Carolina Gold (31 page)

“Here we are, miss.” Pierre halted the rig at the banquette and jumped out to assist her.

“Thank you.” Charlotte stepped out of the rig. “I’m grateful for your help.”

“Glad it turned out so well,” he said. “These days we’re getting more than our share of unhappy endings.” He fished a watch from his pocket and snapped it open. “The general will be home from the railway office soon. I should be getting on back before he sends out someone to look for me.”

He refused the tip she offered and climbed into the rig and drove away. Charlotte hurried into the hotel. Mr. Dubois was absent from his small desk in the reception area, but the parlors were filled with ladies taking tea, reading the newspapers, and chatting quietly. Caroline Mayhew looked up from her teacup, stood, and crossed the parlor to the foyer, her russet silk skirts swishing on the carpets. “Hello. I wondered whether I’d see you today.” She gestured toward the group seated in the parlor. “My book discussion group—what’s left of it—meets here every Saturday afternoon.”

“You’ve lost members to this epidemic?”

“Indirectly. Several of our number went north as soon as word of the fever got out. They are all well as far as I know.” She fanned her face. “We had quite a lively conversation this afternoon about Mr. Alger’s book on the friendships of women. But it isn’t the same when so many are absent.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Caroline eyed Charlotte’s stained skirts, and Charlotte blushed. “I’m afraid I look a fright, and smell even worse.” She indicated her soiled clothing. “But at least I found my employer.”

“And he’s well?”

“Yes. Taking care of the sick in the Faubourg Marigny—one of whom cast up her accounts on my skirt.”

“You poor dear. What you need is a nice warm bath and—” Caroline looked around the room. “Wait here.”

She hurried away and soon returned with a female version of Pierre—a slight, olive-skinned girl with lively dark eyes and a mop of black curls pinned into a falling-down coil at the nape of her neck. “This is my lady’s maid, Fabienne. She’ll help you bathe and change. I must be away, but there’s no hurry. Mr. Dubois will see that she gets home safely.”

“Thank you, but I can manage.”

Caroline shook her head. “You’re dead on your feet. And besides, Fabienne is a genius at dressing hair.”

“Come, Ma’m’selle,” Fabienne said softly. “You will soon feel much better. I am sure of it.”

With both hands, Caroline made a shooing motion. “Go along now. I’ll find Mr. Dubois and have him send you up something to eat.”

Too spent to protest any further, Charlotte took out her key and led the maid up the winding staircase to her room. Fabienne prepared a fragrant, steamy bath and then withdrew. Charlotte undressed, piled her soiled clothing in the corner, and sank gratefully into the warm soapy water, where she remained until the water cooled and her fingers began to wrinkle. When she had dried off, Fabienne came in, eyes averted, and handed her a stack of clean undergarments.

Minutes later Charlotte sat at the small white dressing table, watching Fabienne’s nimble fingers as she brushed, twisted, and pinned her damp hair into a cascade of shining curls. At last the maid gave Charlotte’s hair a final pat and smiled into the mirror. “Well, Ma’m’selle? Are you pleased?”

“I like it very much, though I’m afraid I could never duplicate such an elaborate style on my own.”

The young woman smiled. “It is not so difficult. It only takes practice.” She paused. “I hope you won’t mind that I took a look in your wardrobe. Which dress will you wear this evening? The pink one with the ruffles or the blue silk?”

“The blue, please.” Nicholas had already seen her in the pink gown at Lettice Hadley’s birthday party at Alder Hill. Before her trip to New Orleans, she had sponged and aired the blue dress and repaired the torn sleeve and the ripped hem. Though the pagoda sleeves were out of style, the fitted bodice and scooped neckline showed off her shoulders and her small waist. She stopped herself. Nicholas Betancourt’s opinion of her appearance had become much more important than was prudent. But she couldn’t help hoping he would approve.

Fabienne helped her into the dress, her slim brown fingers expertly working at the row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. She pinched the fabric. “This dress is loose on your bones. Shall I take it in for you?”

“Thank you, but there isn’t time. My employer will—”

A knock at the door stopped her words. “Come in.”

The young Negro woman who had delivered her dinner last evening came in with a tray of sherry and biscuits. “Mr. Dubois sent you some refreshment.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Fabienne set the tray on the table by the window and waited until the serving woman withdrew. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Ma’m’selle?”

“No thank you.” Charlotte took a bill from her bag and handed it to the girl. “I appreciate your help, Fabienne. Please thank Miss Mayhew again for me.”

Fabienne left, closing the door softly behind her. Charlotte took a seat at the table and nibbled on a biscuit. She was ravenous,
but too overwhelmed by the city’s strange contradictions and too disturbed by the day’s tumultuous events to eat very much. She couldn’t stop thinking about Solange, so young and alone, scrounging for food and shelter on the waterfront. What would become of her and of the hundreds of children sure to be orphaned before this epidemic was past? Without someone to guide them, how would they get on in a world so different from the one they once knew?

Finding Nicholas was an answer to prayer, but the suffering at his infirmary had been almost unbearable. And then there was Josie Clifton. Despite the fact that the girl was a liar and a thief, Charlotte couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. How terrible it must be to feel so pressured to marry. And where would Josie go, now that her family had gone west and Nicholas had banned her from the infirmary?

Charlotte poured sherry into a crystal glass and stared out the window, seeing nothing. Most pressing of all, what did Nicholas’s discovery of his land grant mean for her own future?

Leaving the sherry untouched, she crossed the room and sat at the escritoire to compose a letter to Augusta. Marie-Claire and Anne-Louise would be delirious with happiness to know their father was safe. She finished the letter and addressed it for posting just as a church bell tolled the hour.

After one last glance into the mirror, she took a deep breath to quell her jangled nerves and went downstairs to meet Nicholas.

Twenty-Four

H
e stood at the foot of the curving staircase watching her descend. He had changed into a pair of fine wool trousers, a white shirt, and a jacket that emphasized the set of his shoulders. His thick dark hair was still damp and curling over his collar. A smile lit his face.

“Charlotte. You look lovely.” He assumed a playful pose, one foot on the bottom stair, a hand clapped over his heart. An actor in a play. “Fairer than the evening air, clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling into his eyes. “Marlowe, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes. One of my favorites.” He steered her toward the door. “I’ve booked a table at Pascal’s. It isn’t very fancy, but the food is good and it’s close by. I hired a carriage, but . . . do you mind walking?”

“Not at all. A walk will feel wonderful after spending all day in General Beauregard’s buggy.”

Nicholas instructed the driver to wait for him, and they set off along Prytania. The sun was not yet down, but a slight cooling
breeze wafted in from the river, bringing with it the scents of jessamine, burning sugar, and an acrid smell she couldn’t name.

“They’re burning tar in the squares again tonight,” Nicholas said. “Some people believe it prevents the fever.”

“Does it?” She lifted her hem as they skirted a couple of small boys playing marbles in an open doorway. Beyond an iron gate a patch of garden, heavy with the scent of magnolias, beckoned.

“I’m afraid not.” He took her arm as they crossed the street and continued down St. Charles. “The entire South is plagued with it summer after summer. Yet no one has been able to isolate the cause. Or to find an effective treatment.”

“I understand that’s one reason General Longstreet left the city.”

He glanced at her, a question in his eyes.

“I wrote to him, hoping you were still at his house or, failing that, that he would help me find you. But I had no answer, and when I arrived yesterday I learned he has gone north. To keep his family safe from the fever, I was told.”

“And to keep himself safe from the volatile political situation.” They met another couple on the street, and Nicholas inclined his head to the lady as they passed. “I don’t mind telling you I will be glad to get out of here as well. I miss my children, and I’m weary of this town. Some parts of town have turned into a powder keg this summer.”

“And yet the hotel manager told me that several generals of the Confederacy are living here now,” Charlotte said. “I suppose they must believe it’s worth the risk to build a new life.”

A moment later they entered a cobblestoned alley lined with brightly painted buildings, each adorned with wrought-iron balconies and staircases. Nicholas stopped before a heavy mahogany door. “Here we are.”

He led her into a small restaurant lit with candles and tiny oil
lamps. Half a dozen round tables dressed in crisp white linen were scattered about the room.

A tall, gray-haired man of indeterminate years with a white apron tied about his waist hurried over to greet them. “Ah, my dear Mr. Betancourt, there you are, and with such a beautiful lady.”

Nicholas grinned. “Good evening, Pascal.”

“I saved the best table just for you.”

Pascal led them to a table overlooking a rear courtyard and held Charlotte’s chair. When they were seated he shook out her napkin and, with a flourish, placed it on her lap.
“Bon appétit.”

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Nicholas asked.

“I have a very fine poached fish, peas with sweet basil, and for the soup course a shrimp stew. And my wife made a hazelnut torte.”

“We’re famished,” Nicholas told him. “Please bring us everything.”

The restaurateur hurried away. Nicholas moved the flickering taper to the side of the table and gazed directly at Charlotte. “I’m so very happy to see you.”

“And I’m happy to know you are still among the living.” She looked around the room, which seemed to glow in the soft flickering light. “This is a lovely place. I hope I’m not taking you away from your patients.”

He shook his head. “Dr. Werner lives just down the street from the infirmary. He and Sister Beatrice know where to find me. Though there is precious little I can do for the most serious cases.”

She nodded. “My mother died of the fever when I was twelve. My father said then there was no cure.”

“There still isn’t. All I can do is try to relieve their suffering. Some recover on their own; others slip away.”

“I read that some doctors are using tincture of iron and doses of mercury.”

“Yes, but mercury poisoning is often as fatal as the disease.” He toyed with his spoon. “During the war some doctors experimented with large doses of it and lost entire companies of soldiers. Thankfully, most have given up on it, and on bloodletting too. Salves for the skin, laudanum, and prayer are really all we have to fight the disease.”

“Perhaps a cure will be found soon.”

“I hope so. But research and experimentation require a great deal of time and money.”

The door opened. A man came in and nodded to Nicholas, who returned the greeting before turning back to Charlotte. “There’s so much to talk about, I scarcely know where to begin.” His gaze sought hers. “You said my children are all right.”

“They’re doing very well, though they were upset when Tamar had to leave them with me.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

She described Tamar’s plight and the move to Pawley’s Island for the summer. His shock gave way to anguish as she described their fears for his safety. “It wasn’t your fault, of course. If Josie hadn’t stolen our letters . . .”

“Where are the girls now?”

She reached over to lay a hand on his sleeve. “All is well. They’re staying with my friend Augusta, whom they adore.”

She told him about their days on the beach at Pawley’s flying kites and collecting seashells, their studies, her work with the Demeres, and the Fourth of July celebration. Delaying the time when she must hear the news about his land grant. “They are happy, though of course they miss you terribly and worry about you. I’ve already written to Augusta to let them know you are well.”

“I’ll write to them too, and this time I won’t trust anyone to post it.”

“Poor Josie.” Charlotte paused while the waiter brought a small
basket of bread and served the soup, a fragrant mixture of shrimp, tomatoes, and okra. “Seeing her today gave me quite a start.”

Nicholas spooned his soup. “She surprised me too, turning up unannounced. Of course her story didn’t ring completely true, but the epidemic had spread, and I was too grateful for another pair of hands to question her motives.” He buttered a piece of bread. “To her credit, she has worked tirelessly alongside Sister Beatrice and the others, with hardly a complaint.”