Love Finds You in New Orleans, LA

by Christa Allan

  The Lottie encased in this dress bore no resemblance to the sultry young woman in cranberry-red who’d attended the opera. Her face and neck had been lightened and softened with pure pearl powder, and her lips shimmered as if covered with the juice of strawberries.

  Her grandmother and Madame Olympe had achieved their objective. Lottie could have stepped out of a castle, a princess down to her satin slippers. But though she may have looked like a princess, she felt a tower surrounding her everywhere she went.

  * * * * *

  For most of the evening, the only reason Lottie needed to move from the receiving line was to dance. Imagining Gabriel’s face when a man came forward to request a dance made the obligation bearable. Her hand cradled in Gabriel’s, his eyes waiting when she’d look up at his face. What would it feel like to have his body close to hers as he led her across the floor?

  She remembered the toe-smasher, the tight-hand-grabber, and the breath-offender. Rolling her eyes at Justine while a gentleman navigated her around the room would have disgraced generations of LeClercs, so Lottie devised an alternative. When dancing, she was a model of deportment, eyes downcast, sufficiently demur. When the dance ended, she and Justine would make eye contact and, depending on the partner, one or both would pinch the bridge of her nose. In a break between dances, she and Justine met over a tray of ginger cakes. Lottie could do no more than nibble a bite for fear her corset would pop.

  “We’ll have to devise another, more creative system of messaging when it’s time for my party,” said Justine as she finished her cake in a few bites.

  Lottie shrugged. “By that time I will not need to concern myself with the idiosyncrasies of dance partners. I will already be married to the man my grandparents have selected for me.”

  Her first dance had been with a man, Lottie whispered to Justine, whose face was une figure de pomme cuite when he pretended to want to smile. So, when the young man whose face resembled a baked apple asked for a second dance, Lottie grew suspicious. The third request proved her right. Paul Bastion’s detached, bored demeanor before, during, and after every dance actually comforted Lottie. His obvious and yet, unbeknownst to him, equal disinterest in the object of their parents’ pursuit meant she would be saved from an emotional relationship. Grand-mère had, unwittingly, prepared her for marriage after all. Lottie knew how to conduct herself in that kind of relationship.

  The day after the event, Lottie remembered jigsaw pieces of the party but couldn’t put the entire puzzle together. The first piece was of her grandparents’ countenances as they watched her, with Agnes’s help, descend the stairs. Years faded from their faces, pushed away by whatever joy filled them as she moved toward them.

  “I actually saw your grandmother smile more than once,” Justine told her as the two perched on Lottie’s bed.

  “At me or in general?” Lottie’s raised eyebrows as she sipped her café au lait signaled her disbelief. Justine’s hesitation provided her answer. “If you had said at me, I would have thought you lied. Though I do appreciate your considering it to protect my feelings.”

  * * * * *

  Justine gathered her apricot gown as she readied to leave. “I am sure we will remember even more tomorrow.”

  “Yes, we can talk about what food was served, since no morsel could make its way through the grip of my corset.” Lottie’s waist and hips still felt bruised from being restricted by fourteen long whalebones for hours. She held the offender in front of her with both hands. “If my fate has already been decided, then I can rid myself of you.” Maybe this article of clothing would make an appropriate donation to a prison.

  Her back to the doorway of her room, Lottie heard her grandmother before she saw her.

  “Are you leaving so soon, my dear?” Were it not for the molasses voice, Lottie might have been startled, thinking her grandmother could be addressing her.

  “My parents haven’t seen me since yesterday, and they should be home from church by now,” Justine said. “And now that the party is over, Lottie and I will have more time together.”

  Grand-mère glanced at Lottie then back at Justine. “Well, perhaps you won’t confine your visits to your classes.”

  This time it was the two girls who exchanged looks.

  “What does that mean?” Whenever her grandmother dodged an answer, Lottie was suspicious.

  “Charlotte, we can discuss this later, since it seems another friend awaits in the courtyard.”

  Justine squeezed the bridge of her nose, and Lottie instantly developed a coughing spasm that required holding her hands across her mouth.

  “Then I really do need to leave, since my friend is already in demand. Those potential beaus of yours move tout de suite, Charlotte.”

  “Actually,” said Grand-mère, entering the room so Justine could pass through the door, “it is not any of the gentlemen from last evening.”

  Lottie exhaled.

  “In fact, I am not sure what reason Gabriel Girod has for being here.”

  Lottie heard Justine’s footsteps as she headed down the stairs and out the door.

  Grand-mère waited for an answer, while Lottie mentally followed Justine.

  * * * * *

  Madame LeClerc was not the woman Gabriel expected to see as he walked through the courtyard.

  Her expression reflected that she, too, was as surprised to see him. She closed the book she was reading then set it on the seat of the rocker after she rose to greet him.

  “Gabriel, how can I help you?”

  “Good afternoon, Madame LeClerc.” He removed his hat and nodded dutifully, his mind searching for an appropriate and honest response without revealing too much. “I am visiting the girls’ home this afternoon, and I stopped by to see Mademoiselle Charlotte.”

  She peered at him with curiosity. “So, would she be expecting you?”

  He knew an answer in either direction forebode problems, but to appear intimidated would invite more questioning. “Perhaps.”

  She said, “I see,” in a way that suggested she would rather not. “Please wait here.” Madame LeClerc turned and left, not inviting him into her home.

  Gabriel paced, alone, and waited for either Lottie or her grandmother to deliver a verdict. Abram and Agnes had Sunday off, so he could not depend on either of them for information.

  His emotions wound through him like rope cords. For weeks, he had warned Lottie of the day coming when she couldn’t depend on the predictability of her grandparents’ absence on Sunday afternoons. Worse than their anger, Gabriel feared the consequences for Lottie. She couldn’t be locked in her room any longer, but the few freedoms she did have would likely be eliminated. As he walked back and forth along the cobblestone paths, voices from Lottie’s room drifted below, too indistinct for him to determine what they were saying. If they talked much longer, Gabriel would have to leave without her. The anxiety of their being late, and possibly endangering or disappointing the men and women waiting on them, took its toll on the hat brim he clenched and unclenched.

  And always there was the torturous happiness of being with Lottie every Sunday. Even though they had reconciled themselves to the paths of their lives, Gabriel looked forward to the times their roads had to cross. How much longer they would be able to continue these visits depended on factors neither he nor Lottie could control. But the time they did spend together, he could hardly concentrate on teaching. He had to pull his eyes away from following the tilt of Lottie’s head and the curve of her lips as she smiled at someone writing his or her own name for the first time. Gabriel could hardly smell lemons or almonds without thinking of her rushing through the gate to meet him, and he would fight to keep his breath steady when they walked together. It pained him to think that another man would feel the softness of her cheek against his hand. Yet he would endure whatever proved difficult to spend time with her.

  He heard footsteps down the stairs, but it was Justine, not Lottie, who turned and walked through the hall toward him.

 
; “What are you doing here? Lottie’s grandmother looked quite perturbed,” Justine said, her voice just above a whisper.

  “Yes, I expect she would be.”

  “Has Lottie not stopped that orphan thing, whatever it is the two of you do? I thought she, well, with the party and…I just imagined she wouldn’t continue.”

  She left unsaid, “being seen with you,” but Gabriel understood, because he imagined the same. Justine didn’t wait for an answer. “I need to be going. I hope…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I hope.”

  Minutes after Justine closed the front door behind her, Gabriel heard footsteps too light and too hurried to be Grand-mère’s. Nervous excitement ripped through him as he waited for Lottie to turn the corner of the stairs.

  Fastening her cape as she walked and, surprisingly, already wearing her bonnet, Lottie’s eager smile was more than he had hoped for.

  “Thank you for waiting. I didn’t know if I would have to chase after you in the carriage,” she said as she gathered the folds of her dress and stepped down to the courtyard path.

  “Before we get too far, am I to assume you have been granted permission for this venture?” His weak attempt at Grand-mère’s diction brought the intended grin to Lottie’s face.

  “Not at first. But I suggested that reaching the age of marriage should be sufficient for performing acts of kindness. And why would any family of a potential suitor think it untoward for me to be a charitable young woman?”

  “That still does not explain why you are able to go with me.” An answer Gabriel was certain he did not want but needed to know.

  She looked down before responding. “I couldn’t tell her the truth, of course, of why we go there. It’s my fault, really, because I know you’re going with me to protect me.”

  “Are you trying to protect me now?”

  “I suppose. I don’t like what I told her. But if it made going possible…” She looked at Gabriel. “I told her Abram and Agnes couldn’t help, being as it is Sunday. And if I asked you to help with provisions, wouldn’t that be the next best thing?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ...........................

  “I’m concerned about moving forward. We asked the two of you to take over doing something dangerous.” Sister Mary Catherine clutched her Bible as she spoke to Lottie and Gabriel after they finished the lessons. “How willing are you to continue?”

  “I volunteered before you asked me,” said Lottie. “And Gabriel—”

  “Can speak for himself,” he said. “You know I initially hesitated to participate in this, until I saw that Charlotte was not to be dissuaded. Sometimes she needs to be protected from herself.” When he turned to look at her, Lottie understood how someone could melt during the winds of winter. “I understand your concerns, Sister, but teaching these men and women is a risk for all of us and for them. We’re willing to continue.”

  Lottie nodded. “I couldn’t tell the people who brave coming here, learning how to write their own names for the first time, that I wasn’t coming back.”

  “Wait.” Gabriel inched forward, his knees almost hitting Sister’s desk. “Is this about Jacob and Thomas not being here this afternoon? Did something happen to them? Nobody said anything. But you know they do not withhold information in an effort to protect us.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  Please, God, let them be safe. Lottie pictured Jacob holding a quill for the first time, his fingers extended from his palms like pruned tree branches. He wrote with his left hand; the fingers on his right hand looked like they’d melted and hardened again without any attention to where they belonged. After Jacob told her that a wagon had run over his hand when he was younger, Lottie didn’t ask. She had learned not to ask questions if she wasn’t prepared for the answers.

  His son Tom, thirteen, was eager and precocious. So much so that Lottie brought her copy of Hamlet for him. His excitement dissipated when Jacob forbade him to carry a book for fear of it being discovered. His disappointment was so great, it almost joined them in the room. Before they left, Lottie tore five pages from the book and handed them to him. “You can read it in installments,” she’d told him.

  Seeing Tom’s face in her mind while he held those pages, Lottie almost couldn’t breathe. “The play,” she whispered. “Someone found the pages?” One of those questions…but she had to know the answer to this one. She wished she had her fan, but the only heat in the room was beneath her skin.

  “I will answer that shortly.” Sister Mary Catherine moved from her writing desk and closed the doors between their room and the front parlor. Lottie saw the pale, fearful eyes she felt in herself in the Sister’s face. The nun slid her chair from behind her desk closer to where they sat. “We needed to know if you wanted to continue for two reasons. First, the other Sisters and I talked, prayed, and decided to move the lessons each week from our home to the girls’ home. We’ve known for years that Madame Soniat, the benefactress, is sympathetic to our cause. She bought slaves in the past just so she could request a certificate of manumission to set them free. The court assessed the value of the slaves, she paid it, and they were issued their freedom.”

  “She bought the same slaves twice?” Gabriel asked the question Lottie was thinking.

  “Sadly, yes, which is the reason she has not been able to free more than five slaves. When we explained what we were doing and why we needed her help, she readily agreed. So, we will meet here one more Sunday to explain to the others, and then you will be at the girls’ home.”

  “Tom and Jacob—how is this related to their not being here today?” Lottie asked.

  Sister shifted in the chair and blotted her face where the starched piece of fabric starting at her forehead edged it. “Have you heard about the Underground Railroad?”

  “Underground? No. I’m certain I haven’t,” said Lottie. “Have you?” she asked Gabriel.

  “I’ve heard of it, but it’s difficult to know what is rumor. And since some free people of color own slaves themselves, we are not always trusted either.”

  “I know about it because I moved here from Boston five years ago,” began Sister Mary Catherine. “The Underground Railroad is made up of secret routes and safe houses that slaves can use to escape to freedom. Most people this far south haven’t heard of it, and very few slaves have even tried it. The distance to the North is so far, it makes the journey almost impossible without risk of getting captured.”

  “But Jacob and Tom are doing this?” Lottie didn’t know which answer she wanted to hear.

  “Jacob heard that his owner might sell Tom because he could get a good price for him at his age and build.” The Sister fingered the large wooden rosary that served as a belt around her ample waist. “After being separated from Tom’s mother and their two daughters a few years ago, he was desperate to do something to keep his son. I found out about a conductor, a person who helps them escape. He moved here years ago—”

  “Sister, are you saying that this person is moving them all the way north?” Gabriel sounded shocked.

  “No, no.” She wiped her eyes, stood, and said, “They’ve been planning this for weeks. He brought them to a synagogue in the city where they can hide for now. From there they can go to Mexico, or he might try to get forged freedom papers for them.”

  “When will we know?” Half of Lottie danced with glee. The other half bit her nails. “Is this conductor person coming back to tell you what happened?”

  Sister folded her arms so that they disappeared into the full black crêpe sleeves of her habit. “I don’t know. We may never know.”

  * * * * *

  Winter in New Orleans was a disagreeable child who, whenever he had one thing, wanted the other, and whose temper tantrums were marked by rivers of tears. Some days were bright and brisk, the wind like a whip that snapped flags and loose frock coats to attention. On other days the submissive sun forced the wearing of wools and muslins and velvets.

  The discussion with Sister ha
ving delayed them, Lottie and Gabriel found themselves walking home on the brink of an evening plump with moisture, pushing its way through capes and skin and settling in bones. The indecisive sort of evening, when wearing a cape or not wearing one was equally uncomfortable. When it was too late for children and babies to play, and yet too early for adults contemplating an opera.

  Gabriel’s feet took measured steps on the banquette, but his head was somewhere between there and Mexico. He understood Jacob’s anguish in contemplating someone he loved being wrenched away, and he could only imagine how much more wretched it was for that person to be his son. Casting a sideward glance at Lottie, he knew her mind to be as preoccupied as his. For one, she used her parasol at a time when the wind, not the already-sleeping sun, risked harm. And she made no attempt at conversation, about this afternoon or the weekend past. A weekend about which he wanted to know everything and nothing.

  “It’s the not knowing what’s happened to them. That’s the most difficult part, don’t you think?”

  So taken by the gray parrot in the upper window of the cottage they passed that screeched expressions in English Gabriel would be hesitant to say in any language, he barely heard Lottie’s question.

  “Do you mean not knowing where they are?”

  She glanced up at her parasol as if seeing it for the first time, closed it, and pretended to stab him with it. “Were you listening to me?”

  “Almost.”

  “If they’re safe and free, it doesn’t matter to me where they are. But we might never know the outcome and always be thinking ‘What if?’” Lottie poked the tip of her parasol against the cobblestones. “I don’t like hearing myself say this, but even when the worst happens, at least you don’t have to wonder.”

  Gabriel stopped, and she followed suit. He didn’t know what Lottie’s response would be to what he was going to say. One thing he knew, though, and it had come to him this afternoon. Jacob and his son risked everything for their freedom—for their freedom to be together. Whatever the outcome, they would never regret not having tried.