Page 22 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
“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 thepersonnes de couleur, free people of color. We lit candles and said ourprayers. 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 calledplaçagewere 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 wasthat 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.
