Until today, when Rosette extracted another promise of confidentiality.
After serving Serafina and Nathalie, Gabriel severed every emotion possible. Cut their ropes, let them drift into a sea of nothingness. Otherwise, he could not have finished the day that he now stood discussing with Rosette, who confronted him as soon as the last customer left.
“Have you swallowed a ghost?” she teased when he handed her more cups. “Wait, you didn’t smile.” Still holding the dishes, she said, “Sit on that stool right in front of me. I’m going to put these in the tub. Don’t move.”
Gabriel sat and watched his mother as she walked away, her shoulders straight, her head high. Even at the end of a day, no one would guess how little she slept, how hard she worked, in her business and as a parent. He thought of Jean Noel’s wife, who didn’t have to concern herself with money, and his son, who could talk to his father whenever he needed. At times, Gabriel resented his mother’s decision. How could half a father be worse than no father?
Rosette dried her hands on the hem of her apron then pulled up a stool for herself. “You have been bothered since earlier today. What happened that you are barely alive?”
He chose not to mention the discussion with LeCroix and Cordeviolle about his clothes or about trying to spend time with Jean Noel. He related the conversation he’d overheard in the tailors’ about the Bastions and then about seeing Serafina today, making the connection between her and Paul. “He already has a woman, and she is pregnant, and now he will have Lottie too? I—I cannot watch this unfold and do nothing.”
“So what is it you think you can do?” Rosette unwrapped her calico tignon, letting her hair spill over her shoulders. She pushed her fingers through her hair where it pressed against her scalp. She would retie the tignon before they left the café, but Gabriel knew she welcomed even this brief respite.
“Lottie should know the kind of man Paul Bastion is. She would want to know.”
“And then what?”
“Why would she want to marry such a man? If she knew beforehand, she could—”
“Refuse? That would suggest she has a choice—which she does not. And how is Paul Bastion different from any other white Creole man? How is it different from—”
“Don’t,” he snapped and stood, leaning to hold onto the stool. “You were going to say how is he different from my father.”
“No. I intended to ask how is it different from rocking my son to sleep on the day his father married? Because this is about your grief. About having no control over your life.”
He clenched the stool, wanted to hurl it across the café. He wanted to see the destruction he felt. “But I love her. When I was younger, I thought I’d grow out of it. A boyhood infatuation. But I kept growing into it.”
“Have you told her?”
“Of course not. What would it change? The laws are not going to change for us.”
“No, they’re not. If you haven’t told her your feelings, why would she even think she had any choices? But people who love each other have found ways. None of which are easy.”
“Telling Lottie that I love her still may not change anything.”
“Neither will not telling her. But you are not going to say anything to her about Paul Bastion or Serafina. That is not your place. She is not ignorant of the system. Lottie has known us since she was a child. How could she not know?”
* * * * *
Gabriel wished he had taken André’s advice and found a way to go to Paris. Being within arm’s reach of Lottie in New Orleans proved to be no different than being thousands of miles away from her. Except that there would be occasions to see her here, which made erasing her from his heart all the more impossible.
In her own way, Rosette understood. His mother had told him those stories when he began to ask about the balls to which he would not be welcomed—unless invited to serve food to those who were. Brought to the theatre at the age of sixteen, Rosette had followed her mother into the world of plaçage…not by her choice, but by her mother’s. Rosette, a free woman of color like her mother Elizabeth, dressed like a princess and had been well-educated and properly mannered. All because she had a white father as a protector. Helene had decided that her daughter should maintain the lifestyle to which she had been accustomed. And being a placée, while it would not provide her with a husband, would provide her wealth. A life few women of color—ironically, even few white women—would otherwise have.
But the exquisite clothes, finely crafted furniture, and expensive jewelry failed to comfort Rosette on the nights she waited for Jean Noel after his marriage. The nights she sewed, waiting for him, nights the inlaid-wood mahogany table set with china and crystal from France, sterling silverware from England, and hand-embroidered damask linens did nothing to warm her heart when she snuffed the candle because he had not come.