneuvered around sludge that was too thick to slip into the ditches. The gaslights swaying from the ropes fastened to tall poles along the street seemed to blink as they passed.
Lottie pushed the door closed and wished she could close the door on her dreams as easily.
* * * * *
“How is it that you can be late for our lesson when it is in your parlor?” Justine did not stop practicing scales on the pianoforte to acknowledge Lottie’s arrival. Madame Fontenot sat next to her—though with the bench invisible under yards of Justine’s calico dress and their teacher’s black skirt, the two appeared to be suspended in perfect alignment. But had Lottie stepped any closer, Madame’s glance in her direction would have left cuts. Justine and Lottie often joked that Madame Fontenot paid Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen, for those chilling expressions.