“Your mother, is she…?”
Gabriel flinched. He knew the question before his cousin finished it. “Is she still alone? That is what you meant, yes?”
André bent forward to grab the reins. “It was not an accusation. I wanted to ask if she was happy.” He urged the horses forward.
Gabriel saw a glimmer of the boy who’d played tag with him and Lottie, the one he would trip so Lottie could win a race. He realized in that moment that he didn’t need to mistrust everyone who asked about Rosette. Since he had become the only man in the house, he felt responsible for protecting his mother. They had moved beyond the clustered whispers when she passed or the wide space someone would take on the banquette that forced his mother to step in the vile muck of the street. When she opened her café and started selling coffee and pastries before and after church or during holidays and weekends, Gabriel prayed for customers. Prayed that she would not be made to look foolish, standing alone when people passed her by. Those prayers had been answered in abundance as Rosette’s stand grew into a café with places for her customers to sit. His mother had proven that a head for business could coexist with a beautiful face, a cultured upbringing, and a pampered life.
“I’m sorry. I’m not accustomed to questions from people who truly care about my mother beyond what gossip they can bring with them to the dressmaker,” Gabriel said. “Yes, she is content. She’s worked hard to provide for us, and she’s proud of her success.”
“And you? What about your plans to attend L’Ecole Centrale to become an engineer? If you’re still interested, maybe we could arrange a way for you to return with me. You know my mother would have a mind to help. I’m her only child. She has the means—”
Tales of Virgine Toutant’s extravagances were legend in the city. She spent money, Agnes said to Rosette one day, “like people spend time. She just lets it go by, always thinking there be more tomorrow.” Usually Agnes followed her observation with a “hmph” and a tally of the merchants grateful for Virgine’s existence. Or at least the existence of her protector, cotton-exchange broker Bernard LaFonte. Gabriel, however, did not want to add his name to the list of those indebted to Virgine.
“It is a generous offer, but no. My mother needs my help.”
“Do you truly believe she would want you to throw away your dream, your future, if she knew you had the opportunity?”
“No, she wouldn’t. So, please, do not discuss this with Tante Virgine or Rosette. I know my mother would want me to go. She never asked me to sacrifice anything to help her. First, her dream. Then mine.”
The carriage stopped in front of the Girod cottage. “Have you given up your other dream as well? The one you should have forsaken years ago?” André asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean. Being educated in Paris was my dream.”
André tilted his head. “You really don’t know what I mean, do you? It can’t be because you think of it as something real, something not a dream.” André placed his hands on his cousin’s shoulders, gently shaking him. “Tell me the truth.”
“I would if I knew what you meant.”
“Charlotte LeClerc. That dream.” André released Gabriel’s shoulders and reached for the reins.
André’s words stung him, and Gabriel’s hesitation was his answer.
“Even though we were young, her presence pulled you like a magnet. Obviously that hasn’t changed. But you know, you’re following the wrong dream. One you have no control over. It does not matter that with your skin, your hair, you could pass for white. You will always be Rosette’s son. Comme il faut. You will always be a free man of color. And Charlotte will always be white.”
André spoke the truth. A truth like hundreds of bee stings. A truth he would one day have to face.
* * * * *
Gabriel watched the carriage wheels churn as André made his way home through the thick mud, dredging up garbage and untold muck that littered the narrow street. The sun intensified the mingled odors, and the humidity made them almost palpable. Were it not for the fragrances of the gardenias and violets planted in the neighboring gardens, leaving and entering the house would be even more of an assault.
The scent of Rosette’s gumbo filé welcomed him and would certainly pacify the beast that growled in his stomach and reminded him he had not taken the time to eat lunch today. Rosette had left the café early to consider enrolling Alcee in Michel Seligny’s l’Academie Sainte-Barbe. The school was within walking distance of the business, which was important because it enabled Alcee to join her friends in private lessons. Unlike most of their mothers, Rosette worked to support her family, and taking time away to transport Alcee to and from lessons was almost impossible. Gabriel hoped they had been pleased with the school. If not, the conversation between the two females in the house might be spicier than the gumbo, in which case he and his food might escape to the garçonnière. Like most of the separate quarters built by families of wealth allowing their young men to go and come as they pleased, his had been built above the outdoor kitchen.