“I haven’t seen you in weeks!” declared Justine, who didn’t move her hands from Lottie’s shoulders after their hug. “My mother said you can join us for dinner. We’re eating early because Isabelle and the brats are there. Please join us. Please.”
“You’re starting to sound like one of Isabelle’s brats,” Lottie teased. “Of course I want to come.” She looked over the thinning crowd of churchgoers. Her grandmother was one of three women today who, in the gray morning of winter, opened her parasol. “There they are,” Lottie said to Justine as she motioned for her to follow. She made her way through the crowd, smiling sweetly at Madame Bourgeois for the benefit of her daughters, until she reached the tasseled gold silk parasol with her grandmother underneath.
Lottie waited for her to finish her conversation with Madame Adolphe. “Grandmother, I wanted you to know that I will be having an early lunch with Justine and her family. I’ll be home before leaving for the orphanage this afternoon.” She kissed her grandmother and grandfather, Justine rattled a hello and good-bye in the same sentence, and they trailed after the assortment of Dumases heading home.
“We look like our own Carnival organization, don’t we?” Justine and Lottie walked side by side, arms locked together. “And you no longer need to request permission?”
“No. Apparently permission is not required now that I’ve conceded to their selecting the man with whom I will spend the rest of my life.”
* * * * *
The Dumas men plus Isabelle’s husband François retired to the library after dinner with their cigars, espressos, and opinions. Justine’s mother, Isabelle, Justine, and Lottie moved into the parlor, where Ruth, the Dumases’ maid, carried in a coffee service. Ruth’s parents had been given as a wedding gift to Justine’s father from his parents. Neither Monsieur Dumas or Ruth’s parents realized how the newest Madame Dumas quietly abhorred slavery. She and Ruth’s parents became friends, and they raised their families right alongside one another.
Ruth’s husband, Laurent, was a slave from a nearby plantation who helped his owner sell vegetables in the French Market. The two of them met there, and when they decided they were in love, Madame Dumas sent her husband with enough cash to buy Laurent from the Greywoods. Isabelle inherited her mother’s color-blind compassion. Justine and her father, who thought anyone born with black skin was supposed to be a slave, kept their opinions to themselves while they were home. They just asked Isabelle and her mother to do the same in public, as Monsieur Dumas said, “I sure don’t want the good people of this city to think I’m living with abolitionists.”
Lottie had learned years ago not to be surprised where she might find the servants—Madame refused to call them house slaves—in the Dumas house.
“Ruthie, here, let me help you with that.” Isabelle relieved her of the broad silver tray and set it on the piano bench. Lottie knew Ruthie was with child, but without the tray in front of her, she was able to realize how close the woman was to actually having the child.
“Mother,” Isabelle said, “Ruthie should not be carrying so much weight when she is this close to being delivered.”
“Perhaps she will listen to you, because I’ve said the same to her and she insists she is capable.”
“Let me see your ankles, Ruthie.”
“Miz Isabelle, you wants me to lift up my skirt?”
“Gracious, Ruthie, do you see any men in this room? We all have ankles.” Isabelle turned to her mother. “This is exactly the reason more women need to be doctors.”
Madame Dumas eyed her. “Isabelle, I never forbid you to attend medical school.”
“Do we have to start this discussion of women’s rights, or their lack of?” Justine handed Lottie a cup of coffee. “Ruthie, please show Isabelle your ankles, or she’ll be the one lifting your skirt.”
Ruthie stared at the ceiling, as if to shield herself from the embarrassment of knowing all those eyes were examining her bare skin, and gingerly picked up the folds of fabric covering her feet.
“Oh dear.” Justine’s mother covered her mouth with her hand.
Someone not knowing Ruthie was with child would have thought her deprived of ankles at birth, they were so swollen.
“You need to rest. Stay off your feet for the rest of the day. Wait.” Isabelle turned to her mother. “Why is she here? This is Sunday. She’s not supposed to be working.”
Madame Dumas’s spoon lazily made its way around her coffee cup. “Tell her, Ruthie.” Her voice had as much energy as her spoon.