Love Finds You in New Orleans(3)
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.
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.