Page 25 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
“William, make certain her effects are delivered to my room,” Jacques said.
“Of course, sir,” William replied, stepping back from the door and securing the horses. “I will tend to Beau’s hoof. He cast a shoe on the way back.” He patted Beau, a broad brown bay, with gentle, graceful strokes.
“Good man,” Jacques said, leaving William behind and leading me by the hand up the walk. He had never been to Miss Hortense’s rooming house on Dauphine Street. He couldn’t know how far a cry this grand house was from my small, shared room there.
“Ready?” Jacques whispered as we strode toward the front door.
I didn’t know if I was, but the time for hesitation had passed. My future and my fortunes were now tied with his. I inhaled to steady myself as he unlatched the door, and we crossed the threshold to our new life.
The door opened into a small foyer, a small drawing room on the right, and a narrow set of honey-wood stairs on the left that swept up to the second floor and smelled of wood polish, linseed oil, and the dainty bowl of dried-rose potpourri on the stand. Some of the nervousness ebbed as I took in the magnificence of the decor. The mirror to the right had been polished to a high shine, reflecting the both of us.
“Welcome home,” he said, beaming, pulling me forward. “Come, there’s more to see.” Seconds later, I learned exactly how muchmorethere was and what that meant to Jacques.
Green arsenic lace papered the drawing room’s walls, depicting bluebirds on red flowy branches covering the room, and good-quality furniture was arranged artfully. Sets of blue-and-white plates featuring flat-roofed houses and delicate mountain scenes spanned the entire right side. Twelve golden statues of indigenous design sat on a central table, and a large battle painting dominated another. The eye had nowhere to rest. The room was packed, nary a horizontal surface uncluttered.
How can he have so much?I wondered.
I tried not to react as we continued the tour, each room fuller than the last. An elaborate cage made of gold wire stood in the center of a sitting room, the light slanting through its bars. A small bird rested on a wooden perch. I’d never seen anything like it—its exotic plumage fluffy white, with a bright crest of yellow feathers on its head and two orange circles on each cheek.
“This is Milly, my pride and joy.” He rubbed the bird’s gray beak through a gap in the wire. “She’s a cockatiel. I bought her from a trader last autumn.” Milly chirped, the sound happy and high as she fluttered from post to post. She hopped down, pecking at the food bowl, talons scratching the newsprint at the bottom.
“Do you ever let her out?” I asked, drawing closer.
Jacques shuddered, face paling. “Oh no. She got out once, circled the room, smashed into the shutters, and got caught up in the curtains.” He stroked her beak again, his smile growing as he gazed at her with adoration. “She’s much happier here, where she’s safe.”
I studied the bird as it hopped from post to post. It let out a cheery warble. I stuck my finger through the bars and wiggled it. “Hello, Milly. It seems we’ll be sharing an address. It’s nice to meet you.”
Jacques seemed pleased at my reception. “Now, come,” he said, tugging my arm. “Allow me to present to you the rest of the household staff.”
We crossed into the dining room, where two women waited. The shorter one, tawny with wide hips, was around forty years old. The taller one was her daughter. Her skin was a rich reddish brown, her figure trim. She was close to my age—at least, the age I appeared to be since my deal with Death.
I swallowed, smoothing my skirts, flustered. He’d told me about them, but I still wasn’t ready for the reality of the situation and how similar I was to these women. But for the differences in our dress, an outsider would think us related.
Jacques extended his arm in welcome. “Noelle, this is Sarah, one of the finest cooks in all of Nouvelle-Orléans. Her rice and beans are a true delicacy. She can make both French and Spanish dishes or whatever your heart desires.” Sarah bobbed a curtsy in my direction, eyes lowered, a thin smile crossing her lips. “This is her daughter, Jenny, who takes wonderful direction. I’ll leave the management of the household up to you.” Jacques beamed over at me and gestured for me to introduce myself.
“I’m ... delighted to be here, and I promise ... not to be a bother.” They both nodded politely, but I caught the glance between them.
Their presence unnerved me. I could too easily imagine myself in their place, stoking the fire in the kitchen, cleaning chamber pots, my arms swollen and red from boiling laundry. And for so long, Iwasin their position, doing those very tasks. Presiding over the house as mistress felt false, for I hadn’t yet learned the rule of immortality—be whoever you need to be to survive.
Sarah and Jenny lived elsewhere, as Jacques paid his house servants, for which I was thankful. After what I’d lived through, I couldn’t hold someone else in servitude.
Jacques’s family, however, didn’t mind it at all. The large Boudreaux family’s sugar plantation sat outside New Orleans in St. Bernard Parish, a scant seventeen miles from where our house now stood. Though Jacques spoke in angry tones about the practice, the enslaved at the estate, managed by his older brother, numbered over 250. The pervasiveness of slavery was as thick as the mosquitoes in the city, with hundreds of thousands of people pouring in on foot, by steamship, and the cartload to be sold at one of the city’s many auctions. Entire families were sold by the auctioneer’s call to those who deemed themselves civilized.
But we never discussed slavery, and I had to keep the reality of the large Boudreaux plantation toward the edges of my mind.
We bade Sarah and Jenny a good day and allowed them to return to their duties. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen as Jacques and I continued our house tour.
Each room was clean and packed near the rafters with his collections, each drawer stuffed to the gills. Of all the rooms, I liked the study the best; the furnishings were minimal, and bookcases overflowing with books covered three walls. The oddities in the room were contained to the fourth wall: an odd assortment of taxidermy, including horned bucks, a hairy, sharp-tusked wild boar, and a jewel-blue stuffed peacock. A large secretary-style desk took up most of the floor, with a burgundy rug underneath and various papers scattered on its surface. How much could I write on the large corner desk? Pages and pages, both for Death and for me.
I had not forgotten about our arrangement. All through my time in the city, I sought as many stories as possible, hoping to capture examples of laudable humans and wondrous things. Once I entered society, Ibegan to puzzle out how to get published inLe Moniteur de la Louisianeso he would see I was hard at work.
The final room on the tour was his chamber—or should I say, ours. It was tranquil—the walls painted a rich cream, the space dominated by a large four-poster bed and its intricately carved headboard, complete with a mattress thick with goose down. Two small nightstands stood on either side of the bed, each holding a pitcher, bowl, and trimmed-wick candle. The soft scent of roses floated through the air from the bouquet on the bureau. Of all the rooms, it was the sparest, perhaps because it had the most straightforward purpose.
William had already deposited my chest at the foot of the bed. Jacques gestured toward it. “Here is the wardrobe and some things I had purchased for your convenience. I have a letter to attend to. You get settled, and we’ll dine shortly. I’ve given Sarah and Jenny the evening off.”
I understood the implications.
We’d have the house to ourselves.
