Chapter 6 #2
She didn’t say anything but continued to assess me, the moment stretching out.
I was conscious of every one of my flaws and imperfections, from my worn dress with its inelegantly hidden patches to my ragged shoes, gone thin in the sole.
What would this formidable woman think of me?
The tingling feeling that had flooded me quickly turned to dread.
“I’m a hard worker. And I can read,” I said quickly, filling the silence.
She shook her head and motioned away, shooing me without ceremony. “I have nothing. Good day.” She returned to squinting at the papers in her hand.
I was baffled. What would I do now? I almost turned and left, but I hadn’t had that feeling before. That tingle of the meant-to-be.
I stood my ground. “I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t take no for an answer.”
Eulalie stopped and frowned. “Unfortunately, it’s the only one I have.”
I inhaled. “I know what you said, but also . . . I—I’m not leaving.”
“Is that so?”
I swallowed and nodded. In truth, I was this close to fleeing. “I’m supposed to be here. I know it.”
Her eyes twinkled in a shaft of light, a rich hazel that sparkled with mischief, and she smiled, suddenly blooming like a flower in the sunshine. “Now that’s the kind of attitude you need to succeed. Name?”
“Noelle.”
She cocked her head. “Well, Noelle, let’s see if I can’t find something for you to do.”
That was how it began. Even in our brief meeting, I could see that Eulalie was a beauty, a brain, and the boss all at once. And in that instant, I formed a new goal. I knew who I wanted to be.
I would continue to search for Silas, and I would also become the woman who could buy him outright.
Months passed, and I became Eulalie’s most successful marchande. I had an advantage, as I was able to speak the native language of any person on the street, and with Miss Hortense’s help, I wore the fashionable goods I was selling, showing them to their best advantage.
Soon, Eulalie took me into her office, where I was able to see firsthand how she had grown her French grandparents’ dairy business, left to her in their will, into the thriving trade she did today.
She was whip smart, bold, and self-assured—everything I hoped to be.
Time spent in proximity made us fast friends.
She took me along to social gatherings at the most beautiful homes on Marigny Street—newly built, with wraparound porches and wrought iron railings ornamented with flowering vines—screaming of both abundance and influence.
The gatherings were mixed, attended by some of the top Spanish officials and other members of the Creole ruling class.
My feeling in these gatherings was always the same: a swirling cauldron of contradictions.
While we weren’t the only free people there, most of the other people of color were serving the event, offering drinks, and bringing platters of food.
People acknowledged us as we walked by, but the gaze was cool, almost dismissive.
In response, Eulalie always beamed her brightest smile.
“Do you ever get used to it?” I asked as we made a turn around the room.
“I find that the more money I have, the less the gazes of small people matter.” She squeezed my arm.
One Sunday, I was invited to Eulalie’s church.
She and her family attended St. Louis Cathedral, the great big Catholic church in the heart of the French Quarter.
The white stone building reached two stories and was flanked by three-story towers on each side.
A great clock in the middle marked the time.
The building was new, having only recently been completed after the earlier great fire of 1788, the cornerstone marking the date.
The tower was so grand, almost a stairway to heaven, that it made earthly problems seem small.
I didn’t know what to expect when I sat next to Eulalie, sinking onto the wooden pew near the middle of the aisle dedicated to the personnes de couleur, free people of color.
We lit candles and said our prayers. As the preacher droned on, I prayed that somehow news of Silas would find its way to me.
It was easy to believe in that place, and I was glad I had come.
My heart ached, but I could breathe a little.
After the service, we walked together toward the area surrounding the church, enjoying the fresh breeze and warm sunlight. We weren’t the only ones.
Eulalie’s beau Eugène was there, and so was his friend Jacques. In the last month, Eulalie had become absent minded, misplacing orders and repeating herself when giving directions to the staff. More than once, I’d come to her office to find her staring off into space, a secret smile on her face.
It was Eugène, her father’s pick, her love, and her future.
With fewer women in the colonial city, arrangements called placage were commonplace—a wealthy white Creole man beginning a relationship with a free woman of color, promising to provide for her and any children the union created.
I had never considered Eulalie desiring something like that.
I had assumed she would have married another free man.
“Does he have a wife?” I asked, my curiosity getting the best of me.
“He does, in France,” she admitted. “But you’ve been here long enough to know this is the way of things.”
I swallowed. “Then I only inquire as to whether you love him?”
She seemed to expand in that moment, her eyes alight. I half expected her to float in the air. “‘Love’? I don’t know if that word is big enough to describe what I’m feeling. One day, you’ll see. You’ll find you won’t care one whit what they call it.”
When I met him that first day after church, I understood.
Tall and slim, Eugène had dark-brown hair with clear skin the color of cream.
He wore a dark-blue jacket tailored to fit his broad shoulders, and it suited him well, along with his open smile and cornflower-blue eyes that crinkled in the corners.
He was fun, dashing, and obviously in love with Eulalie, so her distraction made sense.
“Is this the famous Noelle?” he asked in French, gasping theatrically.
I laughed, nodding in greeting. “Famous? Hardly.”
“According to Eulalie, the warehouse would fall to ruin without you. Anyone who is a boon to her shall be a friend to me.” His words charmed another smile from me—the man was besotted.
Eugène reached for Eulalie’s hand, and she gave it gladly, intertwining her fingers with his.
Anyone could see the love bursting from them like sparks from the blacksmith’s forge.
I had to glance away, the sight as blinding as the grief I still felt being so alone in the world.
But the introductions were not finished.
“Jacques, it would be my pleasure to introduce you to Noelle Carbonnier, my most trusted personal assistant,” Eulalie said, nodding to me.
“Noelle, this is Jacques Boudreaux. He works with Eugène in the brokerage, managing investments.” Jacques stood four inches above me, dressed like Eugène in a snug-fitting dark-blue jacket.
His deep-brown eyes held merriment as he bowed in my direction.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I told him.
“I doubt you could be more pleased than me,” he said, taking my hand, as was proper, and kissing it, his French smooth and melodic. He gazed at me through thick black lashes.
“How could that be, sir?” I asked as he released my hand, my fingers still warm and tingly.
“I have heard of your prowess with figures and reading. I find it estimable.”
I blushed. “They’re acquired skills. Easy with study and practice.”
He tilted his head, considering his words. “Perhaps, but it puts you in a class of your own. I do enjoy the company of others who improve their mind.” The compliment blossomed within me, like a seed finding sunlight.
“Now, Jacques,” Eulalie said playfully, “she won’t be needing your company. You are a distraction. I implore you to be on your best behavior.” Her eyes connected with me. “He is incorrigible.”
“Eulalie, you wound me,” he said with mock distress. “I consider myself a gentleman.” His stare never left me. “All I meant to say was that I have quite an extensive library and will happily lend every book in it to you, should you ever ask.”
“That’s generous, sir. I appreciate your kindness,” I said.
I bade them goodbye and retreated to my rooming house, resuming my place in a mood that was perceptibly lighter. I didn’t know it then, but the slender roots of infatuation were taking hold, wrapping around the shards of my heart. I had no clue how much Jacques would change it.
After that, I began to regularly attend the services at Eulalie’s church.
I came to enjoy the time afterward, with Eugène and Jacques arriving faithfully each week and escorting us through New Orleans.
My favorite neighborhood was the Place Publique, where we gathered to watch dancing to the cadence of African drums and sample the beignets, a hot fritter-like pastry covered in fine sugar.
Groups of the free and enslaved would gather for an impromptu market and celebration day on Sundays—dancers from Saint-Domingue, white fabric wrapped around their heads and stretched across their hips, bodies moving in unison, faces lit with joy, celebrating the only piece of the week they had for themselves.
Like a flower under a patient gardener, I blossomed, flourishing under the warmth of Jacques’s affection and weekly book selections.
I began to look forward to the title he would bring and discuss the one he had offered the week before.
My favorites by far were Ann Radcliffe’s dark and moody The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Travels of Dean Mahomet, which detailed Mahomet’s travels to Europe from India, opening my mind to places I didn’t know existed.
I stayed up late into the night reading his accounts of the delicacies, people, and cultures he encountered.