Lottie closed the parlor doors behind her and mentally pinched herself to avoid saying something to Madame or Justine she might later be made to regret. She was not going to tell either one of them that she overslept after staying awake longer than intended so she could write a letter to her parents.
Lottie sat in the padded chair facing the tall windows at the front of the house and waited for Justine’s lesson to end. As far as she was concerned, Justine could have Lottie’s lesson time too.
Lottie watched a carriage pass, its curtains drawn, and wished she were in it, headed down Rue Royale. Instead she listened to Madame Fontenot as she reminded Justine, “Wrists up, fingers curved,” and dreaded her own practice. She tapped her feet on the thick Turkish carpet; waves of pale blue chintz swished back and forth, keeping time with each key that Justine’s fingers touched. Lottie felt as gray and as restless as the clouds outside. Maybe Grand-mère will allow a trip to the opera this evening—
“Charlotte, Justine has finished her lesson.” Madame Fontenot waved her over to the bench.
“I will be in the library. Your grandfather invited me to select a book,” Justine said to Lottie. She opened the door and pressed her gown to her side as she passed through the opening.
As Lottie lifted herself off the chair, she spotted a familiar tignon making its way across the street, made even more familiar by the young man behind, who carried a large woven basket. Whatever hope Governor Miró had that requiring free women of color to wear the knotted headdresses in public would make them less attractive surely had not counted on women like Rosette Girod. The handkerchief swirls of orchid-shaded silk framed her exotic face. Without the tignon, Lottie knew, she and Rosette could have walked together in the French Market and no one who passed would have identified Rosette as a free woman of color. Her features were echoed in her son Gabriel, who, as a child, explained his light complexion to Agnes by telling her that before he was born, God had dipped him into a pot of café au lait. As she watched, Lottie saw Rosette point in the direction of her home.
Lottie’s time with Gabriel had been severely curtailed since he started helping Rosette at her Chartres Street café a few years ago. What started as a stand selling coffee and hot calas—the deep-fried rice cakes eaten for breakfast—had, over the years, become an outdoor café with chairs and tables. Churchgoers who poured out of Saint Louis Cathedral on Sunday mornings spilled right into the café that bore Rosette’s mother’s name, Café Elizabeth.
Fueled by the possibility of talking to Gabriel, who actually cared what she thought, Lottie hurried past the piano bench. “I will return tout de suite,” she told a tight-lipped Madame before heading to the library. Justine truly was reading. Romeo and Juliet, of course. Lottie plucked the play out of her friend’s hands. “Rosette and Gabriel are on their way to visit. Tell Agnes the lessons are almost over. See if they can stay until we finish.” Lottie felt as surprised as Justine appeared by the urgency in her voice.
“We?” Justine returned the volume to the étagère, sliding it between Macbeth and The Tempest. “I’m finished. So what I’m actually asking is if they can wait on you.” She held a small silver tray she’d found on Grand-père’s desk up to her face and smoothed her hair along each side of her part.
“Charlotte.” Lottie didn’t need to see Madame’s face to assess the level of her irritation. The second syllable of her name sounded as heavy as an anchor. An anchor that landed on the t.
At that moment, Lottie mentally thanked her grandmother for deportment lessons. She turned around, cast her eyes downward, and clasped her hands loosely at her waist. “Forgive me, Madame Fontenot. I did not want to forget to deliver an important message to Justine.”
“I have other students today, so your lesson will have to end right on time. Come with me. You have already wasted enough time.”
Lottie nodded and, when she sat next to Madame on the piano bench, produced a genuine smile and said, “Let’s begin.”
Chapter Two
...........................
If a Shakespeare character could write about music to her ears, then an orchestra waited in the courtyard for Charlotte.
The melody of Agnes’s round voice, Rosette’s words riding on the wave of emotions, Gabriel’s steady hum as he talked to the cook, and, like an unexpected clash of cymbals, Justine’s laughter as she spoke to Grand-mère. They were all gathered around the cypress table near the outdoor kitchen, the women’s dresses an explosion of soft hues amidst the fruit and magnolia trees. Agnes, Rosette, and Gabriel wrapped pairs of pecan pralines in madras squares. Standing away from the smoke that curled like soft gray ribbons through the lemon trees, Justine and Grand-mère chatted, their heads tilted toward one another like flowers whose blooms are too heavy for their stems.
How is it that my grandmother converses with my friend, even pats Justine’s hand, and yet her talks with me seem like an obligation—sometimes a nuisance? Grand-père says I’m too sensitive. Maybe Grandmère isn’t sensitive enough.
Lottie picked up her skirt to avoid tripping on the steps that led from the screened gallery onto the slate pavers that surrounded the garden. Had it been summer, no one would have ventured far from the back room that opened to the courtyard, allowing even the whispers of breezes. The New Orleans summer wrapped such a steamy blanket around the city that most residents fled for summer homes in the country or across the lake. Grand-père owned a cottage in Mandeville, so they sometimes spent cooler days enjoying the lake breezes. Families not so fortunate dressed in lightweight linens, slept on their porches, and prayed for an early fall. But today, the January sun treated them to warm breezes. Winters rested in New Orleans.
Lottie headed in Grand-mère’s direction, because to do otherwise would be to risk her sharp-edged tongue later.
“Madame Fontenot had another class scheduled. She apologized for not speaking to you before she left. She said she will be back next week,” Lottie said.
“So, Charlotte,” Grandmother said, glancing at Justine for a wisp of time, “did you enjoy the lesson?”
Lottie glared at Justine, who appeared to be entranced with the slate paver on which Lottie stood. “Well, I think the lessons will be interesting.” She wouldn’t be dishonest, especially since she suspected that Justine had already suggested Lottie’s lack of enthusiasm.
Grand-mère frowned at Lottie. “You must listen more closely to your deportment instructor and eliminate ‘well’ from your conversations.” She turned toward Justine and placed her hand on the young woman’s cheek. “My dear, you must have your bonnet, or else this dreadful sun will scorch your lovely ivory skin.”
“Oh, you are so right,” said Justine. Lottie watched, almost blinded by the glow of gratitude on her friend’s face. Rosette could have sweetened her pralines with Justine’s smile instead of brown sugar. “I think I left it on the sofa in the parlor.”
But before Justine could place a slippered toe toward the house, Grand-mère held up her hand. “Wait. I can send Agnes to retrieve it.”
“Agnes is helping Rosette. I can fetch it for her,” Lottie said, aware too late that retch could have replaced fetch and sounded equally offensive.
Justine immediately averted her eyes. Grand-mère looked composed, but disapproval tightened her jaw and Lottie knew this would not be the end. As she’d gotten older, she’d become more aware of social distinctions, but she still couldn’t understand her grandparents’ attitude toward their slaves. Abram and Agnes filled the well of Lottie’s earliest memories. Their firm, warm grasps as she skipped between them on their way to buy croissants at the French Market…her giggles when Abram scooped her up and twirled her around as an antidote to Grand-mère’s harsh words…and always, the familiar smell of chicory and gumbo filé when she rested her sleepy head against Agnes’s neck as she was carried upstairs to bed.
It wasn’t until Lottie grew older that the differences were explained to her: gens de couleur libres were the free people of color who
carried papers to prove they weren’t slaves bought and sold at market. Slaves like Agnes and Abram. But then, even some free people of color owned house slaves. Ownership of someone else just did not make sense to Lottie. It was exactly the reason, too, that Lottie dreaded the day she would have to marry. She didn’t want to be a wife owned by a man.
Lottie knew her grandmother’s pinched face had more to do with Lottie’s tone than her offer. Disrespect was not tolerated, of course, which likely accounted for children being “seen and not heard” in many households. Once Lottie had overheard her grandmother telling her dressmaker that she wondered some days if children shouldn’t even be seen. Today, Lottie wished she could be both invisible and mute. When will she notice that her own granddaughter’s head is bare?
In that suspended moment, she hoped she could issue an apology before the waves of her response crashed against the wall that was her grandmother. Lottie attempted to look and sound more penitent than she felt. Softening her voice, with her eyes cast down, she said, “Please, forgive—”
The sudden presence of Gabriel silenced her. He turned briefly to Lottie and murmured, “Excuse me,” then faced Grand-mère and Justine. Dressed simply in the dark blue trousers and white shirt he wore when he helped Rosette in the café, Gabriel lowered his head to avoid a tree branch posing no threat to the women. “Here is your bonnet, Mademoiselle Dumas,” he said, holding out the handcrafted lace bonnet as if he had placed it on a silver tray. His voice reminded Lottie of the velvet dresses she wore in the winters—elegant, yet comforting in its warmth. It could have belonged to a man twice his age. When they were younger, Gabriel had told Lottie he was glad God gave him that voice. It made him seem older and better able to provide for and protect his mother and sister after his father left them.
Justine placed the bonnet over her wilting curls and chirped, “Why, Gabriel, what a kind gesture.”
He nodded then turned his attention to Lottie’s grandmother. “Madame LeClerc, my mother and I would like to leave some pralines for you. A little lagniappe, as it were, as thanks for allowing Agnes to spend time with us.”
“Of course, of course,” she said and waved her hand as if to dismiss him, yet all the while glaring at Lottie.
“Perhaps…” Gabriel blinked in that honey-eyed innocence Charlotte recognized from years ago. The one he’d use to avoid Rosette’s wrath when he’d been mischievous. He looked at Lottie and ever so slightly nodded his head. “Mademoiselle Charlotte could make the selection and then retreat to the house, having no bonnet herself.”
To hide the smile about to make its presence known, Lottie held her hand over her mouth and feigned a slight cough. Were it not for the weight of the situation, her skirt, and his status, she might have hugged Gabriel. But the wiry boy who taught her how to pull crawfish out of ditches had disappeared inside the muscular young man who stood in front of her today. Hugging this version of Gabriel could, if she allowed herself, take on more meaning than friendship. But her future would be shaped by society and her grandparents. And it didn’t include Gabriel.
Lottie recovered from the onset of her throat disturbance, smiled at Gabriel, and, before her grandmother could speak, said, “I would be happy to help Grand-mère by doing that.”
She walked to the table with Gabriel, leaving Justine, whose mouth had formed a perfect circle, and her grandmother, whose lips had formed a perfect line between her nose and her chin.
“It was kind of you to protect me from my grandmother,” she whispered as they walked away.
“I knew she would not be rude to me as she would to you. And how else could I thank you for standing up for Agnes?” He grinned.
Lottie blushed, thinking of an answer to the question.
* * * * *
After their dinner, Lottie rose to carry the china to the butler’s pantry, where she and Grand-mère would hand wash and dry the table settings. When she had grown old enough to join her grandparents for meals, Lottie was deemed old enough to participate in cleaning the dishes too. The two women carried the Sevres china plates and serving pieces themselves because Grand-mère didn’t entrust the pieces to the house servants. What confused Lottie about the ritual was that the slaves were allowed to carry the dishes to the table. Agnes had told her, “No worrying about that. I’m glad Miz LeClerc don’t want me touching them plates, if they that temperamental. Beside, they probably cost more than me.”
As Lottie reached for her grandfather’s plate, Grand-mère said, “Charlotte, I will take care of the china. Your grandfather and I have decided that the two of you have matters to discuss.” She looked at her husband. “Isn’t this so, Louis?”
It wasn’t truly a question.
Louis LeClerc stood, straightened the front of his frock coat, and motioned toward the library. “Come, Lottie, we will talk before I return to work.”
Lottie’s confusion left her motionless for a moment. Usually her grandfather rested for a while after their large midday meal, avoiding the sweltering sun, and then he would go back to his office. Since his heart problems, sometimes he even napped on one of the daybeds that was pulled out to the gallery at the end of dinner. So for him to spend that time engaged in a conversation with Lottie meant that her grandmother had found time before they ate to inform him of the morning’s events. And since Grand-mère had already carried the serving dishes into the pantry, her part in the conversation was already over.
Lottie brushed her fingertips down the front of her dress in case piecrust crumbs had landed there. “Yes, PaPa,” she responded, as if there would be another answer.
Not that she didn’t expect repercussions.
Grandmother was quite predictable when it came to doling out consequences. Quite often, the more severe the offense, the longer Grand-mère waited before she dispensed the penalty. The time Lottie hid in the carriage house just to see if she was missed, she’d begged her grandmother to administer swift punishment, but Grand-mère had waited until the next morning to inform Lottie that she would spend the night sleeping in the one empty stall in the stable. Her grandfather must not have agreed with the decision, because when a disapproving, mumbling Agnes escorted Lottie across the courtyard, they were accompanied by the crescendo of her grandparents’ voices from their upstairs bedroom. Lottie remembered hearing Grand-mère mention her mother’s name, but the rest sounded like a cartful of bells that had been thrown down the stairs. Agnes and Abram took turns checking on her that night. Agnes had given her a warm praline that not only melted on her tongue like snow crystals of brown sugar but sweetened the air a bit too. That next morning, Lottie awoke to a pair of arms scooping her off the hay and the soft tickle of her grandfather’s beard as he kissed her on the forehead and whispered, “Je t’aime ma petite fille jolie” when he tucked her into the cool soap-scented sheets on her bed. Nothing Grand-mère could ever do would erase the memory of his voice telling her he loved his pretty little girl.
By now, Lottie understood that the delay between action and reaction was an element of the punishment. It typically did not involve her grandfather, which made this meeting all the more unusual. But at least I can spend some time with him. Lately, he left for work earlier and arrived home later. He recently told Lottie, when she asked why he was gone so often, “I thought at one time I owned the business. Now, I’m afraid the business owns me.” She didn’t know if his shoulders sagged from sadness or exhaustion or both, as she watched him walk to his carriage that morning.
Instead of sitting in his desk chair, Louis LeClerc moved the mahogany chairs flanking the tall bookcases against the wall to face one another. He looked at the chairs, then at Lottie, back at the chairs again, and said, “This would not be comfortable for either one of us, would it?” He laughed when Lottie shook her head. “Of course it wouldn’t,” he agreed and moved the chairs back to their original spaces. He reached for his granddaughter’s arm, linked his around it, and patted her hand. “To the parlor we go.”
Lottie smiled, glad that
he looked relaxed and relieved. She sank into the silk settee and her skirt billowed around her, the relief of its weight as welcome as Grand-père’s calm demeanor. She chided herself for allowing her stomach to practically loop around itself. She’d rather talk to Grandpère on a bad day than Grand-mère on a good day. Hands clasped in her lap, Lottie waited for her grandfather to mete out whatever consequence her grandmother had decided he should, confident that he would soften it. Should I remind him that I am almost twenty years old? But using her age could well be a disadvantage, if he used it to remind her that she should act more like an adult.
The sun streamed through the shutters, leaving slices of light along the carpet. No sounds drifted through, not this time of day, when the entire city lay drowsy and waiting for even the slightest suggestion of dusk. On the wall behind Charlotte was a painting of her father, the likeness between them obvious to even a stranger. The dark brown eyes beneath the thick, arched eyebrows, the firm set of the chin… Quite often, the portrait of her father was mistaken for that of her grandfather as a young man. Louis glanced at the painting of his son as he loosened his ascot, tugging the knot away from his neck. He straightened against the wingbacked chair and rested his arms on the softly worn manchettes.
Louis leaned toward Lottie. “Are you, my p’tit, such un tonnerre a la voile that I should have you confined to jail for a night?”
Wild and uncontrollable? Does Grand-mère think that of me? Spurs of anxiety rippled through Lottie. She readied herself to protest, but then she saw her grandfather’s lips curl into a smile. “Maybe two nights,” she answered.
Love Finds You in New Orleans, LA Page 2