Page 28 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
Silence stretched between us, and I realized that this was the first time we’d really interacted. He averted his gaze, staring again at the rug on the floor. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, Miss Noelle. I’ll be going.”
“Wait—” It only then occurred to me that I was in my bedclothes. My cheeks burned. I pulled the robe’s opening tighter around my waist. “It’s the dead of night. What are you doing here?”
“One of the horses is due to give birth any moment. I’ve been in the stable, tending her. I heard you scream. I hope I haven’t—”
“No,” I interrupted. “No. I’m grateful to you. Thank you.”
He trod gently out through the kitchen, and I heard the back door latch behind him.
From that point on, William started to find his way onto my pages. The sound of his hammer was a constant in the background of my home-centered life—swift, heavy strikes against metal as he shaped horseshoes, forged tools, and made nails to supply the constant construction. I didn’t see him much, except for when we happened across each other in the garden. I’d learned about him secondhand from Jenny and Sarah and from Jacques’s acquaintances as they came for dinner.
“You should see his business! Soon, he will have his own shop and work for himself.”
“William is the finest farrier and blacksmith in the town. His craftsmanship knows no equal.”
They painted a picture of a talented man who cared for others and worked toward his own success. When I heard his hammer strikes, I imagined him coming one step closer to his dreams with each blow.
The next week, while Jacques was at his office, I screwed up my courage and went to the stables to see him. A mare and her newborn greeted me in their stall; William was laying the floor with fresh hay.
We spoke for hours. He told me how he’d studied his trade and honed his expertise. “Good jobs are hard to come by for colored people in this city,” he said, tapping his thick fingers on the handle of his pitchfork. “I was lucky to have apprenticed to a true craftsman.”
I nodded. “I worked as a marchande when I first arrived.”
“You?” William startled. “Figured you were a writer, since you’re always scribbling in the study or reading a book.”
“I got to know the city and meet so many people. It helped me ask after Silas ...” Accidentally saying my brother’s name out loud felt like another piece of shattered glass, this time a part of my heart. A truth I hadn’t uttered out loud to anyone but Eulalie in months. The only truth I could share with him about my life.
William’s eyes filled with concern. “Who is Silas ... if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My brother. He was sold here. I came to the city to find him.” Everything I’d been doing and had learned about Silas’s whereabouts up until now poured out of me. I didn’t realize how much I’d needed to comb over the details with someone, to allow someone else to hear the story of our family. Telling this part of the truth cracked open a dam. Tears poured down my cheeks, and I couldn’t wipe them away fast enough.
William closed the gap between us, plucking a fresh handkerchief from his pocket. He put a hand on mine, the sensation flooding me with a warmth I’d never felt before, a warmth Jacques’s hands had never conjured. As he wiped away my tears, I gazed up at him, really seeing him for the first time: his dark-brown eyes, almost black, filled with curiosity and care; his soft black hair, curled like sheep’s wool; the trimbeard framing his jaw; his perfect full mouth. For the first time, I felt the energy I’d seen between Eulalie and Eugène. Desire. My own.
“I can ask around about him if you want,” he said. “Nouvelle-Orléans seems like a big city from the outside, but it’s a small town for the colored folk. We know each other. We watch out for one another. Someone’s got to have seen him or heard about him. I’ll help you.”
As the new year came and went, I found myself outside in the garden every day, writing and waiting to see William. He tended the plants or made his way to the stables to care for Beau, Jacques’s brown bay, or Winny and her foal. I’d look forward to greeting him with a nod, then stealing glances between sentences: always aware of him, where he was, and what he was doing, and unable to forget the night we’d rescued Milly together and hoping to get a few minutes with him alone.
He trundled by with a wheelbarrow, and I couldn’t help but stop him. It had been weeks since we’d talked.
“William,” I called out, careful to ensure that no one in the house heard me.
He paused before me. “Yes, madame?”
I balked at his formality. “Nel—I mean, please call me Noelle.” The panic of almost saying my real name flooded me.
A small smile played on his lips while sweat gleamed against his brow.
I opened and closed my mouth, trying to drum up something to say to him. “How are Mr. Boudreaux’s horses?”
“Would you like to go riding?”
I wanted to reply that I could care less about the beasts. “No, not at all. I—”
“What are you working on?” He gestured to the paper.
I flushed as I shuffled the papers together, wanting to lie to him but being unable to as he stared down at me. I wondered if he could read and write. “I was writing about the sunset.”
“May I hear?” he asked finally.
