Love Finds You in New Orleans(90)

“I wish I could have been more of a grandfather to her. Perhaps soon I will have that opportunity.”

As he and Rosette left the office, Gabriel turned and saw Lottie’s grandfather quickly brush the tears away from his eyes then open a ledger on his desk and begin to work.





Chapter Thirty-Seven

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Paul arrived at the LeClercs’ without his parents. “They asked me to give you their deepest apologies. My grandmother in Atlanta has taken ill, and we just received word this afternoon. Arrangements are being made for them to leave tonight.”

Lottie’s grandparents murmured their sympathies, though neither one of them seemed bothered at all to go to the opera without the elder Bastions. Wearing a creamy yellow gown edged in satin and paneled with hand-embroidered flowers in a thread a few shades darker, Lottie felt airy as her dress. Agnes told her it was a summer gown and she shouldn’t wear it, but Lottie didn’t care. Slowly, she was giving herself permission to be self-reliant. And the stronger she felt about that, the less her grandmother’s judgments or Paul’s detachment mattered.

“Aren’t you wearing a cape?” Her grandmother handed her a black cape trimmed with fur at the hem and neck.

Lottie handed it to Agnes. “No, thank you. I’m ready.”

At intermission, an associate of Paul’s wandered over from where he and his family were sitting several boxes away. Arnstead, whose evening frock coat had likely been more comfortable quite a number of meals ago, must not have thought Lottie had anything above her neck, because his eyes didn’t once land there when Paul introduced her.

“And so this is the fair Mademoiselle LeClerc.” He kissed her hand, and Lottie felt as if a garden snake crawled up her back. She wished now she had followed her grandparents for refreshments. The abundance of gas jets, while they made for a stunning display on everything that could sparkle, created heat that reminded Lottie of their outdoor kitchen. She had forgotten her fan, which deprived her of cooling herself and of something to fiddle with while she pretended to both delight in Paul’s company and ignore his conversation as women were supposed to do.

She stood for a moment to ease the weight of sixteen yards of fabric in her lap and heard Paul tell Arnstead he was glad his parents had decided to leave tonight so his plans didn’t need to change. His friend said something unintelligible—more than likely unintelligent as well—but it ended with “…them darkies won’t suspect anything on a Saturday night.”

Lottie was the only one in the box not laughing. Her mind raced, but her body refused to move. She had to get word to Père François to send someone to warn them. Where would they go? The church. Surely he would allow them to stay there. Serafina? No, she was too far away. But they couldn’t just leave, a black family wandering the streets of New Orleans on a Saturday night. She prayed her knees would not collapse under her from their incessant shaking. Smile sweetly, Lottie. “Excuse me, Monsieurs. May I just pass my little self along here? I am in dire need of fresh air.”

“The air is hardly ever fresh here,” said Paul. “Isn’t intermission almost over?”

“Why, no. I have buckets of time to find some refreshments and maybe just a spot of air.” All those weeks of little conversation were an advantage. Paul didn’t seem confused by her cloyingly sweet and vapid dialogue. That’s who he thought he would be marrying. “You gentlemen just carry on. I am sure you have so many important things to talk about, they would probably bore me to tears.”

“Probably? Not probably, certain. Certain to bore you to tears,” said Arnstead, and he and Paul shared yet another laugh at her expense.

“I won’t be long.” She would have to remind herself to play that innocent game with Alcee, but now she had to make her way to Père François.

She made it through the flock of people without seeing her grandparents. Several couples still strolled outside, so she walked as far as they walked to the end of the building and then stopped. She peered around as if she waited for someone, and when the couples wound their way back into the building, she stepped into the darkness where the hanging gaslamps wouldn’t drape her body in a hazy, gold light.

A hire passed and she almost flagged it, but she had not brought her clutch. They were not known for providing free service even if the passenger wore Victorian lace. She had two blocks and then had to cross Canal Street. Young ladies pitter-pattering down St. Charles Avenue were not often seen, especially at night. Without a chaperone. The social etiquette sins became too numerous to count. By the time she picked up her skirts over her ankles so she could move faster, Lottie considered how she might spend the rest of her life as a social outcast.