* * * * *
“I will stab each of my fingers with this needle if I must sit inside one more hour.” Lottie pushed the needle through the new sampler she had started after being bored with the other. If Grand-mère fussed, then she would fuss. Soon Lottie would be married, so what could she do? In fact, this arrangement had the effect of bestowing a power upon Lottie that only the pouting and whining daughters of the dreadfully rich had.
Grand-mère, of late, had been daringly close, however begrudgingly, to what one might call kindness. Lottie’s not wanting to marry Paul, no one cared a whit about. But if Paul chose to walk away from Lottie because of her uncivil language or compulsion to twirl her hair and raise her skirts above her ankles, that Grand-mère cared about. And though Lottie wouldn’t destroy her grandparents in such a way, her grandmother didn’t doubt that she was capable.
The drama of it all was sufficient to amuse Lottie most days, but not today. Winter had decided to be an unbearable brat, and it hurled wind and cold and sometimes rain that hit bare skin like pins. For days, she had been confined to the house, not attending any of her lessons—according to her grandmother—because of the ferocious weather. Not visiting Justine. And facing the worrisome possibility of not being able to go to the orphanage tomorrow.
“Lottie, my girl, if General Jackson knew you stabbed that well, he would have recruited you for the Battle of New Orleans.”
“I wasn’t born yet, PaPa,” said Lottie, who grinned at her grandfather standing in the doorway of the parlor and looking at her over his spectacles as if he were surveying land. She had spent so little time with him because of the “girl things,” as he called all the party preparations, she’d forgotten how calming it felt to be around him. Not like Grand-mère, who required constant vigilance to assure she couldn’t break through Lottie’s barrier.
“Maybe ‘Old Hickory’ was born too soon, p’tit.”
“He managed a victory without me,” she said. “But a little battle right now would be welcome.” She secured her needle in the sampler and tossed it onto the settee next to her. “I understand how prison could make a person crazy. You know there is an entire world just beyond a wall, but you can only reach it in your mind.”
Grand-père slipped his gold pocket watch out of his vest pocket. “I have time,” he said as he snapped the watch closed, “to wander in the bookshop on Camp Street. Then I can go to my office, where a young lady might choose to read or, if she is not opposed to a brief walk, find herself in Barriere’s, the leading store on Royal Street, where she can browse through all the nouveautés. Assuming there is a young lady here who would meet those qualifications of loving new merchandise like books, fancy things, and her grandfather.”
“Oh, PaPa, you have saved my life!” Lottie jumped up and reached her arms around him, the familiar smell of pipe tobacco making her six again, waiting for him to lift her off the ground. Every night it was the same secret, but for as long as he could gather her up in his arms, she’d cup her hands around his ear and whisper, “Lottie loves you.” Their little ritual ended when Grand-mère decided Lottie was too old for this and that she needed to conduct herself like a young lady. Lottie didn’t tell her grandmother, of course, but one night she told Agnes that if being a young lady meant not hugging Grand-père, then she never wanted to be one. And now she was one, and her occasions to hug him waned, and in months, they wouldn’t even live in the same house. Where had all those days gone?
He tugged one of her curls. “Your grandmother is taking a nap, so I need to tell Agnes you’ll be with me. Hurry. Go fetch all your girl things. Abram and I will wait for you in the carriage.”
Lottie could not remember the last time she’d moved so quickly wearing six petticoats and a wool gown with layers of ruffles.
* * * * *
“What a surprise that you selected only one book today. I expected not to see the bottom half of your face, for all that you’d be carrying.” Grand-père opened the door to his office and followed Lottie in.
Actually, Lottie wanted more books, but if she was to be the wife of wealthy Paul Bastion, then why spend Grand-père’s money when she could spend his? She set the package on one of the side tables in the viewing room and removed her cape, hanging it, along with her bonnet and muff, in the armoire in Grand-père’s office.
“I don’t have as much time to read now. I’m certain that, later, I will be making more visits to the shop.” She kept her voice light, not wanting to weigh her words with the resignation and frustration from which they originated. Since the day he told her about the coming-out party, the two of them had not had one conversation about the suitors there, Paul, or her future. But Lottie did not want to have that discussion today. She wanted this day to be colored scenes painted for the magic projector, so that years from today, she could shine the pictures on the wall and always remember it.